I CORRESPOND WITH THE MAJOR--MY COLLECTION--OCCUPATIONS--MADAME
AGAIN--FETE DE VILLAGE--THE BRITISH HOORAY.
I wrote to my old friends and relatives, with a full account of my new
home. Rather a comically-expressed account too, I fancy, from the bits
Uncle Buller used to quote in after years. I got charming letters from
him, piquant with his dry humour, and full of affection. Matilda
generally added a note also; and Aunt Theresa always sent love and
kisses in abundance, to atone for being too busy to write by that post.
The fonder I grew of the Arkwrights, the better I seemed to love and
understand Uncle Buller. Apart as we were, we had now a dozen interests
in common--threads of those intellectual ties over which the changes and
chances of this mortal life have so little power.
My sympathy was real, as well as ready, when the Major discovered a new
insect, almost invisible by the naked eye, which thenceforward bore the
terrible specific name of _Bulleriana_, suggesting a creature certainly
not less than a rhinoceros, and surrounding the Major's name with
something of the halo of immortality. He was equally glad to hear of
Jack's beetles and of my fresh-water shells. I had taken to the latter
as being "the only things not yet collected by somebody or other in the
house;" and I became so infatuated in the pursuit that I used to get up
at four o'clock in the morning to search the damp places and
water-herbage by the river, it being emphatically "the early bird who
catches" snails. After his great discovery, the Major constantly asked
if I had found a specimen of _Helix Vandaleuriana_ yet. It was a joke
between us--that new shell that I was to discover!
I have an old letter open by me now, in which, writing of the
Arkwrights, he says, "Your dear father's daughter could have no better
home." And, as I read, my father's last hours come back before me, and I
hear the poor faint voice whispering, "You've got the papers, Buller?
Arkwright will be kind about it, I'm sure." And, "It's all dark now."
And with tears I wonder if he--with whom it is all light now--knows how
well his true friends have dealt by me, and how happy I am.
To be busy is certainly half-way to being happy. And yet it is not so
with every kind of labour. Some occupations, however, do seem of
themselves to be peace-bringing; I mean, to be so independent of the
great good of being occupied at all. Gardening, sketching, and natural
history pursuits, for instance. Is it partly because one follows them in
the open air, in great measure?--fresh air, that mysteriously mighty
power for good! Anodyne, as well as tonic; dispeller of fever when other
remedies are powerless; and the best accredited recipe for long life.
Only partly, I think.
One secret of the happiness of some occupations is, perhaps, that they
lift one away from petty cares and petty spites, without trying the
brain or strength unduly, as some other kinds of mental labour must do.
And how delightful is fellowship in such interests! What rivalries
without bitterness; what gossip without scandal; what gifts and
exchanges; what common interests and mutual sympathy!
In such happy business the holidays went by. Then the question arose,
Were we to go back to school? Very earnestly we hoped not; and I think
the Arkwrights soon resolved not to send Eleanor away again. As to me,
the case was different. Mr. Arkwright felt that he must do what was best
for my education: and he wrote to consult with Major Buller.
Fortunately for Eleanor and me, the Major was now as much prejudiced
against girls' schools as he had been against governesses; and as
masters were to be had at the nearest town, a home education was
decided upon. It met with the approval of such of my relatives as were
consulted--my great-grandmother especially--and it certainly met with
mine.
Eleanor and I were very anxious to show that idleness was not our object
in avoiding Bush House. The one of my diaries that escaped burning has,
on the fly-leaf, one of the many "lesson plans" we made for ourselves.
We used to get up at six o'clock, and work before breakfast. Certain
morning headaches, to which at this time I became subject, led to a
serious difference of opinion between me and Mrs. Arkwright; she
forbidding me to get up, and I holding myself to be much aggrieved, and
imputing the headaches to anything rather than what Keziah briefly
termed "book-larning upon an empty stomach." The matter was compromised,
thanks to Keziah, by that good creature's offering to bring me new milk
and bread-and-butter every morning before I began to work. She really
brought it before I dressed, and my headaches vanished.
