Six to Sixteen Part 21

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 sh.e.l.ls. 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 sh.e.l.l 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 fellows.h.i.+p 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-b.u.t.ter 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 "sc.r.a.p-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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 un.o.bservant 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 s.h.i.+llings in her pocket to purchase souvenirs for the household; her face beamed in antic.i.p.ation 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-sh.e.l.ls, 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 s.h.i.+lling 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 gra.s.s 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."