Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The New Mistress, by George Manville Fenn.

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THE NEW MISTRESS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE FIRST MORNING.

"Remember, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, "remember this--we may be reduced
in circumstances; we may have been compelled by misfortune to come down
into this wretched little town, and to live in this miserable, squeezy,
poorly-furnished house or cottage, with the light kept out by the yellow
glass, and scarcely a chimney that does not smoke; we may be compelled
to dress shab--"

"Yes, yes, mother dear--"

"_Bily_," said Mrs Thorne, with indignant emphasis on account of the
interruption, "but remember this, Hazel, you are a lady."

"Forgive me for interrupting you, mother."

"_Mamma_, Hazel," said the lady, drawing herself up with great dignity.
"If we are by a cruel stroke of fate compelled to live in a state of
indigence when pride has made my eldest child refuse the assistance of
my relatives, I still maintain that I have a right to keep up my old and
ladylike title--mamma."

"But, dear, I am only a schoolmistress now--a national schoolmistress,
and it would sound full of foolish assumption if I called you mamma.
And are you not my dear, dear mother!  There, there, good-bye, dear,"
cried the speaker, kissing her affectionately; "and mind the dinner is
done, for I shall be,--oh, so hungry."

"As you please, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, smoothing down her dress, and
looking ill-used.  "Let it be mother then.  My feelings have to be set
aside as usual.  My life is to be one slow glide down a slope of
indignity to the grave.  Ah, what have I done to deserve such a fate?"

"Mother, dear mother, pray, pray don't grieve, and I'll strive so hard
to make you and the girls happy.  You will soon like this little
cottage; and when we get some more furniture, and some flowers, and a
bird in the window, it will look so bright and cheerful and--there,
there, pray don't cry.  I must go; it only wants five minutes to nine,
and I must not be late the first morning."

"I think it disgraceful that, in addition to six days a week, you should
be compelled to go and teach on Sundays as well; and I shall make a
point of speaking to Mr Lambent the first time he calls--that is, if he
should ever condescend to call."

"No, no, pray don't think of such a thing, dear," cried Hazel Thorne
excitedly.  "You forget that I have the whole of Saturday, and--there,
there--dear, dear mother, I must go.  Good--good-bye."

Hazel Thorne kissed the stiff stately-looking lady in the stiffest of
widow's weeds, and with a bright look and a cheery nod, she hurried out
of the little Gothic schoolhouse, with its prim, narrow lancet windows;
but as she closed the door, the bright look gave place to one of anxious
care, and there was a troubled nervous twitching about her lips that
told of a struggle to master some painful emotion.

She had but a few yards to go, for the new school-buildings at Plumton
All Saints were in one tolerably attractive architectural group, built
upon a piece of land given two years before by Mr William Forth Burge,
a gentleman who had left Plumton All Saints thirty--but it should be
given in his own words, as he made a point of repeating them to every
new-comer:

"Yes, sir; I left Plumton thirty year ago, after being two year with old
Marks the butcher, and went up to London to seek my fortune, and I think
I found it, I did."

Mr William Forth Burge's fortune was made by being a butcher's boy for
some years, and then starting among some new houses near Chelsea on his
own account.  Fashion and the speculative builders did the rest.  Mr
William Forth Burge's business grew to a tremendous extent, and at
forty-five he sold it and proudly returned to his native place--a
gentleman, he said.  Stout, red-faced, very pomatumy about his smooth,
plastered-down dark hair, very much dressed in glossy broadcloth and
white waistcoats, and very much scented with his favourite perfume,
"mill flowers," as he called it.

Mr William Forth Burge left Plumton--"Bill"; he came back writing his
name in full, and everybody followed his example as soon as he had shown
himself at the various land sales and bought pretty largely.  For he was
always looking out for "investments," and the local auctioneers
addressed him with great respect as "sir."  Why, upon the occasion of
the dinner given at the "George," when he took the chair after the
laying of the first stone of the new school-buildings by Sir Appleton
Burr, the county member, whose name was down for ten pounds, the
Reverend Henry Lambent, the vicar, made his chin sore with his very
stiff cravat, rolling his head to give due emphasis to the very
sermon-like speech, the text of which was that Mr William Forth Burge
was an honour to the place of his birth; and the finale, received with
vociferous cheering and stamping of feet, was the proposal of this
gentleman's health.

He was a very modest, mild man, this donor of a piece of land of the
value of some three hundred and fifty pounds to the parish; and though
an ex-butcher, had probably never slain innocent lamb, let alone sheep
or ox, in his life.  When he rose to respond he broke forth into a
profuse perspiration--a more profuse perspiration than usual; and his
application of a fiery orange silk handkerchief to his face, neck, and
hands, almost suggested that its contact with his skin would scorch him,
or at least make him hiss, what time he told people that he left Plumton
thirty year ago, after being two year with old Marks the butcher, etc.,
and then went on to speak of himself as if he were an oyster, for every
few moments he announced to his fellow-townsmen that he was a native,
and that he was proud of being a native, and that he did not see how a
native could better show his love for his native place than by giving
his native place a piece of ground for the erection of the new schools;
and so on, and so on.

Of course, Sir Appleton Burr, M.P., said that it was a charmingly
_naive_ piece of autobiography, and that Plumton All Saints ought to be
very proud of such a man, and no doubt Plumton was proud of him, for
where was the need of grammar to a man with fifty thousand pounds;
especially as Mr William Forth Burge, besides having no grammar, had no
pride.

In due time, the money was found, with the help of a grant from the
Committee of Council on Education, the schools being meanwhile erected--
a long red-brick semi-Gothic central building, with houses for the
schoolmaster and mistress at either end, each standing in its neat
garden, the central school building being so arranged that, by drawing
up and pushing down sash-hung shutters, the boys and girls' schools
could be thrown into one, as was always the case on Sundays.

Just as Hazel Thorne left her gate to walk thirty yards to that leading
to the girls' entrance, Mr Samuel Chute, master of the boys' school,
left his door to walk thirty yards to the gate leading to the boys'
entrance, but did not stop there, for he came right on, raising his hat,
and displaying a broad white lumpy forehead, backed by fair hair that
seemed to have been sown upon his head and come up in a sturdy crop,
some portions being more vigorous than others, and standing up in tufts
behind the lumps about his forehead; doubtless these latter being kindly
arrangements made by nature to allow room for brain projections,
consequent upon over-study.

Mr Samuel Chute smiled, and said that it was a very fine morning, a
fact that Hazel Thorne acknowledged, as the schoolmaster replaced his
hat.

"The handle of the door goes very stiffly," he said, still smiling
rather feebly, for he was annoyed with himself for not having offered to
shake hands, and it was too late now.  "I thought I'd come and open it
for you."

Hazel thanked him.  The heavy latch was twisted up by an awkward ring
like a young door-knocker, and went _click_! and was let down again, and
went _clack_!  Then the new schoolmistress bowed and entered, and Mr
Samuel Chute went back to his own entrance, looking puzzled, his
forehead full of wrinkles, and so preoccupied that he nearly ran up
against Mr William Forth Burge, whom he might have smelt if he had not
seen, as he came to the school as usual on Sunday mornings to take his
class, and impart useful and religious instruction to the twelve biggest
boys.

There was a mist before Hazel Thorne's eyes as she entered the large
schoolroom, with its so-called gallery and rows of desks down the side,
all supported upon iron pedestals like iron bars with cricks in their
backs.  All about the floor were semicircles marked out by shiny
brass-headed nails, as if the boards had been decorated by a mad
undertaker after the fashion of a coffin-lid, while between the windows,
and in every other vacant place, were hung large drawing copies of a
zoological character, embracing the affectionate boa-constrictor, the
crafty crocodile, and the playful squirrel, all of which woodcuts had
issued from the Sanctuary at Westminster, probably with the idea that
some child in Plumton schools might develop into a female Landseer.

This being Sunday, Hazel Thorne's duties were light, and after Mr
Samuel Chute had rapped upon his desk, and read prayers for the benefit
of both schools, the new mistress had little to do beyond
superintending, and trying to make herself at home.

She found that there were four classes in her side of the Sunday-school,
each with its own teacher, certain ladies coming regularly from the
town, chief of whom were the Misses Lambent--Beatrice and Rebecca, the
former a pale, handsome, but rather sinister lady of seven or
eight-and-twenty, the latter a pale, unhandsome, and very sinister lady
of seven or eight-and-thirty, both elegantly dressed, and ready to
receive the new mistress with a cold and distant bow that spoke volumes,
and was as repellant as hailstones before they have touched the earth.

For the Misses Lambent were the vicar's sisters, and taught in the
Sunday-school from a sense of duty.  Hazel Thorne was ready to forget
that she was a lady by birth and education.  The Misses Lambent were
not; and besides, it was two minutes past nine when Hazel entered the
room.  It was five minutes to nine when they rustled in with their
stiffest mien and downcast eyes.

But they always displayed humility, even when they snubbed the girls of
their classes--a humility which prompted them to give up the first class
to Miss Burge--christened Betsey, a name of which she was not in the
least ashamed, and which, like her brother with his William Forth, she
wrote in full.

The third and fourth class girls had an enmity against those of the
first for no other reason than that they were under Miss Burge, who
heard them say their catechism, and read, and asked questions afterwards
out of a little book which she kept half hidden beneath her silk
_visite_; for pleasant, little, homely, round-faced Miss Burge could
hardly have invented a question of an original character to save her
life.  One thing, however, was patent, and that was that the first class
was so far a model of good behaviour that the girls did not titter very
much, nor yet pinch one another, or dig elbows into each other's ribs
more than might be expected from young ladies of their station; while
they never by any chance made faces at "teacher" when her back was
turned, a practice that seemed to afford great pleasure to the young
ladies who were submitted to a sort of cold shower-bath, iced with
awkward texts by the Misses Lambent, in classes third and fourth.

The second class was taken by another maiden lady--Miss Penstemon,
sister of Doctor Penstemon, M.D., F.R.C.S., of the High Street.  She was
thinner and more graceful than the Misses Lambent, and possibly much
older; but that was her secret and one which she never divulged.

The Misses Lambent, as before mentioned, bowed with dignity and grave
condescension to the new mistress; and, taking her cue from the vicar's
sisters.  Miss Penstemon bowed also, plunging her hand afterwards into
her black bag for her smelling-bottle, for she thought the room was
rather close.

The bottle she brought out, however, she thrust back hastily, and gave a
quick glance round to see if she had been observed; for, instead of its
containing a piece of sponge saturated with the colourless fluid
labelled in her brother's surgery, "Liq. Amm.," and afterwards scented
with a few drops of an essential oil, the little stoppered bottle bore a
label with the enigmatical word "Puls." thereon, and its contents were
apparently a number of little sugar pills.

For be it known that Maria Penstemon had a will of her own, and a strong
tendency to foster crotchets.  The present crotchet was homoeopathy,
which, without expressing any belief for or against, the doctor had
forbidden her to practise.

"No, 'Ria," he said, "if you want to go doctoring, doctor the people
with your moral medicines.  It won't do for you to be physicking one way
and me another, so let it alone."

But Miss Penstemon refused to submit to coercion, and insisted in secret
upon following her path while the doctor went his, Maria's being the
homoeopath, while the doctor's was, of course, the allopath; and he was
a long time finding out that his sister surreptitiously "exhibited"
pilules, for she never did any harm.

Hazel Thorne met with a different reception, however, from downright
Miss Burge, who rose from her seat, looked red and "flustered," as she
called it, smiled, and shook hands.

"I'm very, very glad to know you, my dear," she said warmly, "and I hope
you'll come and see me often as soon as you get shaken down."

Shaken down!  The words jarred upon the young mistress, who felt that
she could never become intimate with Miss Burge, whom she left to her
class, and then busied herself with the attendance register and various
other little matters connected with her duties.  Once she stole a glance
across at the boys' school, to become aware of the fact that Mr Chute
was watching her attentively, so was Mr William Forth Burge; and, to
make matters worse, half the boys in the classes were following their
teachers' eyes, so that it was with something like a feeling of relief
that Hazel saw that the clock pointed to half-past ten, the time for
closing for the morning, and marshalling the girls in order for walking
two-and-two as far as the church.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE VICAR SEES A GENTLEMAN.

Mr Chute rang a bell and said, "Sh! sh!"

Books were put away, the lady teachers rose, and, with the exception of
Miss Burge, moved towards the door, the latter lady glancing at the new
mistress, and, apparently pitying her strangeness, seeming disposed to
hang back and walk with her; but Hazel Thorne's attention was too much
taken up by her task, and getting her little force of about
eight-and-thirty or forty girls two-and-two, she started them for
church, herself taking the smallest morsel--to wit, little Jenny
Straggalls--under her wing.

