The Stokesley Secret Read online

  William Rufus is disposed of, and David, as grave as a judge, is taking up his slate, looking a little fussed because there is a scratch in the corner. "Well, Susan," says Miss Fosbrook.

  Susan jumps up in desperation, and puts her hands behind her. Oh dear! oh dear! all that the gentlemen on a journey were saying to one another has gone clean out of her head!

  She cannot recollect the three first words. She only remembers that this is the third time, and another farthing is gone! She stands and stares.

  "Susan," says Miss Fosbrook severely, "you never tried to learn this."

  Susan gives a little gasp; and Elizabeth, who has said her French without a blunder, puts in an unnecessary and not very sisterly word: "Susan never will learn her French."

  Susan's honest eyes fill with tears, but she gulps them back. She will not cry away another farthing, but she does feel it very cross in Bessie, and she is universally miserable.

  Christabel feels heated, wearied, and provoked, and as if she were fast losing her own temper; and that made her resolve on mercy.

  "Susie," she said with an effort, "run twice to the great lime-tree and back. Then take the book into my room, read this over three times, and we will try again."

  Susan looked surprised, but she obeyed, came back, and repeated the phrases better than she had ever said French before. She was absolutely surprised and highly pleased, and she finished off her other lessons swimmingly; but oh, she was glad to be rid of them! Yes, they were off her mind, and so she deserved that they should be! She flew away to the nursery, and little Sarah was soon crowing in her arms.

  Elizabeth? Not a blunder in French verbs or geography--very tidy copy. French reading good; English equally so, only it ended in a pout, because there was not time for her to go on to see what became of Carthage; and she was a most intolerable time in learning her poetry out of the book of Readings, or rather she much preferred reading the verses in other parts of the book to getting perfect in her lesson, and then being obliged to turn her mind to arithmetic. Miss Fosbrook called her three times; and at last she turned round peevishly at being interrupted in the middle of the "Friar of Orders Gray," and repeated her twenty lines of Cowper's "Winter's Walk" in a doleful whine, though without a blunder.

  It was one of the horrible novelties that Miss Fosbrook was bringing in, that she expected people to understand their sums as well as work them. She gave much shorter ones, to be sure, than Mamma, who did sometimes set a long multiplication sum of such a huge size, that it looked as if it were meant to keep the victim out of the way; but who would not prefer casting up any length of figures, to being required to explain the meaning of "carrying"?

  Really, if it had not been for the pig, that shocking question might have led to a mutiny in the school-room. When it was bad enough to do the thing, how could anyone ask what was meant by the operation, and why it was performed?

  What did Bessie do when her sum was being overlooked? Miss Fosbrook read on: "4 from 8, 4; 7 from 1--how's this, Bessie? 7 from 10 are- -"

  "3, and 1 are 4," dolorously, as her 3 was changed.

  "Now then, what next?"

  "Carry one."

  "What did I tell you was meant by carry one?"

  "The tens," said Bessie, not in the least thinking "the tens" had anything to do with the matter, but only that she had heard something about them, and could thus get rid of the subject.

  "Now, Bessie, what tens can you possibly mean? Think a little."

  "I'm sure you said tens once," said injured innocence.

  "That was in an addition sum. See, here it is quite different. I told you."

  Bessie put on a vacant stare. She was not going to attend to what she did not like.

  Miss Fosbrook saw the face. She absolutely shrank from provoking another fit of crying, and went quickly through the explanation. She saw that her words might as well have been spoken to the slate. Bessie neither listened nor took them in. Not all her love for her dear Christabel Angela could stir her up to make one effort contrary to her inclinations. The slate was given back to her, she wiped out the sum in a pet, and ran away.

  Miss Fosbrook turned round, David, whose lessons had been perfectly repeated an hour ago, was sitting cross-legged in the window, with his slate and pencil, and a basket of bricks, his great delight, which he was placing in rows.

  "Miss Fosbrook," said he, "isn't this it? Twelve bricks; take away those seven, then--l, 2, 3, 4, 5--the twelve is only 5: the 10 is gone, isn't it? so you must leave one out of the next figure in the upper line of the sum."

