Kitabı oku: «The New Mistress: A Tale», sayfa 8
Chapter Seventeen.
Touched
George Canninge went straight into his study and threw himself into a chair, to lie back, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed upon one particular spot in the pattern of the paper of the room.
Then he began to think hard, and his thoughts were like one of those glorious pieces of music, in which a great composer takes some lovely, heart-stirring melody as his theme, and then weaves it in and out through the whole composition; the ear is attracted to other beauties, and fresh subjects are constantly being evoked, but the artist never forgets the sweet enthralling air which is ever-recurring, and seems to give character to the whole.
Always the same; think how he would of other matters, there was Hazel Thorne’s sweet face, and her soft eyes looking up at him at every turn.
“Am I in love?” he said at last, asking himself the question in a calm, matter-of-fact way. “This seems very absurd, and if any one had told me that I should be thinking of nothing but a little schoolmistress day and night, I should have asked him if he took me for a fool.
“Fool! Am I a fool? Let’s argue it out. Hazel Thorne. Hazel, what a peculiar name! – well. Hazel Thorne is a schoolmistress, and if I asked her to be my wife, always supposing that she would accept me, the people would say that I was mad – that I threw myself away.
“Why?
“Because she is a schoolmistress and works for her living, strives hard to keep her mother and sisters, and I don’t suppose has money to spare for a fashionable dress.
“Bah! What a creature for a man – a gentleman of birth and position to love – a girl who works hard, is self-denying and patient, and cannot dress well. I’m afraid I am very mad indeed. But that is from a society point of view. Let’s take another.
“Hazel Thorne is refined, sensitive, perfectly ladylike to my mind, very sweet – very beautiful with those soft appealing eyes, and that rather care-worn, troubled look; she is evidently a true woman, and one who would devote herself thoroughly to the man who won her heart. If I could win her I believe she would think more of me than of her dresses and jewellery, horses and carriages, and consider that her sole aim in life was to make me happy – if I could win her.”
He sat with his eyes half-closed for a time.
“No, I don’t believe that,” he said aloud. “I don’t believe that she would accept me for the sake of my position. I believe from my heart that she would refuse me, and if she does – well, I shall try.”
There was another long pause, during which the thought-weaving went on, with the face of Hazel Thorne ever in the pattern; and at last as if perfectly satisfied in his own mind, he rose and sighed, saying:
“Yes; there’s no doubt about it: I am what people call ‘in love.’”
He went to the window and stood leaning against the side, gazing out at the pleasant park-like expanse, but seeing nothing but the face of Hazel Thorne, as in a quiet, dreamy way he recalled the past.
Suddenly a pang shot through him, and his brow grew rugged, for he remembered a conversation he had heard between Beatrice Lambent and his mother, wherein the former had said, à propos of the new mistress, that the vicar had been rather displeased with her for receiving the visit of some gentleman friend so soon after she had come down.
“I shall hate that woman before I have done,” he said angrily, and, crossing the room, he rang the bell sharply and ordered his horse.
George Canninge’s was no calf-love. He was a sterling, thoughtful man, quietly preparing himself to make his position in his country’s legislature; and yet the coming of Hazel Thorne had changed the whole course of his life. He found himself longing to see her, eager to meet and speak, but bound by his sense of gentle deference towards the woman who occupied so high a position in his esteem to avoid doing anything likely to call forth remark to her disparagement.
George Canninge mounted and rode off, leaving the care of his body to his horse, and for the next three hours he was in a kind of dream. He rode right away out into the country, and then returned, to come back to himself suddenly, for there, the living embodiment of his thoughts, was Hazel Thorne coming towards him, and in an instant all the determinations that he had made vanished into space.
His horse seemed to realise his wishes, for it stopped, and the rider dismounted, threw the rein over his arm, and advanced to meet the object of his thoughts, whose colour was very slightly augmented as he raised his hat and then extended his hand.
“I have not had the pleasure since the day of the school feast. Miss Thorne,” he said; and then, as if it were quite natural, they stood talking of indifferent matters for a few minutes, and Hazel let fall that she was going up to Miss Burge.
“I’ll go with you,” he said quietly. “I like those people; they are so thoroughly genuine. Money has not spoiled Burge. He’s as honest as the day.”
Just then, somehow, Hazel began to think that if Archibald Graves had been speaking of the Burges he would have been sure to have turned them into ridicule and laughed at their vulgar ways.