Now, the only ways to march forty girls two-and-two to church with
anything like order are either to put the two smallest pupils in the
front, and then go on rising in years till you have the two eldest in
the rear, or to pair off the largest and smallest children together.

If neither of these plans is adopted, discipline is liable to fail.  One
black sheep will corrupt a flock, and though not a black sheep but a
very red-haired frisky lamb, there were qualities in Ophelia, or more
commonly "Feelier," Potts sufficiently mischievous to corrupt any flock
of girls.

The experiences she had picked up at Whitelands were forgotten by Hazel
Thorne in the flurry and excitement of this her first morning with her
school.  The stern looks of the lady teachers had made her feel nervous.
It was tiresome, too, just at starting that Mr Chute should be holding
his boys in hand at the door, with a politeness of which he had never
before been guilty, to allow the girls to go on first to church; and Mr
William Forth Burge was standing by him, smiling all over his round,
closely-shaven face, which was so smooth that it shone in the sun, and
preparing himself for the incense of forty bobs, that he would receive
from the girls as they went by.

This was Feelier's opportunity.  As one of the biggest girls, she had
been placed first with Ann Straggalls, the fair, round eyed, and fat;
and as Feelier went marching on with head erect, she turned the said
head slowly round towards the boys, and squinted so horribly that her
eyes half disappeared beneath the bridge of her nose, and Tommy Sullins,
a very wild, excitable little boy, forgot his awe of Mr Samuel Chute,
and burst into a loud "Ha, ha, ha!"

"Sullins!" shouted Mr Chute; and Feelier was gazing wonderingly at the
boy with her eyes in their normal, position, as the little fellow became
perfectly snail-like in his action, and crept back into the very stiff
long pinafore he was wearing.

Then bob, bob, bob, bob went the girls as they passed Mr William Forth
Burge, who came out of the gate as the last pair passed and smiled his
way up to his sister, who was toddling along beside Hazel Thorne, and
making Mr Samuel Chute feel annoyed, for he was obliged to leave some
little space before starting his boys; and then as he had always been in
the habit of walking last, it would have looked peculiar to walk in
front.  Besides which there would have been the risk of little boys
straggling behind, and perhaps not appearing in church at all; so, in
spite of an intense desire, freshly developed, to keep near the new
schoolmistress, he was compelled to walk at a distance of twenty-two
doubled boys behind, and this made him metaphorically gnash his teeth.

Mr Chute's way of gnashing his teeth was, paradoxical as it may sound,
with his hands, upon which he wore a pair of brand new kid gloves,
bought late on Saturday night expressly to impress the new mistress.
These hands seemed to have been suddenly seized with an angry itching to
seize little boys' arms and shoulders, to give them nips and shakes and
pushes for not walking better than they did; and the severe drilling he
gave them as he walked backwards and forwards along the semi-military
column made the boys stare.  But it was upon Master Sullins that the
vials of his wrath threatened to be emptied.  He could not forgive that
laugh.  What, he asked himself, would Miss Thorne think?  It was
terrible, and seemed to him like the first step towards blasting the
hopes that had already begun to bud after seeing the new mistress only
twice.  The consequence was, that whenever he told himself never had the
boys walked to church so badly before, he glanced at Tommy Sullins, and
when he glanced at Tommy Sullins, he thought of a certain length of that
thin rattan or _rotan_ cane that grows so beautifully in the Malay
Peninsula, running up and down trees in festoons for two or three
hundred feet.  Utterly ignorant as he was of the beauty of rotan cane in
its native state, Tommy had so lively a recollection of it in its cut-up
or commercial form, that reading threats in Mr Chute's eyes, the boy's
face began to work, and had not the master gone right to the rear, and
rigidly abstained from further demonstrations, the procession would have
been enlivened by a most tremendous howl.

Quite disposed to be friendly.  Miss Burge, then, while her fellow
Sunday-school teachers sailed gracefully on to church, toddled and
prattled beside the new-comer to Plumton, feeling pleased and attracted
by her gentle ways.

Toddled is the only word that will express Miss Burge's way of
progression, for it seemed as if there were no joints to her legs, and
consequently, as she walked she rolled sharply first to right and then
to left, but got over the ground pretty smartly all the same.

"Oh, this is my brother, Miss Thorne," she prattled pleasantly.  "My
brother, Mr William Forth Burge, who presented the town with the site
for the new schools.  Bill, dear, this is our new mistress.  Miss Hazel
Thorne, and a very pretty name, too, isn't it?"

"A very nice name indeed," said "Bill," taking off his hat and perfuming
the morning air with a whiff of pomatum scent; after which he replaced
his hat and smiled, and breathed very hard, but took his place, to Mr
Chute's great annoyance, on Hazel's other side, evidently with the
intention of walking with her and his sister right up to church.

Hazel felt more nervous than before.  It was very kind and friendly of
these people, but they divided her attention, and the schoolgirls wanted
it all.  For, having succeeded so well over the squinting, and thereby
won the admiration of her fellow-pupils, girl-like, Miss Feelier must
attempt something new, and this novelty was the giving vent to little
mouse-like squeaks, just loud enough to be heard by Ann Straggalls, who
began to titter, and of course this was communicated to others near.

The long notes became so marked at last that Hazel had to apologise to
her new friends, and hurry to the front and admonish, painfully
conscious the while that plenty of the inhabitants were at their windows
and doors, watching and commenting upon the appearance of the new
mistress, some remarks being loud enough for her to hear.

Order being restored, Hazel resumed her place, and Mr William Forth
Burge took up his parable and said:--

"Plumton's a deal altered.  Miss Thorne, since I knowed it first."

"Is it?" said Hazel.

"Oh, a deal.  Why, when I left Plumton thirty year ago, after being two
year with old Marks the butcher, and went up to London to seek my
fortune--and I think I found it eh, Betsey?"

"That you did indeed, dear," said little Miss Burge proudly.

"Ah, I did, Miss Thorne," he continued.  "Why, at that time--"

"I beg your pardon," said Hazel; "the girls are not yet used to me."

She had become aware just then that something else was wrong in the van
of her little army, and hurrying to the front, she found fat Ann
Straggalls furiously red, and choking with laughter.

"For shame!" began Hazel severely.  "I don't yet know your name."

"Straggalls, teacher," burst out a chorus of voices.  "Annie
Straggalls."

"Straggalls, I shall have to punish you if you do not walk properly.  A
great girl like you, and setting so bad an example."

"Please, teacher, it wasn't me," began fat Ann Straggalls.

"It was you," retorted Hazel; "I saw you laughing and behaving very
badly."

"But please, teacher, it was Feelier Potts kept tiddling of me--"

"Oh, what a wicked story, teacher."

"Silence!" cried Hazel.

"Inside of my 'and, where there's a 'ole in my glove, teacher."

"'Strue as goodness I didn't, teacher," cried Feelier.

"Not another word.  Walk quietly on to church.  I will talk about it
to-morrow."

This was, of course, as the progression went on, and just at that
moment, as she was resuming her place.  Hazel Thorne felt as if she had
been attacked by a severe spasm.  Her heart seemed to stand still, and
she turned pale; then it began to beat furiously, and there was a
crimson flush in her face and temples as she became aware of the fact
that a tall, well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking young man was walking on
the other side of the long street leading into the town, and she saw him
change his thin, closely-folded umbrella from one hand to the other,
ready to raise his hat to her if she would have looked across the road
again.  But she let her eyes fall, and this time returned to her place
between Mr and Miss Burge, feeling glad that they were there, and
almost glorying in the vulgarity of their appearance as a safeguard to
her from recollections of the past, and the possibility of troubles in
the future.

"Ah, as I was a-saying," resumed Mr William Forth Burge, "Plumton's
wonderfully changed since I went to London.  Do you know London, Miss
Thorne?"

"Oh, yes, I know London," she replied.  "I used to live at Kensington."

"Did you now!" cried her companion, looking at her with admiration.
"Well now, that is strange!"

Hazel could not see the strangeness of the fact, but she said nothing.

"Why, my carts used to go all round Kensington, right to Notting Hill,
and take in Chelsea and Pimlico as well."

"I really must beg of you to excuse me once more," said Hazel.

"Naughty child.  Sh--sh--sh!" said little Miss Burge, shaking her
parasol at the two first girls of the rank, as Hazel went off again.
For, highly indignant at having been charged with "tiddling" her fellow
pupil.  Miss Ophelia Potts had snatched herself together very tightly,
and keeping hold of Ann Straggalls' hand--the one that had a hole in the
glove--she had begun to walk as fast as she could with so much heavy
ballast as Miss Straggalls proved.  The consequence was, that the girls
behind followed suit not quite so fast, the next couple caught the
infection, and then there was a hiatus, six girls straggling a long way
ahead, and after a great gap of twenty or thirty yards there was the
rest of the school.  Hazel hurried after her disordered forces, and
checked the advance guard till they were joined by the rest, after which
she allowed the brother and sister to come up to her, when she once more
took her place, looking terribly conscious of the fact that Archibald
Graves was on the other side, keeping pace with them, and looking across
as if begging for a glance.

"Quite a stranger, Betsey.  No; I never see him afore."

"Why, how hot and flustered you do look, my dear!" said little Miss
Burge.  "The girls _is_ tiresome this morning.  If that Feelier Potts
don't behave herself, she sha'n't come up to the garden to tea."

"You haven't seen my garden, Miss Thorne," said the ex-butcher.

"No."

"Ah, you'll have to come up and see my garden.  My sister here will ask
you to bring up some of the best girls to take them on the lawn, and eat
cake."

"But not a bit for that naughty Feelier Potts," cried Miss Burge,
shaking her parasol at the delinquent.  "Look at that now, Bill.  Well,
of all the aggravating hussies."

Hazel was already on in front, to where Miss Feelier had turned what her
mother termed "stunt;" that is to say, she behaved as a horse does that
has a character for jibbing--she was not allowed to go her own pace, so
she began to walk as slowly as possible, and almost stopped.

It needs neither blackboard nor chalk to demonstrate the problem that
follows:

A, B, and C, are divisions of a column of troops on the march.  Portion
A forms the advance guard; B the centre; C the rear.  If A marched one
mile per hour, B two miles per hour, and C three miles per hour, what
would be the result?

Setting aside miles per hour.  Hazel Thorne's column behaved as above;
and in two minutes, to Feelier Potts' great delight of which, however,
she did not display an inkling in her stolid face, the little column was
all in confusion, while the young lady called out loudly:

"Please, teacher, they're a-scrouging of us behind."

There was nothing for it but for Hazel Thorne to lead the van, leaving
little Miss Burge in charge of the rear, seeing which state of affairs,
Mr William Forth Burge was about to leave his sister and go up to the
front and continue his egotistical discourse; but here he was checked by
Miss Burge.

"No, no, Bill; you mus'n't," she whispered.

"Mus'n't what?"

"Mustn't go after her and walk like that."

"Why not?"

"Well, because--because she's--well, because she's so nice, and young,
and pretty," whispered Miss Burge, who was at a loss for a reason.

"But that's why I like to go and talk to her, Betsey," exclaimed the man
of fortune heartily.  "She's about the nicest young lady I think I ever
did see."

"But you mus'n't, Bill," said his sister in alarm, "people would talk."

"Let 'em," said the ex-butcher proudly.  "I can afford it.  Let 'em
talk."

"But it might be unpleasant for Miss Thorne, dear."

"Oh!  Hah!  I didn't think of that," said the gentleman slowly; and,
taking off his hat he drew his orange silk handkerchief from his pocket,
and blew such a sonorous blast that little Jenny Straggalls, who was
last in the rank, started in alarm.

After this Mr William Forth Burge held his hat in one hand, his orange
handkerchief in the other, and looked at both in turn, scenting the
morning air the while with "mill flowers," and the essential oil in the
pomade he used.

Custom caused this hesitation.  For years past he had been in the habit
of placing his handkerchief in his hat--the proper place for it, he
said--but Miss Burge said that gentlemen did not carry their
handkerchiefs in their 'ats.  "And you are a gentleman, you know, now,
Bill."

So, with a sigh, Mr William Forth Burge refrained from burying the
flaming orange silk in the hollow of his hat, thrust it into his pocket,
and replaced his glossy head-piece, uttering another sigh the while, and
looking very thoughtful the rest of the way.