  Now Davy had only begun arithmetic on the governess's arrival, but he had learnt numeration and addition in her way. She was so delighted, that she stooped down and kissed him, saying, "Quite right, my little man."

  Davy rather disapproved of the kiss, and rubbed his brown-holland elbow over his face, as if to clear it off.

  "Well," thought Christabel, as she hurried away for five minutes' peace in her own room before the dinner-bell, "it is a comfort to have one pupil whose whole endeavour is not to frustrate one's attempts to educate him."

  Poor young thing! that one little bit of sense had quite cheered her up. Otherwise she was not one whit less weary than the children. She had been learning a very tough lesson too--much harder than any of theirs; and she was not at all certain that she had learnt it right.

  Now, readers, of all the children, who do you think had used the most conscience at the lessons?

  CHAPTER VI.

  What an entirely different set of beings were those Stokesley children in lesson-time and out of it! Talk of the change of an old thorn in winter to a May-bush in spring! that was nothing to it!

  Poor, listless, stolid, deplorable logs, with bowed backs and crossed ankles, pipy voices and heavy eyes! Who would believe that these were the merry, capering, noisy creatures, full of fun and riot, clattering and screeching, and dancing about with ecstasy at Sam's information that there was a bonfire by the potato-house!

  "A bonfire!" said the London governess, thinking of illuminations; "what can that be for?"

  "Oh, it is not FOR anything," said Susan; "it is Purday burning weeds. Don't you smell them? How nice they are! I was afraid it was only Farmer Smith burning couch."

  All the noses were elevated to scent from afar a certain smoky odour, usually to be detected in July breezes, and which reminded Miss Fosbrook of a brick-field.

  "Potatoes! Potatoes! We'll roast some potatoes, and have them for tea!" bellowed all the voices; so that Miss Fosbrook could hardly find a space for very unwillingly saying,

  "But, my dears, I don't know whether I ought to let you play with fire."

  "Oh, we always do," roared the children; and Susan added,

  "We always roast potatoes when there's a bonfire. Mamma always lets us; it is only Purday that is cross."

  "Yes, yes; Mamma lets us."

  "Well, if Sam and Susan say it is right, I trust to them," said Miss Fosbrook gladly; "only you must let me come out and see what it is. I am too much of a Londoner to know."

  "Oh yes; and we'll roast you some potatoes."

  So the uproarious population tumbled upstairs, there to be invested with rougher brown-holland garments than those that already concealed the sprigged cottons of the girls; and when the five came down again, they were so much alike in dress, that it was not easy to tell girls from boys. Susan brought little George down with her, and off the party set. Sam and Hal, who had been waiting in the hall, took Miss Fosbrook between them, as if they thought it their duty to do the honours of the bonfire, and conducted her across the garden, through the kitchen-garden, across which lay a long sluggish bar of heavy and very odorous smoke, to a gate in a quickset hedge. Here were some sheds and cart-houses, a fagot pile, various logs of timber, a grindstone, and--that towards which all the eight children rushed with whoops of ecstasy--a heap of smoking rubbish, chiefly dry leaves, and peas and potato haulm, with a large allowance of cabbage stumps--all extremely earthy, and looking
as if the smouldering smoke were a wonder from so mere a heap of dirt.

  No matter! There were all the children round it, some on their knees, some jumping; and voices were crying on all sides,

  "O jolly, jolly!" "I'll get some potatoes!" "Oh, you must have some sticks first, and make some ashes." "There's no flame--not a bit!" "Get out of the way, can't you? I'll make a hot place." "We'll each have our own oven, and roast our own potatoes!" "Don't, Sam; you're pushing me into the smoke!"

  This of course was from Elizabeth; and there followed, "Don't, Bessie, you will tread upon Georgie.--Yes, Georgie, you SHALL have a place."

  "Sticks, sticks!" shouted Henry; while Sam was on his knees, poking out a species of cavern in the fire, where some symptoms of red embers appeared, which he diligently puffed with his mouth, feeding it with leaves and smaller chips in a very well practised way. "Sticks, Annie! Johnnie! Davy! get sticks, I say, and we'll make an oven."