George Canninge had no hidden thought, no object to serve in speaking of the successful tradesman as he did; but if he had studied a speech for a month he would not have found one more suited to win favour with his companion.
As they walked on, it did not occur to Hazel at first that she was being guilty of a very series lapse in the eyes of the people in Plumton All Saints. It was so natural for a gentleman to speak to her quietly and courteously, that for the time being she forgot all about her position in life, and that this act was one that would cause a grave scandal in the little community. King Cophetua loved a beggar-maid, and when the lords and ladies of the court found that she was good as she was fair, they all applauded their monarch’s choice; but that took place in the land of romance. The meeting of Hazel Thorne with young Squire Canninge came about in the road leading out of Plumton All Saints, and as they walked together towards Mr Burge’s handsome villa, they were seen of several people who could talk, and who did talk, about “such shameful goings on;” they were seen of Samuel Chute, who turned green as he shrank back out of sight, but followed them afterwards at a distance; and finally they were seen of Miss Burge, who suddenly shouted into her brother’s private room:
“Oh, Bill, do come and lookye here! Miss Thorne’s coming up the drive along with young Mr Squire Canninge. Muffins and marmalade ’ll do for her, but there’s nothing in the house to ask him to eat but cold mutton.”
Chapter Eighteen.
The Rev. Henry’s Temptation
Now it so happened that the Rev. Henry Lambent, who had been greatly troubled in his mind of late concerning what he called parish matters, was out that very day making a few calls.
The parish matters that troubled him were relative to the schools, about which he thought more than he had ever thought before. In fact if he had not allowed his thoughts to dwell upon them, they would have been directed thereto by his sisters, who had reminded him several times about the unsatisfactory state of the girls’ school.
“I suppose it is useless to say so now, Henry,” said Miss Lambent, “since the new mistress is to be made the protégée of every one in the place, but I think the sooner she is dismissed the better. If she is not sent about her business there will be a great scandal in the place, as sure as my name is Rebecca. What do you think, Beatrice?”
There was a minute’s pause before Beatrice replied, and then her words were uttered in an extremely reserved manner.
“I prefer to say nothing upon the question, for I do not think this young person of sufficient importance for us to allow her to disturb the harmony of this peaceful home.”
The vicar winced a little, and Beatrice saw it Rebecca’s weapon was clumsy, coarse, blunt and notched; its effect upon him was that of a dull blow. The weapon of Beatrice, on the contrary, was keen and incisive. It inflicted a sharp pang, and it was venomed with spiteful contempt, that rankled in the wound after it was made. The effect was to produce a couple of red spots on his cheeks, but he said nothing; he merely thought of “this young person” as he had thought of her a good deal of late, and by comparison his sisters seemed to be petty, narrow-minded, and spiteful. He was greatly exercised in mind, too; and had he been a Roman Catholic priest he would probably have submitted himself to fastings and other penitential exercises. As it was, he sat alone and thought and combated the strange ideas that had taken possession of him of late. He trampled them beneath his feet – he would not even give them a name; but so sure as he – he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, M.A., vicar of Plumton All Saints, went into the retirement of his study to quell the fancies that he told himself were beneath his dignity as a teacher of men and a gentleman, he thought of Hazel Thorne, and her face became to him an absolute torture.
The idea was absurd, he knew it was ridiculous, and not to be thought of for a moment, and consequently he thought of it for hours every day; dreamed of it every night. It was his first waking thought in the morning; and in the quietude of the late evening, when he was seated alone, he found himself filling the chair before him with a well-known figure, and seeing the face smile upon his as the red lips parted, and sweet and pure, the simple little school song of the violet in its shady bed floated to his listening ears.
He told himself that it was absurd, and laughed at it, but it was a dismal kind of mirth that echoed hollowly in his ears, startling him, for he fancied that the laughter sounded mocking, and he began to recall the old legends that he had read about holy men being tempted of the emissaries of the Evil One, and of the strange guises they had been said to assume for the better leading of their victims astray.
Was he – he asked himself – being chosen for one of those terrible temptations? Was he to be the object of one of their assaults?
For the moment he was ready to accept the idea; but directly after, his common-sense stepped in to point out how weak and full of vanity was such a fancy. And he then found himself thinking of how sweet and ladylike Hazel Thorne was in all her dealings with the school children – how gentle and yet how firm! And if she could be so good a manager of these children, what would she not be as a wife!
He could not bear the thought, but cast it from him, and half angrily he wished that Hazel Thorne had never come to the town; but directly after, his pale handsome face lit up with a smile, his eyelids dropped, and he began thinking of how bright his life had seemed ever since Hazel Thorne had come.