Oh! the relief of reaching the church door, and following the children
into the cool shadows of the empty building.  Not quite empty though,
for the Misses Lambent were in their places in the pew near the chancel,
and the Reverend Henry Lambent, cold, calm, handsome, and stern of mien,
was raising his head with a reproving frown at the girls who clattered
so loudly up the stairs, in spite of Hazel's efforts to keep them still.

"Why, Betsey," said Mr William Forth Burge, "that chap seems to know
our new mistress."

"Ye-es, dear, perhaps he's her brother," whispered back Miss Burge, as
they entered their richly-cushioned pew--one which used to belong to the
old manor-house that was pulled down.

"Beatrice, did you see a strange gentleman go up to Miss Thorne and
speak to her as she came into church?" said the Reverend Henry Lambent,
as he and his sisters were going back to the vicarage after the morning
service.

"Yes, brother Henry; we both saw it," said Miss Beatrice, "and were
going to mention it to you."

The incident was this:--

Just as Hazel Thorne was going to her seat in the gallery, the tall
gentleman came through the porch, hesitated a moment, and then, seeing
that the church was nearly empty, he went quickly up to the young
mistress.

"Hazel," he whispered, "I have come down on purpose.  I must--I will see
you after church."

"I beg your pardon," she said coldly; "our acquaintance is at an end."

"End!  No.  I have come to my senses.  It must not--it shall not be."

"It must and shall, Mr Graves," she said, turning away.

"For Heaven's sake, why?" he whispered excitedly, as she was going.

"Times are changed, sir.  I am only a schoolmistress now."

Just then Mr Chute entered with the boys, and he turned white as he saw
the stranger there.



CHAPTER THREE.

HAZEL'S TROUBLES.

About a year and a half before Hazel Thorne had the task of conducting
her school for the first time to Plumton church, she was in her home at
Kensington, leading the every-day pleasant life of the daughter of a
stockbroker, who was reputed among his friends as being "warm," that
being the appropriate term for a man who is said to have a pretty good
store of money well invested in solid securities.

"Fred Thorne will buy mining shares for you, or shares in any bubble
that is popular at the time; but catch him putting his coin in anything
doubtful."

That is what people said; and as he had a good home at Kensington, and
gave nice, quiet little dinners, he and his were pretty well courted.

"Well, yes, I don't mind, Archy," said old Graves, the wholesale cork
merchant of Tower Hill.  "Hazel Thorne is a very nice girl--very pretty
and ladylike, so I suppose we must swallow the mother for her sake."

The boa-constrictor-like proposition was naturally enough taken
by Archibald Graves in its slango-metaphorical sense, and
slango-metaphorically Mrs Frederick Thorne was swallowed by the whole
of the Graves family, and she did not agree with them.

For Mrs Thorne was not a pleasant woman.  Tall, handsome, and
thoroughly ladylike in appearance, she was very proud of having been
considered a beauty, and was not above reminding her husband of the fact
that she might have married So-and-so and What's-his-name, and
You-know-whom, all of which gentlemen could have placed her in a better
position than that she occupied; and as she grew older these references
were more frequent.  Each child she had seemed to be looked upon by her
as a fresh grievance--a new cause for tears, and tears she accordingly
shed to an extent that might have made any one fancy this was the reason
why the Thorne home generally seemed damp and chilly, till Hazel entered
the room like so much sunshine, when the chill immediately passed away.

Gradually growing weaker in act and speech, the unfortunate woman
received a shock which completed the change that had been gradually
heretofore advancing, for Fred Thorne--handsome, bright, cheery, and
ever ready to laugh at mamma's doldrums, as he called them--went out as
usual one morning to the City, saying that he should be back a little
earlier to dinner that day, as he had stalls for the opera.

"I'll come back through Covent Garden, Hazel, and bring you a bouquet,"
he cried merrily.

"You need not bring flowers for me, Frederick," said Mrs Thorne, in an
aggrieved tone.  "I am growing too old for flowers now."

"Too old?  Ha, ha, ha!" he cried.  "Why, you look younger than ever.
Smithson asked me the other day if you and Hazel were my daughters."

"Did he, Frederick," said Mrs Thorne, in a rather less lachrymose tone.

"To be sure he did; and of course I am going to bring you a bouquet as
well."

He bought the two bouquets, and they were kept fresh in water, taken to
pieces, and spread over his breast, as he lay cold and stern in his
coffin: for as he was carefully bearing the box containing the flowers
across Waterloo Place on his way home that evening, there was a cry, a
shout, the rush of wheels, and the trampling of horses; a barouche came
along Pall Mall at a furious rate, with two ladies therein clinging to
the sides, and the coachman and footman panic-stricken on the box.  One
rein had broken, and the horses tore round the corner towards Regent
Street as if mad with fear.

It was a gallant act, and people said at the inquest that it saved the
ladies and the servants, but it was at the sacrifice of his own life.
For, dropping the box he was carrying, Fred Thorne, a hale strong man of
five-and-forty, dashed at the horses' heads, caught one by the bit and
held on, to be dragged fifty or sixty yards, and crushed against the
railings of one of the houses.

He stopped the horses, and was picked up by the crowd that gathered
round.

"Stop a moment, he wants to say something--he is only stunned--here, get
some water--what say, sir!"

"My--poor--darlings!"

They were Fred Thorne's last words, uttered almost with his last breath.

The shock was terrible.

Mrs Thorne took to her bed at once, and was seriously ill for weeks,
while Hazel seemed to have been changed in one moment from a merry
thoughtless girl to a saddened far-seeing woman.

For upon her the whole charge of the little household fell.  There was
the nursing of the sick mother, the care and guidance of Percy, a
clever, wilful boy of sixteen, now at an expensive school, and the
management of the two little girls, Cissy and Mabel.

For the first time in her life she learned the meaning of real trouble,
and how dark the world can look at times to those who are under its
clouds.

The tears had hardly ceased to flow for the affectionate indulgent
father, when Hazel had to listen to business matters, a friend of her
father calling one morning, and asking to see her.

This was a Mr Edward Geringer, a gentleman in the same way of business
as Mr Thorne, and who had been fully in his confidence.

He was a thin, fair, keen-looking man of eight-and-thirty or forty, with
a close, tight mouth, and a quick, impressive way of speaking; his
pale-bluish eyes looking sharply at the person addressed the while.  He
looked, in fact, what he was--a well-dressed clear-headed man, with one
thought--how to make money; and he found out how it was done.

That is hardly fair, though.  He had another thought, one which had come
into his heart--a small one--when the late Mr Thorne had brought him
home one day to dinner and to discuss some monetary scheme.  That
thought had been to make Hazel Thorne his wife, and he had nursed it in
silence till it grew into a great plant which overshadowed his life.

He had seen Hazel light and merry, and had been a witness, at the little
evenings at the house in Kensington, of the attentions to her paid by
Archibald Graves.  He knew, too, that they pleased Hazel; and as he saw
her brightened eyes and the smiles she bestowed, the hard, cold City man
bit his lips and felt sting after sting in his heart.

"Boy-and-girl love," he muttered though, when he was alone.  "It will
not last, and I can wait."

So Edward Geringer waited, and in his visits he was in Hazel's eyes only
her father's friend, to whom she was bright and merry, taking his
presents of fruit and flowers, concert tickets, and even of a ring and
locket, just as one of her little sisters might have taken a book or
toy.  "Oh, _thank_ you, Mr Geringer; it was so good of you!"  That was
all; and the cold calm, calculating man said to himself: "She's very
young--a mere child yet; and I can wait."

And now he had come, as soon as he felt it prudent after the funeral, to
find that he had waited and that Hazel Thorne was no longer a child; and
as he saw her in her plain, close-fitting mourning, and the sweet pale
face full of care and trouble, he rose to meet her, took both her hands
in his, and kissed them with a reverence that won her admiration and
respect.  "My dear Hazel," he said softly.

She did not think it strange, but suffered him to lead her to a chair
and saw him take one before her.  He was her father's old friend, and
she was ready to look up to him for help and guidance in her present
strait.

For some minutes they sat in silence, for she could not trust herself to
speak, and Geringer waited till she should be more composed.

At last he spoke.

"Hazel, my dear child," he said.

"My dear child!"  What could have been kinder and better!  It won her
confidence at once.  Her father's old friend would help and counsel her,
for she needed the help much; and Archibald had seemed since those
terrible days to be thoughtless and selfish instead of helpful.

"I have come to talk to you, Hazel, on very grave matters," Geringer
went on; and she bowed her head for him to continue.  "I have to say
things to you that ought by rights to be spoken to your mother; but I
find here that in future you will be the head of this household, and
that mother, brother, sisters will turn to you."

"Poor mamma! she is broken-hearted," sighed Hazel.  "I shall try to do
my best, Mr Geringer."

"I know you will, Hazel, come what may."

"Yes, come what may," she replied, with another sigh.

"Shall I leave what I have to say for a few weeks, and then talk it
over?  I can wait."

"I would rather hear it now," replied Hazel.  "No trouble could be
greater than that we have had to bear, and I see you have bad news for
us, Mr Geringer."

"I regret to say I have--very bad news."

"Tell me," said Hazel sadly, as she gazed in her visitor's face.

"It is about the future, my dear child," he said slowly; and he watched
the effect of his words.  "You and your brother and sisters have been
brought up here quite in luxury."

"Papa was always most indulgent and kind."

"Always," assented Geringer.  "There, I will not hesitate--I will not go
roundabout to tell you.  I only ask you, my dear Hazel, to try and bear
with fortitude the terrible news I have to inflict upon you, and to beg
that you will not associate it in future with me."

"I shall always think of you as my father's most trusted friend.  But
pray, pray tell me now, and--and--I will try to bear it as I should."

She was choked now by her sobs, and as Geringer tenderly took one of her
hands, she let him retain it while he spoke.

"My dear Hazel," he said, "your late father always passed for a wealthy
man, but I grieve to say that of late he had embarked in some most
unfortunate speculations."

"Poor papa!"

"They were so bad that at last all depended upon one change in the
market--a change that did not take place till after his death."

Hazel sobbed.

"If he had lived two days longer he would have known that he was a
ruined man."

Hazel's tears ceased to flow, and Geringer went on:--

"I grieve, then, to tell you, my dear child, that instead of leaving his
family in a tolerably independent state, my poor friend has left you all
penniless."

"Penniless?"

"Yes.  Worse; for this house and its furniture must go to defray the
debts he has left behind.  It is terrible--terrible indeed."

"Terrible?"

"Yes, dreadful," he said, gazing in her face.

"Is that all?"

"All?  All, my child?  What do you mean?"

"Is that the terrible trouble you said that you had to communicate."

"Yes, my dear child," he exclaimed; "it is dreadful news."

"But it is only money matters," said Hazel innocently; and her face lit
up with a pleasant smile.  "I thought it was some dreadful trouble--some
fresh misfortune."  And as she sat looking him full in the eyes, her
quick imagination carried her on to the time when Archibald would ask
her to be his wife.  His father was rich, and they would have a nice,
bright little home somewhere, and mamma and the little girls would live
with them.  Percy would come home during his holidays, and they would be
as happy as the day was long.  Certainly, she did shrink a little at the
thought of mamma and Archibald; but then she knew he would be as
self-denying as herself, and he would do anything for her sake, of
course.

She was brought back to the present by her visitor.

"You do not think this so great a trouble, then!" he said.

"Oh, no!" cried Hazel.  "It only means going to a humbler house: and of
course Percy and I will set to work to make mamma happy and
comfortable."

"Of course," said the visitor dryly.

"And Percy is growing into a man, and he must take an office and do
something in the City; and I must do something too, Mr Geringer--teach
music or painting.  You will help me, will you not!"

"In any way.  In every way I will devote myself to your service.  You
will allow me?"

"Indeed I will," she said, placing both her hands in his.  "Papa always
said you were one of his best friends, and to whom could I look better
than to you."

"Trust me, Hazel, and you shall never repent it," he cried warmly--so
warmly that he saw a half-alarmed look in the young girl's face; but he
succeeded in chasing it away by his after-display of tender regret and
reverence; and left her comparatively happy and at rest.



CHAPTER FOUR.

A PROPOSAL.

All looked so easy and bright in the future that it seemed harsh on the
part of Fate to crush out hope after hope.  All appeared so promising
when Hazel had discussed her position with Mr Geringer, and then during
the next few months bit by bit the morsels of blue sky were blotted out
of her horizon, till all above her seemed cold grey cloud, and her life
a blank.

First then was her mother's health to battle for, and to comfort her
when they had to move to furnished lodgings and manage without a
servant.