Though we did not wish to go back to Bush House, we were not quite
unmindful of our friends there. Eleanor wrote to thank Madame for the
flowers, and received a long and enthusiastic letter in reply--in
French, of course, and pointing out one or two blunders in Eleanor's
letter, which was in French also. She begged Eleanor to continue to
correspond with her, for the improvement of her "composition."
Poor Madame! She was indeed an indefatigable teacher, and had a real
ambition for the success of her pupils, which, in the drudgery of her
life, was almost grand.
Strange to say, she once came to the Vicarage. It was during the summer
succeeding that in which I came to live with the Arkwrights. She had
been in the habit of spending the holidays with a family in the country,
where, I believe, she gave some instruction in French and music in
return for her expenses. That summer she was out of health, and thinking
herself unable to fulfil her part of the bargain, she would not go.
After severe struggles with her sensitive scruples, she was persuaded to
come to us instead, on the distinct condition that she was to do nothing
in the way of "lessons," but talk French with us.
To persuade her to accept any payment for her services was the subject
of another long struggle. The thriftiest of women in her personal
expenditure, and needing money sorely, Madame was not grasping. Indeed,
her scruples on this subject were troublesome. She was for ever pursuing
us, book in hand, and with a sun-veil and umbrella to shield her
complexion, into the garden or the hayfield, imploring us to come in out
of the wind and sun, and do "a little of dictation--of composition," or
even to permit her to hear us play that duet from the 'Semiramide,' of
which the time had seemed to her on the last occasion far from perfect.
Her despair when Mrs. Arkwright supported our refusals was comical, and
she was only pacified at last by having the "scrap-bag" of odds and ends
of net, muslin, lace, and embroidery handed over to her, from which she
made us set after set of dainty collars and sleeves in various "modes,"
sitting well under the shade of the trees, on a camp-stool, with a
camphor-bag to keep away insects, and in bodily fear of the dogs.
Poor Madame! I thought she would have had a fit on the first night of
her arrival, when the customary civility was paid of offering her a dog
to sleep on her bed. She never got really accustomed to them, and they
never seemed quite to understand her. To the end of her stay they
snuffed at her black skirts suspiciously, as if she were still more or
less of an enigma to them. Madame was markedly civil to them, and even
addressed them from time to time as "bons enfants," in imitation of our
phrase "dear boys"; but more frequently, in watching the terms on which
they lived with the family, she would throw up her little brown hands
and exclaim, "_Menage extraordinaire!_"
I am sure she thought us a strange household in more ways than one, but
I think she grew fond of us. For Eleanor she had always had a liking;
about Eleanor's mother she became rhapsodical.
"How good!" so she cried to me, "and how truthful--how altogether
truthful! What talents also, my faith! Miss Arkwright has had great
advantages. A mother extraordinary!"
Mrs. Arkwright had many discussions with Madame on political subjects,
and also on the education of girls. On the latter their views were so
essentially different, that the discussion was apt to wax hot. Madame
came at last to allow that for English girls Madame Arkwright's views
might be just, but _pour les filles francaises_--she held to her own
opinions.
With the boys she got on very well. At first they laughed at her; then
Clement became polite, and even learned to speak French with her after a
fashion. Jack was not only ignorant of French, but his English was so
mixed with school-boy idioms, that Madame and he seldom got through a
conversation without wonderful complications, from which, however,
Jack's expressive countenance and ready wit generally delivered them in
the long run. I do not know whether, on the whole, Madame did not like
Mr. Arkwright best of all. _Le bon pasteur_, as she styled him.
"The Furrin Lady," as she was called in the village, was very fond of
looking into the cottages, and studying the ways of the country
generally.
I never shall forget the occurrence of the yearly village fair or feast
during her visit: her anxiety to be present--her remarkable costume on
the occasion--and the strong conviction borne in upon Eleanor and me
that the Fat Lady in the centre booth was quite a secondary attraction
to the Furrin Lady between us, with the raw lads and stolid farmers who
had come down from the hills, with their wise sheep-dogs at their heels.
If they stared at her, however, Madame was not unobservant of them, and
the critical power was on her side.