  Annie obeyed; but the two little boys were intent on imitating Sam on another side of the fire, and Johnnie uttered a gruff "Get 'em yourself," while David took no notice at all.

  Perhaps Hal would have betaken himself to no gentle means if Susan had not hastily put in his way a plentiful supply of dead wood, which she had been letting little George think he picked up all himself; and there was keen excitement, which Christabel could not help sharing, while under Sam's breath the red edges of the half-burnt chip glowed, flushed, widened, then went sparkling doubtfully, slowly, to the light bit of potato-stalk that he held to it, glowing as he blew--fading, smoking, when he took breath. Try again--puff, puff, puff diligently; the fire evidently has a taste for the delicate little shaving that Annie has found for it; it seizes on it; another--another; a flame at last. Hurrah! pile on more; not too much. "Don't put it out!" Oh, there! strong flame--coming crackling up through those smothering heaps of stick and haulm; it won't be kept down; it rises in the wind; it is a red flaring banner. The children shriek in transports of admiration, little George loudest of all, because Susan is holding him tight, lest he should run into the brilliant flame. Miss Fosbrook is rather appalled, but the children are all safe on the windward side, and seem used to it; so she supposes it is all right, and the flame dies down faster than it rose. It is again an innocent smouldering heap, like a volcano after an eruption.

  "We must not let it blaze again just yet," said Sam; "keep it down well with sticks, to make some nice white ashes for the potatoes. See, I'll make an oven."

  They were all stooping round this precious hot corner, some kneeling, some sitting on the ground, David with hands on his sturdy knees--all intent on nursing that creeping red spark, as it smouldered from chip to chip, leaving a black trace wherever it went, when through the thick smoke, that was like an absolute curtain hiding everything on the farther side, came headlong a huge bundle of weeds launched overwhelmingly on the fire, and falling on the children's heads in an absolute shower, knocking Johnnie down, but on a soft and innocent side of the fire among the cabbage-stumps, and seeming likely to bury Sam, who leant over to shelter his precious oven, and puffed away as if nothing was happening, amid the various shouts around him, in which "Purday" was the most audible word.

  "Ah, so you've got at he, after all," said Purday, leaning on the fork with which he had thrown on the weeds. "Nothing is safe from you."

  "What, you thought you had a new place, Purday, and circumvented us!" cried Hal; "but we smelt you out, you old rogue; we weren't going to be baulked of our bonfire."

  Miss Fosbrook here ventured on asking if they were doing mischief; and Purday answered with an odd gruff noise, "Mischief enough--ay, to be sure--hucking the fire all abroad. It's what they're always after. I did think I'd got it safe out of their way this time."

  "Then," in rather a frightened voice, for she felt that it would be a tremendous trial of her powers, "should I make them come away?"

  "Catch her!" muttered Hal.

  There was horror and disapprobation on Susan's face. Annie stood with her mouth open; while John, throwing himself on the ground with fury, rolled over, crying out something about, "I won't," and "very cross;" and David lay flat on his face, puffing at his own particular oven, like a little Wind in an old picture. Sam waited, leaning on the ashen stick that served him as a poker. It was the most audacious thing he had ever heard. Rob them of their bonfire! Would that old traitor of a Purday abet her?

  Perhaps Purday was as much astonished as the rest; but, after all, much as the children tormented his bonfires, overset his haycocks, and disturbed his wood-pile, he did not like anyone to scold them but himself, much less the new London Lady; so he made up an odd sort of grin, and said, "No, no, Ma'am, it ain't that they do so much harm; let 'em bide;" and he proceeded to shake on the rest of his barrowful, tumbling the weeds down over David's cherished oven in utter disregard; but the children cried with one voice, "Hurrah! hurrah! Purday, we don't do any harm, so don't ever grumble again. Hurrah!"

  "And I don't care for HER, the crosspatch," said Johnnie to Annie, never hearing or heeding Miss Fosbrook's fervent "I am so glad!"