"Yes, it will be better," said Edward Geringer to himself with a smile.
"Let it work."

He had thought the matter out thoroughly--for the family, save for a
little consideration displayed by the creditors, were absolutely
penniless; and he let them go into lodgings, and waited to be asked for
help.

The first appeal to him was about Percy, the son; and he responded
willingly, advising sensibly and well that the lad should go into some
City office and fight his way in the world.

Hazel sighed, for she had hoped for more schooling and then a career at
college, in spite of her talk of her brother's working.  So Percy went
into the office of Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, the sugar-brokers, and
came home grumbling every night.

It was hard to bear, for it upset poor weak Mrs Thorne, who sympathised
with her son, and talked of the degradation, and sighed and petted him,
calling him her noble boy, inveighing against Fate, and making the lad
ten times as discontented with his position as he had been before, and
so increased the load on Hazel's shoulders just at a time when she was
nearly broken-hearted.

For it was unmistakable: Archibald Graves, the true, the sterling, the
handsome, the best of men, had been yielding to home-pressure.  Old
Graves said it was preposterous.  The girl was right enough, but he was
not going to see his son throw himself away and set up a home with a
penniless girl so as to keep her mother and family as well.

Archibald Graves was indignant at first, then he thought it over.  Hazel
was the nicest and dearest of girls, but certainly Mrs Thorne only
wanted a vowel left out of her name for it to describe her exactly.  He
did not like Percy either, whom he thought "a spoiled young cub."  Then
there were more words with his father; introductions to friends of his
sisters, especially to one Miss Pettifer, who was reputed rich, and so
on, till Archibald Graves, in following his own likings, set it all down
to his father's stern orders.

He told himself that he was only doing his duty in ceasing his visits to
the Thornes, and after nearly breaking her heart, pride came to Hazel
Thorne's help, and she grew pale and sterner of face as the weeks
passed, and no Archibald, while Edward Geringer came regularly, called
her his dear child, and went away smiling and praising himself for his
self-restraint.

It is needless to go on describing Hazel Thorne's troubles during these
months, when, in addition to the suffering produced by the falling away
of one to whom she had looked for help, there was the attendance on the
querulous, sick, thoughtless mother, always complaining of her fate and
the fact that a lady should be brought down to such a life.  There was
Percy to combat when he talked of throwing up his situation,
"appointment" he called it--the children--the little sisters--to teach,
and, above all, the battle to fight of finding money, and lowering her
pride to accept help from relatives who gave grudgingly when unwillingly
appealed to.

Mr Geringer had thoughtfully placed money in her hands twice.

"The result of a little speculation in which I was engaged with poor
Thorne, my dear child," he said; but that failed fast, and as Hazel
toiled on at her task of giving lessons to three or four pupils she had
got together, she looked blankly forward at the future, and wondered
what they all would do.

It was nearly six months since her father's death, and she could not
conceal the fact from herself that they were rapidly going down-hill.
Instead of Percy being a help, he was an expense; and everything
depended upon her.  Under the circumstances, the only prospect open to
her was to start a school; but while the grass was growing the steed was
starving, and she used to look with envy at the smart well-dressed
mistress of the national school hard by, with her troop of girls who
came pouring out at noon; and at last came like an inspiration the
idea--why should not she get a post as mistress?

To think was to act, and she boldly called on the mistress, who sent her
away terribly dejected, with the information that at least a year's
training in the system, however well educated the would-be teacher might
be, was absolutely necessary.  Hazel, however, obtained a good deal of
information as well, ready to ponder over--how she might either go to
Whitelands or to Smith Square, Westminster; what would be the cost; the
probabilities of her obtaining a school afterwards; the salary;
etcetera, etcetera.

She went back in despair, for how could the money be obtained to pay her
expenses and keep house as well, while the idea of obtaining a school at
the end of a year's training, with a certain salary and a comfortable
home, seemed so Eden-like a prospect that the difficulties to be
surmounted appeared to grow.

Like all other difficulties, however, they began to shrink when boldly
attacked.  Hazel wrote to two or three relatives, as a forlorn hope, and
they who had before only doled out a few pounds unwillingly, jumped at
the chance of getting the indigent applicant off their hands, and after
a consultation, wrote to her saying they were so pleased with her
efforts at self-help, that amongst them they would subscribe the funds
for paying her fees, at the training institution and for maintaining
Mrs Thorne and the children for a year, or such time as Hazel should
get a school.

"Oh, mamma, mamma, sunshine at last," cried the girl, and trembling,
weeping, and laughing hysterically, in turn, so great was her joy, she
read the letter, which came upon Mrs Thorne as a surprise, her child
having kept her quite in ignorance of the plans to prevent
disappointment.

"Then, I think it very disgraceful, very disgraceful indeed, Hazel,"
said the poor woman indignantly.  "They ought to be ashamed of
themselves."

"Ashamed, dear mother!"

"Now, don't you turn against me in my troubles, Hazel," cried Mrs
Thorne.  "What have I done that my own child should begin to degrade
me?"

"Degrade you?  Oh, my own dear mother!"

"There--there again!  I don't care how low we are forced by the cruelty
of my relatives, and your poor dear papa's.  I will never forget that I
am a lady."

"Surely not, dear," said Hazel soothingly.

"Then why will you persist in calling me by that low, common, degrading
term--Mother?"

"Dear mamma, I thought it better under the circumstances."

"No circumstances could excuse it, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne with
dignity.  "Percy never speaks to me like that; and by-the-way, my dear,
Percy says he must have a new suit: his mourning is getting so shabby,
he is quite ashamed of it, and I'm sure my heart bleeds every time I see
the poor boy go out."

"Yes, mamma, we will see what can be done," said Hazel, suppressing a
sigh.

"And as to that national school business," continued Mrs Thorne, "it is
disgraceful.  Write and tell cousin Jane and her husband that, however
low we may be reduced by poverty, my daughter will never forget that she
is a lady."

"But, mamma dear," said Hazel gently; "it was entirely my idea, and I
wrote for their help."

"You--you, Hazel--my child--propose to go to a common training school,
and then accept a situation to teach a pack of dirty poor people's
children?  Oh, what have I done--what have I done to be called upon to
suffer this new--this pitiful degradation!  What have I done?"

It was hard work, but by degrees poor Mrs Thorne was brought round to
think that perhaps--perhaps--she would go no farther--it might be less
degradation to accept an honourable post and do a great duty therein of
helping to make so many girls better women by careful training, than to
live in indigence as a kind of respectable pauper, subsisting on the
assistance of grudging friends.

So the poor, weak, proud woman at last gave way, and the preliminaries
being arranged, Hazel was about to leave home for the training
institution full of hope, when there was a change in the state of
affairs.

All this had taken place unknown to Mr Geringer, who was quite startled
when he heard the plans, for they ran counter to his own.

It had been quite in keeping with his ideas that the Thornes should
taste the bitters of poverty, and know what being impecunious really
meant.  The poorer they were the easier would be his task.  Matters had
gone on swimmingly.  Their position had had its effect upon the
Graves's, and his rival, as he called Archibald Graves, had left the
field; six months had passed, and Hazel had grown to look upon him as a
very dear friend, though not as a lover, and he had come to the
conclusion that the time was now ripe for asking her to be his wife; in
fact, he had had thoughts of speaking at their last meeting, but had
been put off!  Now he had come to find Mrs Thorne alone, and after a
certain amount of preliminary, was about to speak, when the lady fired
off her views and took him by surprise.

"Go--to a training institution--become a schoolmistress!" he cried.  "My
dear Mrs Thorne, it is impossible."

"Exactly my words," said the lady.  "`Hazel, my dear child,' I said,
`such a degradation is impossible.'"

"Quite impossible," said Geringer; and then he drew nearer and talked
for some time in a low voice to Mrs Thorne, who shed tears and sobbed
greatly, and said that she had always looked upon him as their best and
dearest friend.

"I have waited, you see," he continued, "for of course if I had felt
that dear Hazel really cared for this young Graves I should have said
nothing, and I fully know my deficiencies, my age, and such drawbacks;
but I am tolerably wealthy, and I can give her all she has lost, restore
her nearest and dearest to their proper place in society--almost to the
position they formerly held in the world's esteem."

Mrs Thorne thought they were words of gold, and at Geringer's request
she not only readily promised to prepare Hazel, but that all should be
as he wished.

_L'homme propose_, as the French proverb has it and things do not always
turn out as he wishes.  Mr Geringer, after the preparation Hazel
received from Mrs Thorne, proposed and was refused.  Hazel said it was
impossible, and such was her obstinacy, as Mrs Thorne called it, she
refused to become a rich man's wife, and insisted upon going to the
Whitelands training institution, condemning her unfortunate mother to a
life of poverty and degradation, her brother to toil, and blasting her
young sisters' prospects, when she might have married, had her carriage,
and all would have gone as merry as a marriage bell.

That was Mrs Thorne's view of the case, and she kept up her protests
with tears and repining, winning Percy to her side till he was always
ready to reproach his sister.  Hazel bore all, worked with all the
energy in her nature for the year of training, was fortunate in getting
a school after a few months' waiting, and was, as we found her, duly
installed in the little schoolhouse, her brother being boarded with some
humble friends in town.



CHAPTER FIVE.

DISTURBING INFLUENCES.

Hazel Thorne felt giddy as she took her seat in the front of the
gallery, the seat with a little square patchy cushion close to the red
curtains in front of the organist's pew.  Beside and behind her the
school children sat in rows, with ample room for three times the number;
but the seats were never filled save upon the two Sundays before the
annual school feast when somehow the Wesleyan and Congregational
Sunday-schools were almost empty, and the church school thronged.

It was precisely the same on Mr Chute's side of the organ, with his
boys beside and behind, and so situated that he could lean a little
forward and get a glimpse of Hazel's profile, and also so that he could
leave his seat, go round by the back of the organ, and give the new
mistress the hymn-book, and the music used, with all the hymns, chants,
and tunes carefully turned down.

It was a pleasant little attention to a stranger, and Hazel turned and
thanked him with a smile that was not at all necessary, as Miss Rebecca
who played the organ, and saw this through an opening in the red
curtains, afterwards said to her brother the Reverend Henry Lambent,
while at the time she said:--

"Sh! sh!"  For Ann Straggalls was fighting down a desire to laugh,
consequent upon Feelier Potts whining sharply:--

"Oh, Goody, me!"

"Like her impudence," Mr Chute said to himself, in allusion to Miss
Rebecca's interference with the duties of the new mistress.  "She'd
better not try it on with my boys," and he went back to think of Hazel
Thorne's sweet sad smile.

And all the time the object of his thoughts felt giddy.

Archibald Graves down there, when she had believed that he had forgotten
her; and the more she thought, the more agitated and indignant she grew.
At times she felt as if she must leave the church, for there, plainly
in view, sat the disturber of her peace, one whom she had put behind her
with the past; and when at last they stood up to sing the first hymn, to
her horror she found that it was the custom in the old country church
for the audience all to turn and face the organ, when Archibald Graves
stood gazing up at her, and, strive how she would, she could not help
once or twice meeting his eyes.

"It is cruel and unmanly," she thought, as she resumed her seat, feeling
half distracted by the flood of emotion that seemed to sweep away the
present.

Fortunately there was an audible "Sh! sh!" from behind the red curtains
just then; and this drew Hazel's attention to the fact that Feelier
Potts was, if not "tiddling," at all events making Ann Straggalls laugh,
just when, in a high-pitched drawl, the Reverend Henry Lambent was going
on with the service, as if he felt it a great act of condescension to
make appeals on behalf of such a lower order of beings as the
Plumtonites.  What time the round smooth face of Mr William Forth Burge
was looking over the edge of his pew, where he always knelt down
standing up as Feelier Potts said, and always smelt his hat inside when
he came into church.  And while this gentleman forgot all about the
prayers in his thoughtful meditation upon the face of one who he told
himself had the face of an angel, Mr Chute kept forgetting the litany,
and let the boys straggle in the responses, for he felt impelled to
glance round the front of the organ pew at the soft white forehead he
could just contrive to see.

"Those girls never behaved worse," said Miss Rebecca to herself.  "If
this is to be the way they are kept in order she will never do."

Miss Rebecca Lambent felt more sore than usual, for she was at heart
aggrieved that the new schoolmistress should be so good-looking and
ladylike--matters not at all in accordance with what was right for "a
young person in her station in life;" and, to make matters worse, Jem
Chubb, who blew the bellows, let the wind fail in the middle of the
second hymn.