"These men and their dogs seem to me alike," said she. "Both of
them--they stare so much and say so little. But the looks of the dogs
are altogether the more _spirituels_," she added.
I should not like to record all that she said on the subject of our
village feast. It was not complimentary, and to some extent the bitter
general observations on our national amusements into which her
disappointment betrayed her were justified by facts. But it was not our
fault that, in translating village feast into _fete de village_, she
had allowed her imagination to mislead her with false hopes. She had
expected a maypole, a dance of peasants, gay dresses, smiling faces,
songs, fruit, coffee, flowers, and tasteful but cheap wares of small
kinds in picturesque booths. She had adorned herself, and Eleanor and
me, with collars and cuffs of elaborate make and exquisite "get-up" by
her own hands. She wore a pale pink and a dead scarlet geranium,
together with a spray of wistaria leaf, in admirable taste, on her dark
dress. Her hat was marvellous; her gloves were perfect. She had a few
shillings in her pocket to purchase souvenirs for the household; her
face beamed in anticipation of a day of simple, sociable, uncostly
pleasure, such as we English are so lamentably ignorant of. But I think
the only English thing she had prepared herself to expect was what she
called "The Briteesh hooray."
Dirt, clamour, oyster-shells, ginger-beer bottles, stolid curiosity,
beery satisfaction, careworn stall-keepers with babies-in-arms and
strange trust about their wares and honesty over change;
giddy-go-rounds, photograph booths, marionettes, the fat woman, the
double-headed monstrosity, and the teeming beer-houses----
Poor Madame! The contrast was terrible. She would not enter a booth. She
turned homewards in a rage of vexation, and shut herself up in her
bedroom (I suspect with tears of annoyance and disappointment), whilst
Eleanor and I went back into the feast, and were photographed with dear
boys and Clement.
Clement was getting towards an age when clever youngsters are not unapt
to exercise their talents in depreciating home surroundings. He said
that it was no wonder that Madame was disgusted, and scolded us for
taking her into the feast. Jack took quite a different view of the
matter.
"The feast's very good fun in its way," said he; "and Madame only wants
_tackling_. I'll tackle her."
"Nonsense!" said Clement.
"I bet you a shilling I take her through every mortal thing this
afternoon," said Jack.
"You've cheek enough," retorted his elder brother.
But after luncheon, when Madame was again in her room, Jack came to me
with a nosegay he had gathered, to beg me to arrange it properly, and
put a paper frill round it. With some grass and fern-leaves, I made a
tasteful bouquet, and added a frill, to Jack's entire satisfaction. He
took it up-stairs, and we heard him knock at Madame's door. After a
pause ("I'm sure she's crying again!" said Eleanor) Madame came out, and
a warm discussion began between them, of which we only heard fragments.
Madame's voice, as the shrillest, was most audible, and it rose into
distinctness as she exclaimed, "Anything soh dirrty, soh meean, soh
folgaire, I nevaire saw."
Again the discussion proceeded, and we only caught a few of Jack's
arguments about "customs of the country," "for the fun of it," etc.
"Fun?" said Madame.
"For a joke," said Jack.
"_Ah, c'est vrai_, for the choke," she said.
"And _avec moi_," Jack continued. "There's French for you, Madame! Come
along!"
Madame laughed.
"She'll go," said Eleanor.
"_Eh bien!_" Madame cried gaily. "For the choke. _Avec vous, Monsieur
Jack._ Ha! ha! _Allons!_ Come along!"
"Link, Madame," said Jack, as they came down-stairs, Madame smarter than
ever, and bouquet in hand.
"Mais _link_? What is this?" said she.
"Take my arm," said Jack. "I'll treat you to everything."
"Mais _treat_? What is that?" said Madame, whose beaming good-humour
only expanded the more when Jack explained that it was a pecuniary
attention shown by rustic swains to their "young women."
As Clement came into the hall he met Madame hanging on Jack's arm, and
absolutely radiant.
"You're not going into that beastly place again?" said he.
"For the choke, Monsieur Clement. _Ah, oui!_ And with Monsieur Jack."
"You may as well come, Clem," said Eleanor, and we followed, laughing.