  And as long as the foolish boy remembered it, he always did believe that Miss Fosbrook was so cross as to want to hinder them from their bonfire, only Purday would not let her.

  Miss Fosbrook did not trouble herself to be understood; she was relieved to have done her duty, and be free to rejoice in and share the pleasure. She ran about and collected materials for Sam till she was out of breath, and joined in all the excitement as the fire showed symptoms of reviving, after being apparently crushed out by Purday. Sam and Susan, at least, believed that she had only spoken to Purday because she thought it right; but even for them to forgive interference with their bonfire privileges was a great stretch.

  At last she thought it time to leave them to their own devices, and seize the moment for some quiet reading; but she had not reached the house before little steps came after her, and she saw Elizabeth running fast.

  "They are so tiresome," she said. "Sam won't let me stand anywhere but where the smoke gets into my eyes, and George plagues so! May I come in with you, dear Christabel?"

  "You are very welcome," said Miss Fosbrook, "but I am sorry to hear so many complaints."

  "They are so cross to me," said Bessie; "they always are."

  "You must try to be cheerful and good-humoured with them, and they will leave off vexing you."

  "But may I come in? It will be a nice time for my secret."

  Christabel saw little hope for her intended reading, but she was always glad of a space for making Bessie happy, so she kindly consented to the bringing out of the little girl's treasury, and the dismal face grew happy and eager. The subjects of the drawings were all clear in her head; that was not the difficulty, but the cardboard, the ribbon, the real good paints. One little slip of card Miss Fosbrook hunted out of her portfolio; she cut a pencil of her own, and advised the first attempt to be made upon a piece of paper. The little bird that Bessie produced was really not at all bad, and her performance was quite fair enough to make it worth while to go on, since Miss Fosbrook well knew that mammas are pleased with works of their children, showing more good-will than skill. For why? Their value is in the love and thought they show.

  The little bird was made into a robin with the colours in a paint-box that Bessie had long ago bought; but they were so weak and muddy, that the result was far from good enough for a present, and it was agreed that real paints must be procured as well as ribbon. Miss Fosbrook offered to commission her sisters to buy the Prussian blue, lake, and gamboge in London, and send them in a letter. This was a new idea to Bessie, and she was only not quite decided between the certainty that London paints must be better than country ones, and the desire of the walk to Bonchamp to buy some; but the thought that the ribbon, after all, might be procured there, satisfied her. The little doleful maid was changed into an eager, happy, chattering child, full of intelligence and contrivance, and showing many pretty fancies, since there was no one to te
ase her and laugh at her; and her governess listened kindly and helpfully.

  Miss Fosbrook could not help thinking how much happier her little companion would have been as an only child, or with one sister, and parents who would have made the most of her love of taste and refinement, instead of the hearty busy parents, and the rude brothers and sisters, who held her cheap for being unlike themselves. But then she bethought her, that perhaps Bessie might have grown up vain and affected, had all these tastes been petted and fostered, and that perhaps her little hardships might make her the stronger, steadier, more useful woman, instead of living in fancies. It was the unkindness on one side, and the temper on the other, that made Miss Fosbrook uneasy.

  The work had gone on happily for nearly an hour, and Bessie was copying a forget-me-not off a little painted card-board pincushion of her own, when steps were heard, little trotting steps, and Susan came in with little George. He had been pushed down by Johnnie, and was rather in a fretful mood; and Susan had left all her happy play to bring him in to rest and comfort him, coming to the school-room because Nurse Freeman was out. Before Elizabeth had time to hide away her doings, George had seen the bright pincushion, and was holding out his hands for it. Bessie hastily pocketed it. George burst out crying; and Susan, without more ado, threw herself on her sister, and, pinioning Bessie's slight arm by the greater strength of her firm one, was diving into her pocket in spite of her struggles.

  "Susan, leave off," said Miss Fosbrook; "let your sister alone. She has a right to do what she likes with her own."

  "It is so cross in her," said Susan, obeying however, but only to snatch up little George, and hug and kiss him. "Poor dear little man! is Betty cross to him? There! there! come with Sue, and SHE'LL get him something pretty."