It was fortunate, then, that the girls did behave so badly, and that
Feelier Potts would keep spreading out her hands, and saying, "Oh, Goody
me!" in imitation of the vicar's tones, for it took Hazel's attention,
and her task of keeping the girls quiet stayed her thoughts from
wandering away.

There was no avoiding the meeting, and when at last--the service being
over and the congregation going--the school children, evidently smelling
dinner, having rushed off in spite of all efforts to detain them--Hazel
slowly descended, it was to find Archibald Graves waiting at the foot of
the stairs, and he stepped in front of Mr Chute, who, as he was so near
a neighbour, aimed at walking with the new mistress home.

"Let us go off along the road here somewhere, Hazel," said Archibald
Graves abruptly, "I have come down on purpose to see you.  Never mind
these people; come along."

What should she do?  Miss Rebecca was staring--nay, glowering; the
Burges were coming up, and this terrible interview, which she would have
given worlds to avoid, was apparently inevitable: for, unlike some young
ladies she did not feel disposed to faint.  What then, should she do?

The knot was untied, for just then there was a rustle of silk, and Miss
Beatrice swept up over the chiselled slabs, to say, in a stern,
uncompromising voice--

"Miss Thorne, my brother, the vicar, wishes to speak with you in the
vestry."



CHAPTER SIX.

THE REVEREND HENRY LAMBENT.

"I beg your pardon," said Archibald Graves, rather abruptly; "I spoke to
Miss Thorne before church.  I think she is engaged to me."

The eyes of Beatrice Lambent opened with astonishment and she stared at
this daring young man, who had the presumption to talk of interposing
between the new schoolmistress and the head of the parish.  She was
evidently about to speak, for her lips moved, but no words came.

It was Hazel who put an end to the unpleasant dilemma.

"I will come at once.  Miss Lambent, if you please," she said
respectfully.

"Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please," said the lady haughtily; "Miss
Lambent is now descending from the organ-loft."

"I beg your pardon," exclaimed Hazel.  Then, glancing with quiet dignity
at the intruder and back to Miss Beatrice: "Mr Graves was a friend of
our family a year or two back.  Mr Graves, my mother is at the
schoolhouse; if you wish to see me, I must ask you to call there."

She followed Miss Beatrice up between the rows of pews that lady seeming
to take her into moral custody; while, seeing himself the aim of several
pairs of eyes, including those of Mr Chute, Mr William Forth Burge,
Miss Burge, and above all, those of Miss Lambent, which literally
flashed at him, Archibald Graves nodded shortly, turned upon his heel,
and tried to march carelessly out of church; but his easy motions were
terribly full of restraint.

"I was not aware that Miss Thorne would be so soon having friends," said
Miss Lambent; but her remark elicited no reply, for Mr William Forth
Burge and his sister both felt troubled, the schoolmaster angry, and all
too much preoccupied with the appearance of Hazel Thorne as she passed
into the chancel, and through a bar of brilliant colour cast by the sun
from the new stained-glass window, which had been placed in the south
end of the chancel in memory of the late vicar, the effect being very
strange, seeming to etherealise Hazel; though for the matter of that the
same effect would have been seen, had it been noticed, in connection
with Miss Beatrice, who had led the way, drawing aside the curtain that
hung in front of the vestry door, and tapping softly with her knuckles.

"Come in!"

Very simple words, but they set Hazel's heart beating, as, in a whisper
full of awe, but at the same time very distant and cold, Miss Beatrice
said:

"You may go in now."

As she spoke she drew back, holding the curtain for Hazel to pass; and
trying to master her emotion, the latter raised the latch and entered
the vestry.

The vicar was standing with his hat in hand, gazing out of the little
window at the cheerful prospect of a piece of blank old stone wall,
surmounted by a large waterspout, and though he must have heard the door
open and close, he did not turn, but stood there as stiff and
uncompromising of aspect as his sisters.

He had seen Hazel Thorne twice before, but in a gloomy room in London;
and being of rather a preoccupied turn of mind, he had paid so little
heed to her personal appearance that he would hardly have recognised her
again.  A new mistress had been required, and the customary
correspondence had taken place; he had called at the institution, asked
a few questions, and there was an end of the matter, the strong
recommendations of the lady-principal being sufficient for the
engagement to be decided on.

Hazel stood waiting for him to turn round, but the Reverend Henry
Lambent remained gazing at the water-pipe for some few moments before
coughing slightly to clear his throat.  Then, in a voice full of haughty
condescension, he began:

"I am glad to find that you arrived punctually.  Miss Thorne, in
accordance with the arrangements that were made; and I take this
opportunity of saying a few words to you at this commencement of your
career in Plumton."

Here he stopped, and faced slowly round, allowing his half-closed eyes
to rest indifferently upon the new mistress, who was standing facing the
window, and upon whose rather pale care-worn face the light fell
strongly as he turned.

Very plainly dressed in her well-fitting mourning, Hazel Thorne was one
who could have claimed a second look from the sternest of mortals.

It was not that she was surpassing beautiful, and could boast of
finely-chiselled nostrils, Juno-like brow, or any of the wonderfully
entrancing features with which some novelists endow their heroines;
Hazel was simply a sweet-faced, thoroughly English girl, but there was
an expression in her eyes, a touching look so full of appeal that it
even affected the cold, unimpassioned vicar, who remained silent for
some moments as if wondering, and then hastily said:

"I beg your pardon.  Miss Thorne, will you sit down!"

He placed a chair for her, and drew another forward from where it was
half hidden behind the folds of the surplice but lately hung upon its
proper peg, and, astonished at himself waited till Hazel had seated
herself before following suit.

"That young man" seemed to have vanished from his thoughts, and the
lecture he had intended to read the young schoolmistress upon the bad
appearance of such meetings as those which had taken place that morning
dropped from his memory, and his lips formed words that surprised him as
much as his acts.

"I trust that you have found everything correct at--at the schoolhouse,
Miss Thorne?"

"Quite, I thank you," replied Hazel, with quiet dignity, and she
entirely forgot that she was addressing her superior, and left out the
"sir."

"Of course everything is very strange and new to you at first; but er--
er, you will soon feel quite at home with us, I hope."

"Indeed, I hope so," said Hazel earnestly.  "The time has been so short
as yet."

"Yes--of course--so very short," replied the vicar.  "My sisters will
call to-morrow, I have no doubt and see Mrs Thorne.  I shall be down at
the school in the afternoon.  You saw Miss Burge, of course, this
morning?"

"Oh yes.  Miss Burge walked up to church with me."

"And Mr William Forth Burge too, if I mistake not.  Most admirable
people, Miss Thorne.  Great patrons of our schools.  I trust that you
will--er--er--try to--er--that is, endeavour to meet them in little
matters, connected with the management of the children."

"You may rely upon my trying to thoroughly fulfil my duties, Mr
Lambent," said Hazel quietly.

"Of course--to be sure, Miss Thorne, no doubt," he said hastily; and as
he spoke he wondered at himself more and more; "but I must not detain
you, Miss Thorne.  Er--allow me one moment, the curtain is rather
awkward to one unaccustomed to the place."

And, to the astonishment--the utter astonishment--of his sisters, who
were standing as stiffly in the chancel as if they were a couple of
monumental effigies, the Reverend Henry Lambent opened the door, passed
out first, and then stood holding the curtain aside for Hazel to pass,
which she did, bowing gravely and with quiet dignity to the two ladies
before gliding along the nave and out of the door.

Neither of the sisters spoke, but stood, like the vicar, watching the
new mistress leave the church.

At last Miss Beatrice turned.

"What excuse did she make, Henry?" she said.

"I--er--I beg your pardon, Beatrice?"

"I say, what excuse did she make?  Really, her conduct is very,
strange."

"Excuse?  Oh, of course, about her visitor," said the vicar absently.
"I er--I--on second consideration thought it would be better to ignore
the matter.  Perhaps she was not to blame."

"Henry!"

"Beatrice, my dear," said the vicar quietly, "I always abstain from
having refreshments in the vestry, but the morning service is long and I
feel faint.  Let us go home to lunch."

Miss Beatrice had the first rule over the vicarage, her elder sister the
second rule, and generally speaking, the vicar let them have matters
entirely their own way; still, there were times when he took the reins
in his own hands, and then it was dangerous to interfere.

This was one of the times when the vicar showed that he had a will of
his own, and consequently the sisters exchanged glances and said no
more.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

"WHAT DID I SEE IN THIS BOY?"

Hazel was not destined to reach home without adventure, for before she
had gone far she could see Mr Chute walking along very slowly, right at
the bottom of the street, and evidently hoping that she would overtake
him.  But this was not the cause of the palpitation from which Hazel
suffered, for, about halfway between the church and the schools, she saw
Archibald Graves coming to meet her, walking very fast; and she had to
prepare herself for the encounter that was now inevitable.

"At last!" he cried, eagerly, as he came up.  "My dear Hazel, I thought
I was never to see you."

She took no notice of the proffered hand, but walked quietly on.

"Won't you take my arm, Hazel?" he exclaimed.  "Oh, don't be so hard on
a fellow.  What have I done?"

Hazel turned her large earnest eyes upon him, and seemed to look him
through and through, as, instead of answering his question, she put one
to herself.

"What did I see in Archibald Graves, this thoughtless boy, who can come
and ask me such a question after the agony I have suffered?  What did I
see in this boy to make me think I loved him with all my heart?"

Poor Hazel!  It did not occur to her that a short two years since she
was a light-hearted girl; and that since then she had grown into a deep,
earnest woman, who had been baptised by sorrow, and who could only share
the riches of her love with one who was all that was manly and true, and
to whom she could look up with respect, even with reverence; whereas
now, with his petulant boyish, injured air, Archibald Graves only filled
her with something akin to disgust.

"I say, you know, Hazel," he went on, "don't be so hard on a fellow.
The governor was dead against my keeping it up, you know, and he wanted
me to give him my word not to see you any more; but at last I thought I
must see you again, so I found out all about what you were doing, and
where you were, and followed you down here; and 'pon my soul, when I saw
you leading that string of scrubs of school children to church, I did
not know whether to laugh or cry."

"Then Mr Graves is not aware of your visit down here, Archibald?" said
Hazel quietly.

"By Jove, no! he would be in a wax if he knew."

"Then why did you come?"

"Why did I come?  Oh, I say Hazel," he cried reproachfully, "I didn't
think you could be so hard upon me.  You don't know how I've been upset
all about it.  'Pon my word, there were times when I felt almost ill."

"Has he altered?"  Hazel's heart cried out within her, "or have I become
worldly and cold, and, as he says, hard?"

"I say, you know, Hazel, you must give up all this wretched business.  I
shall tell the governor that I mean to keep to our old engagement, and
he'll come round some day; but you must give up the school teaching, as
he'd never stand that, for he's as proud as Lucifer.  Come, I say, it's
all right again, isn't it?"

"What did I see in this boy?" thought Hazel, as the indignant blood
flushed into her cheeks, and then flowed back painfully to her heart.
"Was he always as weak and thoughtless as this?"

"Oh, I say, mother, look here," cried a shrill voice as they were
passing an open cottage door; "that's new teacher, and that's her young
man."

"There, you hear," whispered Hazel's companion, laughing; "it was
vulgarly put, but very true."

"Archibald Graves," said Hazel quietly, "have you not the common-sense
to see that your visit here is putting me in a false position?"

"I know you are in a false position here," he retorted angrily.  "Who's
that fellow, and why does he take off his hat to you, and glare at me?"

"That is Mr Chute, the master of the boys' school, and my
fellow-teacher.  This is my house, and I cannot ask you to come in.  Do
you wish me to think with a little less pain of our old
acquaintanceship?"

"_Our_ old love, you mean," he cried.

"Our old acquaintanceship, Archibald Graves," she replied firmly.  "Love
is too holy a word to be spoken of in connection with our past."

"I--I don't understand you," he cried.

"You will when you have grown older and more thoughtful," she replied.
"Now good-bye."

"Thoughtful?  Older?" he blurted out.  "I am old enough and thoughtful
enough to know what I mean, and I won't part like this."

"Your presence here is liable to be seriously misconstrued," said Hazel;
"do you wish to do me a serious injury in the eyes of those with whom it
is of vital importance that I should stand well?"

"Why, of course not.  How can you ask me?"

"Then say `good-bye' at once, and leave this place."

"But I tell you I have come down on purpose to--"

"All that is dead," she said, in a tone that startled him.

"Then you never loved me!" he cried angrily.