Madame had now no time for discontent. Jack held her fast. He gave her
gingerbread at one stall, and gingerbeer at another, and cracked nuts
for her all along. He vowed that the oyster-shells were flowers, and the
empty bottles bouquet-holders, and offered to buy her a pair of
spectacles to see matters more clearly with.
"Couleur de rose?" laughed Madame.
We went in a body to the marionettes, and Madame screamed as we climbed
the inclined plane to enter, and scrambled down the frail scaffolding to
the "reserved seats." These cost twopence a head, and were "reserved"
for us alone. The dolls were really cleverly managed. They performed the
closing scenes of a pantomime. The policeman came to pieces when clown
and harlequin pulled at him. People threw their heads at each other, and
shook their arms off. The transformation scene was really pretty, and it
only added to the joke that the dirty old proprietor burned the red
light under our very noses, amid a storm of chaff from Jack.
From the marionettes we went to the fat woman. A loathsome sight, which
turned me sick; but, for some inexplicable reason, seemed highly to
gratify Madame. She and Jack came out in fits of laughter, and he said,
"Now for the two-headed monstrosity. It'll just suit you, Madame!"
At the door, Madame paused. "Mais, ce n'est pas pour des petites
filles," she said, glancing at Eleanor and me.
"_Feel?_" said Jack, who was struggling through the crowd, which was
dense here. "It feels nothing. It's in a bottle. Come along!"
"All right, Madame," said Eleanor, smiling. "We'll wait for you
outside."
We next proceeded to the photographer's, where Jack and Madame were
photographed together with Pincher.
By Madame's desire she was now led to the "bazaar," where she bought a
collar for Pincher, two charming china boxes, in the shape of dogs'
heads, for Eleanor and her mother, a fan for me, a walking-stick for
Monsieur le Pasteur, and some fishing-floats for Clement. By this time
some children had gathered round us. The children of the district were
especially handsome, and Madame was much smitten by their rosy cheeks
and many-shaded flaxen hair.
"Ah!" she sighed, "I must make some little presents to the children;"
and she looked anxiously over the stalls.
"Violin, one and six," said the saleswoman. "Nice work-box for a little
girl, half-a-crown."
"Half a fiddlestick," said Jack promptly. "What have you got for a
halfpenny?"
"Them's halfpenny balls, whips, and dolls. Them churns and mugs is a
halfpenny; and so's the little tin plates. Them's the halfpenny monkeys
on sticks."
"Now, Madame," said Jack, "put that half-crown back, and give me a
shilling. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. There are your
presents; and now for the children!"
Madame showed a decided disposition to reward personal beauty, which
Jack overruled at once.
"The prettiest? I see myself letting you! Church Sunday scholars is my
tip; and I shall put them through the Catechism test. Look here, young
un, what's your name? Who gave you this name?"
"Ma godfeythers and godmoothers," the young urchin began.
"That'll do," said Jack. "Take your whip, and be thankful. Now, my
little lass, who gave you this name?"
"Me godfeythers----"
"All right. Take your doll, and drop a curtsy; and mind you don't take
the curtsy, and drop your doll. Now, my boy, tell me how many there
be?"
"Ten."
"Which be they? I mean, take your monkey, and make your bow. Next child,
come up."
Clem, Eleanor, and I kept back the crowd as well as we could; but
children pressed in on all sides. Clem brought a shilling out of his
pocket, and handed it over to Jack.
"You've won your bet, old man," he said.
"You're a good fellow, Clem. I say, lay it out among the halfpenny
lot--will you?--and then give them to Madame. Keep your eye open for
Dissenters, and send the Church children first."
The forty-eight halfpennyworths proved to be sufficient for all,
however, though the orthodoxy of one or two seemed doubtful.
Madame was tired; but the position had pleased her, and she gave away
the toys with a charming grace. We were leaving the fair when some small
urchins, who had either got or hoped to get presents, and were (I
suspected) partly impelled also by a sense of the striking nature of
Madame's appearance, set up a lusty cheer.
Madame paused. Her eyes brightened; her thin lips parted with a smile.
In a voice of intense satisfaction, she murmured:
"It is the Briteesh hooray!"