“Good-day, Mr Chute. Yes, a nice day,” he said, as he came suddenly upon the schoolmaster, gnashing his teeth as usual, but ceasing the operation upon finding himself suddenly face to face with his vicar, who bowed gravely after replying to his salutation, and passed on.
“Why, he isn’t going there too, is he?” said Chute, looking over his shoulder. “I hope he isn’t. No, I don’t – hope he is. Why am I not asked there too?” he exclaimed angrily, as he saw the vicar pass in at the Burges’ gate. “It’s a shame, that it is; and no more favour ought to be shown to the mistress than the master. But I won’t have it. I won’t stand it. She shan’t talk to Canninge, and I’ll speak to her about it to-night. I consider her as good as mine, and it’s abominable for her to be going where I’m not asked, and talking to the gentry like this. Gentry, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! I don’t think much of such gentry as Mr Burge: a nasty, fat, stuck-up, red-faced, common, kidney-dealing, beefsteak butcher – that’s what he is!”
Strange to say, Mr Chute did not feel any better for this verbal explosion, but after casting a few angry glances at the house that was tabooed to him, he turned back into the fields, and began, in a make-believe sort of manner, to botanise, collecting any of the simple plants around, and trying to recollect the orders to which they belonged, but always keeping within sight of Mr Burge’s gates.
“There’ll be a regular row about this, and I hope Lambent will give her a few words of a sort,” he muttered. “It will prepare her for what I mean to say to her to-night. I’ll give her such a lesson. I shall divide my lesson into three parts,” he went on, speaking mechanically. “How many parts shall I divide my lesson into! – Oh, what a fool I am! – What’s this? Oh, it’s a cress. Belongs to the cruciferous family, and – Hang the cruciferous family! It’s too bad. I won’t stand it. There’ll be a regular scandal about her talking to the young squire. I don’t mind, of course; but I won’t stand it for the sake of the schools. A girl who has been trained ought to know better. You wouldn’t catch a master trained at Saint Mark’s going on like that with girls.”
And then somehow, with a bunch of wild flowers in his hand, Mr Chute’s thoughts ran back to certain Saturday afternoons, when three or four students somehow found themselves in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, meeting accidentally with three or four other students who did not wear coats and waistcoats; and in the walks that followed parsing was never mentioned, a blade-board and chalk never came into their heads, neither did they converse on the notes of an object lesson, or ask one another what was the price of Pinnock’s Analysis, or whether they could make head or tail of Latham’s Grammar.
“But I was only a boy then,” said Mr Chute importantly. “Now I am a man.”
Chapter Nineteen.
Visitors to the Burges
It was quite like old days, Hazel thought, as George Canninge walked beside her up the drive to Mr William Forth Burge’s door. There was no assumption of gallantry, not a word but such as a gentleman would have addressed to a friend. But he chatted to her pleasantly and well; laughed about the enjoyment of the school children, their great appreciation of the feast; and introduced the general topics of the day, drawing Hazel out so that, to her surprise, she found herself answering and questioning again, as if George Canninge were some pleasant friend whom she had known for years.
“Ah, Miss Burge, how are you!” he cried cheerily. “I found Miss Thorne on the way here, and I thought I ought to come and say a word as well, for I’ve not seen you since the feast.”
“I’m so glad you did come, Mr Canninge,” said the little lady, shaking hands very warmly, as she led the way into the drawing-room after kissing Hazel affectionately. “You don’t know how we have talked about you.”
“Slanders behind my back. Miss Burge!”
“Bless my heart, sir, no. Why, it was all about how you did go on and help at the school feast, making such fun and games for the poor children; and it all seemed so strange.”
“Strange, Miss Burge!” said Canninge. “May I ask why!”
“Because we’d always heard that you were so proud and ’orty like, sir, when you’re really about the nicest gentleman I ever met.”
“Do you hear that Miss Thorne!” he cried merrily. “There, I shall go home as proud as a peacock. Oh, here’s Mr Burge. What do you think your sister says!”
“That we’re very glad to see you, Mr Canninge, sir; and what will you take!”
“Nothing but courteous words, Mr Burge, after your sister’s compliment. She says that I am really about the nicest gentleman she ever met.”
“And she means it too, sir. She never says anything she does not mean. She’s done nothing but talk ever since about the way you pleased those children, sir, at the feast.”