"Heaven knows how well!" she said softly.  "But you killed that love,
Archibald Graves, and it can never be revived."

She had held out her hand in token of farewell, but he had not taken it;
now she let it fall, and before he could frame a fresh appeal she had
turned, entered the little house, and the door closed behind her.

Archibald Graves remained standing gazing blankly at the closed door for
a few moments, till he heard the click of a latch, and, turning sharply,
he saw that the schoolmaster was leisurely walking his garden some fifty
yards away.  He was not watching the visitor--nothing of the kind; but
the flowers in the little bed required looking to, and he remained there
picking off withered leaves with his new gloves, and making himself very
busy, in spite of a reminder from his mother that dinner was getting
cold; and it was not until he had seen the stranger stride away that he
entered his own place and sat thoughtfully down.

"If she thinks I am going to be thrown over like this," said Archibald
Graves to himself, "she is mistaken.  She shall give way, and she shall
leave this wretched place, or I'll know the reason why.  I wonder who
that round-faced fellow was, and where I can get something to eat?  By
Jove, though, how she has altered! she quite touches a fellow like.
Here, boy, where's the principal inn?"

"Say?"

"Where's the principal inn?" cried the visitor again, as the boy
addressed stared at him wonderingly, his London speech being somewhat
incomprehensible to juveniles at Plumton All Saints.

"Dunno."

"Where can I get something to eat, then?" said the visitor, feeling half
amused, his difficulty with Hazel passing rapidly away.

"Somut to ee-yut.  Why don't yer go ho-um?"

"Hang the boy!  Oh, here's the round-faced chap.  I beg your pardon, can
you direct me to the best hotel?"

"Straight past the church, sir, and round into the market-place."

"Thanks; I can get some lunch or dinner there, I suppose?"

"Ye-es," said Mr William Forth Burge.  "I should think so."

"I came down from town by the mail last night, and walked over from
Burtwick this morning.  Strange in the place, you see."

"May I offer you a bit of dinner, sir?  I know London well, though I'm a
native here, and as a friend of our new schoolmistress--"

"Oh, I should hardly like to intrude," cried the young man
apologetically.

"Pray come," said the ex-butcher eagerly, for he longed to get the young
man under his roof.  He did not know why: in fact he felt almost hurt at
his coming there that morning; and again, he did not know why, but he
knew one thing, and that was that he would have given ten pounds that
moment to know why Archibald Graves had come down that day, and what he
said to Miss Thorne, and--yes, he would have given twenty pounds to know
what Hazel Thorne said to him.

The result was, that he carried off the stranger to his handsome house,
just outside the town, and soon after Archibald Graves was making
himself quite at home, drinking the school-patron's sherry, smoking his
cigars, and getting moment by moment more fluent of tongue, and ready to
lay bare the secrets of his heart, if secrets the facts could be called
that he was prepared to make known to any one who would talk.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Has he gone, Bill?" said Miss Burge, entering the drawing-room about
eight o'clock that evening, and finding her brother standing before a
glass and sprinkling himself with scent.

"Yes, he went a good hour ago."  And the speaker looked very solemn, and
uttered a deep sigh.

"I wouldn't disturb you, dear, at church time, as you had company; but,
Bill dear--oh, how nice you smell!" and she rested her hands on his
shoulders and reached up to kiss him.

"Do I, Betsey?"

"Lovely, dear; but do tell me what he said about Miss Thorne."

Her brother's forehead seemed to have gone suddenly into the corrugated
iron business, as he turned his eyes upon his sister.

"He said--he said--"

"Yes, dear; please go on."

"He said he had been engaged to her for two or three years, and that as
soon as his father left off cutting up rough--"

"Cutting up rough, Bill?  Did he say cutting up rough?"

"Yes, Betsey.  I never cut up rough in my business, never.  I always
made a point of having the best Sheffield knives and steels, and my
steaks and chops and joints was always pictures."

"Yes, dear; but tell me: Miss Thorne is engaged to be married to this
gentleman?"

"I suppose so," said Mr William Forth Burge drearily.  "It was always
so, Betsey.  I could get on in trade, and I could save money, and I
always dressed well, and I defy the world to say I wasn't always clean
shaved; but I never did see a young lady that I thought was nice, but
somebody else had seen her before and thought the same."

"Oh, but we never know what might happen, Bill."

"What's the good of being rich?  What's the good of having a fine house?
What's the good of everything, if everything's always going to turn out
disappointment?  Betsey," he continued fiercely, "that chap thinks of
nothing but hisself.  He's one of your cigar-smoking, glass-o'-sherry
chaps, and he ain't got a good 'art.  Why, if you'd got a young man,
Betsey, and he come and sit down here and talked about you as that chap
did about our young schoolmistress, I'd ha' punched his head!"

Miss Burge pressed her brother softly back into a chair, and patted his
face, and smoothed his hair, and kissed him first on one cheek and then
upon the other.

"You're tired, Bill dear," she said, "and didn't get your nap after
dinner.  Where's your handkerchief?  Here, let me do it dear;" and
taking her brother's flaming handkerchief from his pocket, she softly
opened it over his head and face as if she were about to perform a
conjuring trick and bring out bowls of gold fish or something of the
kind from beneath, but she did not: she merely left it on his head and
went away on tiptoe, saying to herself:

"Poor Bill! he has got it again, and badly, too."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

MR CHUTE'S VISIT.

It was a busy morning with Hazel Thorne as she took her place in the
large schoolroom, feeling that her responsibilities had now commenced in
earnest.  For there were no ladies to take classes now, the assistance
coming from a pupil-teacher and four or five girls as monitors, against
one and all of whom Feelier Potts entertained a deadly hatred, for the
simple reason that she had been passed over, and they had all been
chosen in her stead.

The discipline of the school had been fairly maintained, but Hazel was
not long in finding out that there were plenty of young revolutionary
spirits waiting their opportunity to test the strength of the new
mistress, nor in seeing that Miss Feelier Potts would be one of the
leaders in any small insurrectionary movement that might take place.

There was plenty to do that first morning--to feel the way, as it were;
to find out what had been going on; how it was done; what the girls
knew, and the hundred other little difficulties that a strange mistress
would have to deal with on taking possession of a new post.

Monday morning too, and there were the school pence to be paid--hot,
moist, sticky pennies, that had been carried generally in hot, moist,
sticky hands.  These had to be received and noted, and the excuses
listened to as well.

"Mother hadn't got no change's morning, teacher"--"Pay next week,
teacher"--"Mother says, teacher, as there's four on us, she oughtn't to
pay more'n thruppens"--"Mother 'll call and pay when she comes by."
Then there was Sarah Ann Simms' case.  Sarah Ann had not brought her
penny, and the book showed that she had not brought it the week before,
nor the month before; in fact, it seemed as if Sarah Ann was in debt for
her schooling from the time she had commenced.

Upon Sarah Ann being questioned, she didn't know nothink, only that
mother--who appeared to be ready to set all school rules, regulations,
and laws at defiance--said she shouldn't pay.

Hazel Thorne was pondering upon this crux, when there was a tap at the
door, and Mr Samuel Chute entered, smiling to say "Good morning."

"I thought I'd just drop in, and see if there was anything I could do,"
he said, upon shaking hands, after which he wiped the hand he had used
upon his fair hair.  "It's very awkward coming first to a school," he
went on, "and if you'll only send for me, or ask for anything, you shall
have it directly.  I hope you've got plenty of chalk."

Hazel believed there was plenty, and promised to send and ask for
assistance if any was required, wishing heartily the while that her
visitor would go; but although it was evident through the thin partition
that the boys were enjoying themselves in their master's absence, Mr
Chute seemed in no hurry to depart.

"You'll have some trouble, I daresay," he continued, rubbing his hands
together, and looking contemplatively at Hazel.  "Some of the girls are
like their brothers in my school.  The young Potts' are a terrible
nuisance."

"I daresay I shall be able to manage them by degrees," replied Hazel--

"Are you sure you have plenty of chalk?"

"I think there is an abundance of school necessaries."

"Oh, no!  Oh dear, no!" said Mr Chute, with a pitying smile.  "You'll
find lots of things wanting.  They're very stingy over them; and if it
wasn't for old Burge, I don't know what we should do.  You are sure you
have plenty of chalk?"

"Please, teacher, there's a whole boxful in the cupboard," said Miss
Potts.

"Silence!  How dare you speak when you are not asked?" said Mr Chute
fiercely; and Miss Potts began to hurry away, terribly alarmed, back to
her place, but watched her opportunity to turn and squint horribly at
the visitor, to the great delight of the other girls--especially of Ann
Straggalls the fat, who, poor girl, seemed to suffer from an infirmity;
for no sooner did she see anything mirth-provoking than she exploded
loudly, no matter where she was, into a boisterous laugh--a laugh that
was a constant source of trouble to her; for which she had suffered
endless punishments, besides having been ordered three times out of
church by Miss Rebecca Lambent, who would rise spectrally above the red
curtains of the organ-loft, and stand pointing at the door till the
trembling girl had gone.

Ann Straggalls horrified Hazel upon this occasion by giving vent to one
of her explosions, and then turning purple as she tried to hide her
face.

"Ah, you'll have to punish her," said Mr Chute.  "Oh, by-the-way, Miss
Thorne--"

"If he would only go!" thought Hazel, for the girls were getting very
lively and boisterous, seeing their teacher's attention taken off, and
catching a little of the infection from beyond the partition shutters.

"I say, you'll have a deal of trouble over the school pence"--Mr Chute
was a prophet in this case, though he did not know it--"they'll try all
sorts of plans to get out of paying--a few of them will; but don't you
be imposed upon by their excuses.  It's only a penny a week, you know.
There's the Simms's never will pay, and they ought to be turned out of
the schools, for it isn't fair for some children to pay and some not, is
it?"

"Of course not," replied Hazel.  "Oh, why won't he go?  Surely he must
see that my time is wanted."

Just then the noise in the boys' school became furious, and Mr Chute
made an effort to let his rebellious subjects know that, though
invisible in body, he was present with them in spirit, by going on
tiptoe across the school and rapping on one of the sliding shutters
sharply with his knuckles.

The effect was magical, and he came back triumphant.

"That's how I serve them," he said, with a self-satisfied smirk.  "They
know I won't stand any nonsense; and, I say, Miss Thorne, if you hear me
using the cane, don't you take any notice, you know.  It's good for them
sometimes.  You'll have to use it yourself."

"I hope not," said Hazel quietly; and she glanced towards the door.

"Ah, but you will," he said, laughing, and in profound ignorance of the
fact that Feelier Potts was imitating his every action for the benefit
of her class, even to going across and pretending to tap at the
partition.

"I believe in kindness and firmness combined, Mr Chute."

"So do I," he said, as if lost in admiration.  "That's exactly what I
said to Lambent; and I say, Miss Thorne, just a friendly word, you know.
You back me up and I'll back you up; don't you stand any nonsense from
Lambent and those two.  They're always meddling and interfering."

"Those two?" said Hazel, thinking of Ophelia Potts and Ann Straggalls.

"Yes; Rebecca and Beatrice, Lambent's sisters, you know.  Rebel and
Tricks we call them down here.  They're as smooth as can be to your
face, and they go and make mischief to Lambent.  You must have your eyes
open, for they're always telling tales.  Beatrice is going to marry the
young squire at Ardley, at least she wants to, and Rebecca wants old
Burge, but he can't see it."

"You really must excuse me now, Mr Chute," said Hazel.  "I have so much
to do."

"Yes, so have I," he said pleasantly; but he did not stir.  "You are
sure you have plenty of chalk?"

"Oh yes, plenty."

"And slate-pencil?  I believe the little wretches eat the slate-pencil,
so much of it goes."

"I will send for some if I want it," said Hazel; "I must go now to those
classes."

"Yes, of course, but one minute.  My mother wants to be introduced to
your mother, as we are to be neighbours, you know, and if there's
anything household you want, mind you send for it."

"Yes, certainly, Mr Chute."--Oh, I wish he would go!

"May I bring my mother in to-night to see you?"

"Not to-night, please, Mr Chute; we are hardly settled yet."

"No, of course not.  Well, good-bye; I _must_ go now."

He held out his hand.

For some time past Miss Lambent and her sister had been waiting.  They
had entered the boys' school to leave a message, and for a while their
presence had acted as a brake upon the spirits of the young gentlemen;
but waves of noise soon began to rise and fall, growing louder as the
time went on.

"Master's in the girls' school," one of the boys had said.  "Should he
fetch him?"

"No, boy; go on with your lessons," said Miss Beatrice; and she
exchanged glances with her sister.  Then they settled themselves to
wait, standing like a pair of martyrs to circumstances, listening to the
increasing noise, and at last marching together out of the boys' school
and towards the girls'.

"Henry had better send for Mr Chute, and give him a good talking to,"
said Miss Lambent.

"I formed my own impressions yesterday," said Miss Beatrice.  "These
proceedings only endorse them.  She will never do for Plumton."

"Never!" said Miss Rebecca; and after an inquiring look, given and
taken, the sisters entered the girls' school, to find Miss Feelier Potts
standing up, gazing pensively at Ann Straggalls, as she held and pressed
her hand in perfect imitation of the action of Mr Samuel Chute, who was
taking a farewell of the new mistress as if he were going on a long
voyage--never to return.



CHAPTER NINE.

EXCITEMENT AT PLUMTON.

"I don't know what has come to Henry," said Miss Lambent.  "If I had
been in his place I should have immediately called a meeting of the
governors of the school, paid Miss Thorne, and let her seek for an
engagement elsewhere."

"I quite agree with you, Rebecca," replied Miss Beatrice.  "Henry is
behaving weakly and foolishly in all these matters.  But we cannot be
surprised.  He is so profound a thinker and so deeply immersed in his
studies that these little matters escape him."

"I think it unpardonable.  Here is a strange girl--for she is a mere
girl, and far too young, in my estimation--appointed to the school, and
just because she has rather a genteel appearance, everybody is paying
her deference.  Henry is really absurd.  He says that Miss Thorne is
quite a lady, and that allowances should be made.  No allowances are
made for me."

"Don't be angry, Rebecca."

"I am not angry, Beatrice.  I never am angry: but in a case like this I
feel bound to speak.  There is that absurd Miss Burge ready to praise
her to one's very face, and Mr William Forth Burge actually told me
yesterday, when I went up to him to talk about the preparations, that we
ought to congratulate ourselves upon having found so excellent a
mistress.  I haven't patience with him."

"Are the Canninges coming?" said Miss Beatrice, changing the
conversation; and as she spoke, standing in the vicarage drawing-room,
with her eyes half-closed, a faint flush came into her cheeks, and she
looked for the moment a very handsome, graceful woman.  A connoisseur
would have said that she was too thin, but granted that it showed
breeding and refinement while her dress was in perfect taste.

"Yes; Mrs Canninge told me yesterday that she should certainly drive
over, and that she would persuade George Canninge to come.  He ought not
to want any persuasion, Beatrice," and Rebecca accompanied her words
with a very meaning look.

"Nonsense, dear!  What attraction can a school-treat have to a gentleman
like George Canninge?"

"He might find pleasure in proceedings that are watched over by his
friends.  And now look here, Beatrice, I am never angry, I never
quarrel, and I never say cruel things, but I must say that I do not
think George Canninge is so attentive to you as he used to be."

"Hush, Rebecca," cried Beatrice; "how can you speak like that?  There is
no engagement between us."

"But there ought to be," said Miss Lambent tartly.  "Marriage is a
subject upon which I have never thought for myself."

"Rebecca!"

"Well, not directly," replied the lady.  "I may perhaps have given such
a matter a thought indirectly, but in your case I have thought about it
a great deal."

"Pray say no more, Rebecca."

"I must say more, Beatrice, for in a case like this, your welfare is at
stake, and for my part, I do not see how George Canninge could do better
than by making you mistress of Ardley."

"My dear Rebecca!"

"It would be rather stooping on our side, for the Canninges are little
better than traders; but Mrs Canninge is very nice, and I said to her,
yesterday--"

"Surely, Rebecca, you did not allude to--to--"

"George Canninge and yourself?  Indeed, I did, my dear.  Mrs Canninge
and I thoroughly understand one another, and I feel sure that nothing
would please her better than for George Canninge to propose to you."

Miss Beatrice sighed softly, and soon after the sisters went up to
dress.

For it was a festival day at Plumton All Saints, being that of the
annual school feast.

This school feast or treat was rather an ancient institution, and was
coeval with the schools, but it had altered very much in its proportions
since its earlier days, when the schoolmaster invested in a penny
memorandum-book, and went round to all the principal inhabitants for
subscriptions, which rarely exceeded a shilling, and had to be lectured
by each donor upon the best way of teaching the children under his
charge.  Those treats first consisted of a ride in one of the farmers'
waggons as far as a field, where the children were regaled with very
thin milk and water, and slices of large loaves spotted with currants,
which slices were duly baptised in the milk and water, and called by the
children--"cake."

Then there was a great advance to a real tea in a barn, and again a more
generous affair through the generosity of one vicar, who had the
children all up to the vicarage, and after they had done no little
mischief to his flower-beds, sent them home loaded with fruity cakes,
and toys.

Then there was a decadence with a tendency towards thin milk and water
and country buns, followed by a tremendous rise when Mr William Forth
Burge came upon the scene; and the present was the second feast over
which he had been presiding genius.

In preparation for this festival, probably for reasons of his own, the
patron had gone about smiling a great deal, and rubbing his hands.  He
had obtained _carte blanche_ from the vicar to do as he pleased, and it
had pleased him to say to Miss Burge:

"Betsy, we'll do the thing 'andsome this time, and no mistake.  Money
shan't stand in the way, and I want Miss Thorne--and Mr Chute," he
added hastily, "to see that we know how to do things at Plumton."

The result was that for a whole week the children nearly ran mad, and
attention to object, or any other lessons, was a thing impossible to
secure; and once every day--sometimes twice--Mr Chute was obliged to go
into the girls' school and confide to Miss Thorne the fact that he
should be heartily glad when it was all over.

Hazel Thorne participated in his feelings, but she did not feel bound to
go to the boys' school to impart her troubles, having terrible work to
keep her scholars to their tasks.

For to a little place like Plumton the preparations were tremendously
exciting, and between school hours, and afterwards, the entrance to Mr
William Forth Burge's garden was besieged with anxious sightseers, the
wildest rumours getting abroad amongst the children, who were ready to
believe a great deal more than they saw, though they had ocular
demonstration that a large marquee was being erected, that ropes were
stretched between the trees for flags, that four large swings had been
made; and as for the contents of that marquee the most extravagant
rumours were afloat.

One thing was notable in spite of the inattention, and that was the fact
that the schools were wonderfully well filled by children, who came in
good time, and who duly paid their pence, many of the scholars having
been absentees for months, some since the last school-treat, but who
were coming "regular now, please, teacher."

The morning had arrived when, after receiving strict orders to be at the
schools punctually at eleven, fully half the expected number were at the
gates by nine, clamouring for admittance; and at last the noise grew so
loud that Mrs Thorne cast an appealing look at her daughter, and
sighed.

"Ah, Hazel," she murmured, "if you had only listened to poor Mr
Geringer, we should have been spared this degradation."

"Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel.  "Pray say no more.  Indeed I don't
mind, and the poor children seem so happy."

"But I mind it, Hazel," sighed Mrs Thorne.  "It is a degradation
indeed.  Of course you will not be expected to walk with the children as
far as those people's?"

"Oh, yes," said Hazel, trying to speak lightly.  "They are all going in
procession with flags and banners."

"Flags _and_ banners, Hazel?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a horrified
look.

"Yes, dear.  Mr Burge wants to give the children a great treat, and
there is to be a brass band that he has engaged on purpose.  I have just
had a note from Miss Burge.  She says her brother wished to keep it a
secret to the last."

"But not a regular brass band, Hazel?"

"Yes, dear.  It will be at the head of the procession, and the children
are to be marched all round the town."

"But not a brass band with a big drum, my dear?  Surely not.  Don't say
with a big drum?"

"Really, mother, dear, I don't know," replied Hazel, bending down and
kissing her.  "I suppose so."

"Thank Heaven, that my poor husband was spared all this!"

"Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel piteously.

"But you will not stoop to walk round the town with them, Hazel?  And
surely you are never going to put that ridiculous bunch of cowslips in
your dress?"

"Mother, dear," said Hazel quietly, "I am the mistress of the girls'
school, and it is my duty to walk with them.  I am going to wear the
bunch of spring flowers, for they were brought for me by the girls, who
will all wear a bunch like it.  Here is a bouquet, though, that Mr
Burge has sent for the mistress out of his greenhouse.  I suppose I must
carry that in my hand."

"Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!"

"Now, mother, dear mother, do not be so foolish," said Hazel.  "Why
should I be ashamed to walk with my girls?  Are we not living an
honourable and independent life, and is it not ten thousand times better
than eating the bread of charity?"

"Ah me! ah me!" sighed Mrs Thorne.

"Now, dear, you will dress and come up to the treaty and I will see that
you are comfortable."

"I come?  No, no, no!"

"Yes, dear, Mr Burge begs that you will.  Come, girls."

This was called up the stairs to her little sisters, who came running
down, dressed in white with blue sashes for the first time since their
father's death.

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne.

"They are coming with me, dear, each carrying a great bouquet."

"Never!  I forbid it!" cried the poor woman.

"It was Mr Burge's particular request," said Hazel gently; "and, mother
dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now."

"There, there, there," sobbed Mrs Thorne; "it's time I died and was
taken out of your way.  I'm only a nuisance and a burden to you."

"Mother!"

Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the
graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head
she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to
calm the weak woman.  Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began
to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again.

"I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear," she said at last.  "I'm
sure I do mine.  And now mind this.  Cissy--Mabel!"

"Yes, mamma!  Oh, sister Hazel, isn't it time to go?"

"I say you will mind this.  Cissy--Mabel, you are to--But must they walk
in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?"

"Why not, dear?  They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and
pleasant than this treat to the poor girls?  There, there, I know, for
my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports."

"Well, well," sighed Mrs Thorne.  "I'll try.  But mind me, Hazel," she
exclaimed sharply, "I'm not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs
Chute.  I am coming by myself."

"Yes, dear, I would," said Hazel.

"And mind this.  Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind
the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you
are young ladies.  Mind that."

"No, mamma!" in duet.

"And--Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I've
only got on my old cap.  I really cannot be seen; I--Good gracious _me_,
Hazel, don't let any one in."

Too late.  Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss
Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles.

"I thought I should never get through the children," she panted; "and
ain't it 'ot?  How well you do look, my dear!  Lavender muslin suits you
exactly.  And how are you, my bonny little ones?" she cried, kissing the
two girls.  "But there, I've no time to lose.  The band will be here
directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends
his compliments to you."

Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was
preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor's want
of recognition; but Mr Burge's compliments taught her that this patron
of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and
bowed.

"And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite
you himself, but--now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?"

She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if
expecting to read it there.

"Oh, I know--but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped
you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch
you at twelve."

"I'm sure--really--I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge--"

"Mr William Forth Burge," said Miss Burge correctively.

"To Mr William Forth Burge for his kindness, and of course I shall be
most happy."

Hazel's eyes had filled with tears at the quiet unassuming kindness of
these people, and she looked her gratitude at their visitor.

"My brother's in such spirits, my dear, and he's next door; and he said
at breakfast that he was proud to say he came to Plumton Schools himself
when he was a boy, and nobody should say he was too proud to march round
the town with them to-day."

"And--and is he going to walk in the procession.  Miss Burge?" asked
Mrs Thorne.

"That he is, ma'am," said the little lady.  "So I said to him at
breakfast, `well, Bill,' I said--you see I always call him `Bill,' Mrs
Thorne, though he has grown to be such a rich and great man.  It seems
more natural so--`well, Bill,' I said, `if with all your money and
position you're not too proud to walk with the boys, I won't be too
proud to walk with the girls.'"

"And--and are you going to walk with them, Miss Burge?" said Mrs
Thorne, with trembling eagerness.

"That I am, ma'am," cried Miss Burge, rustling her voluminous blue silk
dress, "and I've come down to ask Miss Thorne if she would allow me to
walk with her, and--Oh, my gracious!  How it did make me jump!"

The cause of Miss Burge's start was the preliminary _boom boom, boom_ of
Mrs Thorne's horror, the big drum, for the band had been marched up
silently to the front of the schools, and the next moment the place was
echoing with the brazen strains.



CHAPTER TEN.

MR CANNINGE ASSISTS.