“Well, poor little things, why shouldn’t we try and give them a treat now and then – a real treat! I like to see them work hard at school, and work hard when they play, not taken out to be marched up and down, and disciplined, and made miserable. Miss Thorne, you must forgive me if I am going against your views.”
“Indeed, you are not,” replied Hazel. “I am very new and inexperienced over teaching, but I thoroughly believe in hearty, wholesome play being a necessary part of a child’s education.”
“Hear, hear! Hee-ar! – hee-ar! – hee-ar!” cried Mr William Forth Burge, beating the drawing-room table loudly with a book.
“I quite agree with Miss Thorne there,” said Canninge; “and as to what I did the other day – well, really, I enjoyed it as much as the children.”
“So did I, Mr Canninge, sir,” cried Burge. “It was a regular treat, sir; and they shall have another and a better feast next year, please God I live.”
“No, no, fair-play’s a jewel, Burge,” said Canninge heartily. “None of your haughty millionaire assumption.”
Burge stared.
“They shall come up to Ardley next time, and I’ll see if I can’t beat you.”
“What! you’ll have the schools up to your place, sir, next year!”
“To be sure I will; and I’ve got an idea in my head that will take the shine out of your treaty for I’ll have a display of fireworks.”
“There, Betsey, I never thought of no fireworks; and we might have had a regular show off. I never thought of them. Oh!”
“You could not have made the children happier, Mr Burge, if you had remembered the fireworks,” said Hazel, coming to the rescue. “They thoroughly enjoyed themselves.”
“Well, I meant ’em to. Miss Thorne; I meant ’em to, indeed.”
“I agree with Miss Thorne,” said Canninge, “and my first step will be to come here for your help.”
“And you shall have it too, sir, hearty; that you shall.”
“You will come and take off your things now, my dear,” said Miss Burge then. “Mr Canninge will excuse us, I’m sure; and, bless me, if here isn’t Mr Lambent coming up the drive.”
George Canninge felt disposed to go, but thought he would stay, and waited; while the bell was heard to clang, the steps of the servant followed, and a short colloquy was heard, resulting in the vicar leaving his card, and turning away.
“Why, he ain’t coming in,” said Mr William Forth Burge, running to the door, and then halfway down the drive.
No; he would not come in, the vicar said quietly. Not to-day. He only wished to know if Miss Burge was well, and he walked away, frowningly thinking of George Canninge’s horse, which he knew well by sight, as the groom was walking it slowly up and down by the entrance to the stable-yard.
He had not seen it till he was close up, and he felt disposed to turn back, but it was too late. He had heard from the servant that Hazel Thorne was present as well, and he parted from the giver of school treats soon afterwards, feeling bitter at heart and low-spirited more than he could account for at the time.
“He wouldn’t come in,” said Mr William Forth Burge, hurrying back into the drawing-room panting and looking warm. “I told him you was here.”
“Busy, perhaps,” said George Canninge quietly, though he told himself directly after that it was an absurd remark, for if the Reverend Henry Lambent had been busy he would not have devoted the day to making calls.
“Well now, you must excuse us, Mr Canninge, for brother will talk to you while we go upstairs.”
“I must ask you to excuse me too,” said George Canninge, rising and thinking of the vicar’s visit, which it was certainly strange should have been paid at the time Miss Thorne was there. “My horse is hot, and I must not leave him any longer. I met Miss Thorne on the way, and the sight of her reminded me of my want of civility in not coming sooner. Now I’ll say good-day. Miss Burge, I shall never forget your compliment.”
“Which it was not a compliment at all, sir, but just what I honestly thought,” replied Miss Burge, shaking hands.
“Then I shall esteem the remark all the more,” he said, smiling, and delighting the little lady by his frankness and hearty way. Then, turning to where Hazel was standing:
“Good-day, Miss Thorne,” he said; and there was something so frank and matter-of-fact in the way in which he shook hands that Hazel’s eyes brightened; and he went away, mounting at the door, and walking his horse down to the gate, with stout Mr William Forth Burge holding on by the mane, and talking loudly the while.
George Canninge’s replies sounded manly and ready enough, but all the time he was thinking of Hazel Thorne’s sweet ingenuous smile, and he rode away at a brisk canter, as if he meant to go over Samuel Chute, seeing only that there was some one by the side of the road, for he was picturing that smile, and more than once he repeated to himself the words:
“Only a schoolmistress!”
Then, after a pause, as he was well clear of the town:
“Well, what of that? It is a most worthy pursuit and she is a thorough lady in every word and look.”