Mr William Forth Burge was gorgeous in the newest of frock-coats and
the whitest of waistcoats, as he stood outside the schools watching the
marshalling of the little forces, and then, glossy hat in one hand,
orange handkerchief in the other, he gave the signal to start; and, with
the excellent brass band playing its loudest, and the children for the
most part bearing flowers or flags, the long procession started, to
march up the High Street, round the market-place, past the church, and
in and out of Bush Lane and Padley's Road, the boys cheering, the girls
firing off a shrill "hurrah" now and then; and whenever the band ceased,
either the boys or the girls were started in some simple school chorus,
such as poor George W. Martin or Hullah wrote, to be sung ere long
through the length and breadth of the land.

It was a simple affair, but well worth seeing, if only to watch the
faces of the mothers and fathers of the children, ready at their doors
to smile at "our Mary," or "little Jack," or "the bairns."

Mr William Forth Burge was perspiring everywhere--now in the front to
stimulate the band, now standing still on a doorstep, hat in one hand,
orange handkerchief in the other, till the whole procession, boys and
girls, had passed, with a word for every one in turn, and looking
thoroughly happy in the simplicity of his heart.

Mr Chute, on the contrary, was very dignified and stern, but ready to
raise his best hat to Hazel whenever he had a chance.

At last the vicarage was reached, a halt called, and the children gave a
hearty cheer, which brought out the vicar, now ready to join Mr William
Forth Burge and walk with the schools, the town being passed.

There needed no fugleman to bring forth cheers from the children as they
reached the gates of the garden, for here was a wonderful archway of
evergreens and flowers, the work of the two gardeners, and beneath this
they had hardly filed before numbers of the townspeople began to arrive.
Then there was a carriage or two, and, assisted by the vicar's sisters,
little Miss Burge had quite a reception on the green terrace in front of
the drawing-room, the wives and daughters of the neighbouring clergy,
who all wished they had a William Forth Burge in their own parishes,
arriving to do honour to the event.

The grounds were very pretty, and only separated by a light wire fence
from a large paddock, which, having been fed off by sheep, was as smooth
as a lawn; and here, for the hour before dinner, the children were
marched, and sang at intervals, the band taking its turn, playing
popular airs.

Miss Lambent and Miss Beatrice had noticed the new schoolmistress with a
couple of chilly bows, and then devoted themselves to the assistance of
"dear Miss Burge;" while the giver of the feast was busy in conference
with Mr Chute about certain sports that were afterwards to take place.

"I don't see the Canninges carriage yet Beatrice," said Miss Lambent, in
a whisper to her sister, as the ladies were strolling about the grounds
and admiring the flower-beds, the conservatory, and grape-houses in
turn.

"Do you think they will come?" whispered Beatrice, who looked rather
flushed; but certainly the day was hot.

"She said they would.  Dear me, how strange of Henry!"

The vicar had gone into the paddock, and, after raising his hat
politely, was standing talking to Hazel at intervals between saying a
few words to the boys and girls--words, by the way, which they did not
wish to hear, for every eye was turned as if by a magnet towards the
great tent, and the man and maidservants and assistants constantly going
to and fro.

"Here they are at last," exclaimed Miss Lambent.  "I told you so.  Now,
Beatrice, what do you say?"

"Nothing," replied her sister quietly.

"Then I say something.  George Canninge wouldn't have come here to a
children's school feast unless he had expected to meet some one
particular."

The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady,
with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid
pair of bays.  He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about
thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers--beards were an abomination
then--and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance,
and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his
grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and
dusted his glossy boots.

"How absurd, mother!  Thought I'd been walking," he said.  "Bravo,
Burge!  He's doing it well.  Hang it mother!  I like that fellow."

"It's a pity, dear, that he is so vulgar."

"Oh, I don't know.  He's frank and honesty and don't pretend to be
anything more that what he is--a successful tradesman.  Never saw a man
less of a snob.  Oh, there are the Lambents.  I say, who's the lady
talking to the parson?"

"I don't know, my dear," said Mrs Canninge, "unless it is the new
schoolmistress."

"Nonsense: can't be.  Oh, here's Burge!  How are you, Burge?  Glad
you've got such a fine day for your treat."

"So am I, Mr Canninge, so am I.  Thank you for coming, sir.  Thank you
for coming too, ma'am.  My sister is up by the house, and there's lunch
in the dining-room, and you'll excuse me, won't you!  I have such heaps
to do."

"Excuse you, of course.  And I say, Burge, your going to give the
youngsters some fun, I hope?"

"Fun, sir?  I mean to let them have a jolly good lark."

"Don't let Lambent get them together and preach at the poor little
beggars."

Mr William Forth Burge's face expanded, and he showed all his white
teeth.

"That's what I like sir.  That's the genuine old English squire said
that."

"Nonsense, Burge."

"Oh, but it is, Mr Canninge.  I know what's what as well as most men;
and, look here, sir, I mean them to thoroughly enjoy themselves to-day."

"That's right, and I'll help you."

"You will, sir?" cried the giver of the feast.

"To be sure I will; get up some races and that sort of thing."

"I've got it all down on a piece of paper here, sir; only you wait.
Now, I must go."

"He is really very vulgar, George," said the lady; "but there is a
bluffness about him that I do like after all.  But hadn't we better go
and speak to Miss Burge?"

"Come along then.  Oh, there are the Lambents with her now."

The Canninges went up to little Miss Burge, the lady saluting her
graciously, and the young squire very heartily; and then salutations
were being exchanged with the Misses Lambent, Beatrice looking bright
and handsome as George Canninge shook hands in a frank gentlemanly way,
as a deafening clamour arose behind them, and, turning, there was the
host wielding a great dinner-bell with all his might.

As he ceased, the children cheered, the band struck up, and the little
processions were marched past the company on the terrace, the boys to
one end of the marquee, the girls to the other, Hazel now at the head of
her troop, looking bright and animated, excited slightly by the scene,
and being admired more than she knew by those whom she passed.

As she came abreast of the group, she involuntarily raised her eyes, and
they encountered a grave, earnest gaze from one whom she had never
before seen; and in that brief moment she was aware that she was the
object of a very scrutinising examination.

The next minute she had passed between the folds of the tent door, and
was busy getting her girls seated at the long table on one side, the
boys occupying a second long table on the other side, both being covered
with well-cooked hot joints, steaming potatoes, and, dear to all
children's hearts, plenty of pies and puddings.

"Well, ladies," said Mr Canninge, "shall we adjourn to the tent?"

"Did you think of going in?" said Beatrice.

"To be sure," he said gaily.  "I am going to help."

"Going to help!" said Miss Lambent.

"To be sure: I promised Mr Burge.  Let me take you in.  Miss Lambent."

Rebecca took a long breath and the squire's arm.  She liked it, but she
knew that Beatrice would be out of temper for hours after.

There was no cause for temper, though--for the squire, as he was always
called in the neighbourhood, had no sooner led the elder Miss Lambent
within the canvas walls, then he coolly forsook her, and went and placed
himself behind a great sirloin of beef at one end of the girls' table,
facing Mr William Forth Burge, who had the twin joint before him, over
which his round red face was smiling pleasantly.  The vicar had gone to
one end of the boys' table, the master being at the other, while several
of the principal tradesmen took their places in front of other joints.

"Now, boys and girls," cried the host, "are you all ready?"

The chorus of "yes!" was startling.

"Then silence for grace," roared the host; and then, rapidly, "What
we're going to receive make us truly thankful.  Amen.  Lots of plates
here!"

Before he finished, his great carving-knife was playing a tune in that
skilful way peculiar to butchers, upon a silver-mounted steel, while the
vicar looked aghast and George Canninge stooped down to hide a smile.

It was quite an insult when the vicar was present but in the innocency
of his heart, Mr William Forth Burge was hoping the joints were done,
and eager to begin.

"Now, gentlemen, carve away, please," he shouted.  "Other ladies and
gentlemen and servants, please pass the plates and 'taters.  I want the
youngsters to have a good dinner to-day.  Now, Thomas," he cried to his
coachman, who had just set down a pile of plates, "you lay hold of
that--that spoon, and do nothing but ladle out gravy to every plate."

As he spoke, he was slicing off in the most skilful way prime sirloin of
beef, and, smiling with delight, he said that it was done to a turn, as
he called it.

"I chose every joint myself," he said to one.  "Pass the plates quick.
See that they have plenty of 'taters, ladies.  Eat away, girls."

The visitors, after a few moments' awkward hesitation, turned themselves
into waiters, and the carvers had a tremendous time, for quite two
hundred hearty girls and boys were eating with all the enjoyment of
their young healthy appetites.

"More!  That's right!" cried the young squire.  "I beg your pardon,
Miss--I really don't know your name; I'm afraid I've splashed your
dress."

"Pray don't mention it," said Hazel quietly, for she had been busily
handing plates, looking brighter and happier than she had appeared for
months.

"I'm quite envious of our host," said Canninge the next time Hazel
brought a plate.  "He carves beautifully, and I've hacked my joint to
pieces."

"Send your knife up here, Mr Canninge," roared Mr W.F.B. from the
other end of the table.  "I'll give it a touch on my steel."

"Will you allow me?" said Hazel, who was the only waiter near.

"No, really, I could not think of--Well, if you will--"

"There."

He had paused to wipe the rather greasy handle upon his white
handkerchief, and then, in passing the knife, their hands just touched--
a mere touch, and Hazel had gone.

The meat had disappeared, the puddings and pies had followed, and,
turned waiter now, the young squire had merrily passed along the plates,
till the time for rising had nearly arrived, when accident once more
placed him beside Hazel.

"Your girls have thoroughly enjoyed themselves, Miss Thorne," he said,
for he had learned her name now from one of the elder children--Feelier
Potts, to wit.

"Oh, most thoroughly," said Hazel, smiling brightly and with genuine
pleasure.  "It is delightful to see them so happy."

"Do you see that Beatrice?" whispered Miss Lambent from the other end of
the tent.

"Yes."

"Grace next I suppose?  Oh, there is my mother beckoning to me, Miss
Thorne," said the squire hastily, "it is a pity to have so pleasant an
affair spoiled.  Would you mind hinting to Mr Burge that he should ask
the vicar to say grace!"

"Oh, yes, I will," said Hazel, nodding to him.

"As if he were her equal," said Miss Lambent indignantly; while,
hurrying to the end of the table.  Hazel was just in time to whisper to
the host.

"Why, of course," he said.  "What a stupid!  Thank you.  Miss Thorne.
Mr Lambent!" he cried aloud, "would you be kind enough to say grace?"

Out in the field then, with the sun shining, the band playing, and
plenty of enjoyment for the schools, which were separated by a rope
stretched from one end to the other.  Races were run for prizes of all
kinds, and, full of animation, while the vicar stood with his hands
behind him patronisingly looking on, the young squire was the life and
soul of the affair, and ready with a dozen fresh ideas to suggest to the
host.  There were prizes for the fastest runners, prizes for the
slowest, for the first in and the last in, for jumps and hops, and the
best singers, and the worst singers, scramblings, blindfold-walking,
sports galore.

Hazel forgot her troubles, and with Miss Burge's help she was always the
centre, of some new sport or game; Cissy and Mabel being like a pair of
attendant fairies, ready to be seized upon by Mr Canninge as the
bearers of the prizes that were to be won.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I never saw George so full of spirits before," said Mrs Canninge to
Rebecca Lambent as they sat in a garden-chair looking on.

"I should say he will have a bad headache afterwards," replied that
lady.

"Oh, no, he is fond of athletics and that sort of thing.  Charming young
person, your new schoolmistress, Beatrice dear," she continued.  "Very
ladylike and well-spoken."

"Yes, a very well educated person," said Beatrice coldly.

"The squire's a brick, that's what he is, Betsey," said the host, wiping
his forehead with his handkerchief, about five o'clock.  "I tell you
what, I'm about tired out.  Now, look here, you go in and get yourself a
cup of tea, or you'll be done up, and if you're as wise as I take you to
be, you'll put just a pinch of ody-wee in the cup.  It'll be all over at
six, and then well have a comfortable dinner."

"But what are you going to do, Bill!"

"To do?  I'm going to fetch that girl in to have a cup of tea with you.
Bless her, she's worked like a slave.  No, I won't it's all right, I'll
take in her mother.  Poor old lady, no one seemed to speak to her.  Look
at that now.  That's what I call a genuine English gentleman, Betsey.
Here, hi!  Mr Chute, that'll do; now come up to the house, let them
play by themselves.  I say, Betsey, this has been a day!"

A day to be remembered, for Mr Chute was tightening his fists and
scowling at one of the young Potts, wishing the while that he had a
cane.  Not that young Potts had been behaving so very badly, but his
schoolmaster was annoyed, and some people when hurt look round at once
for some one as a spleen-vent.  He was suffering from the same pain that
had sent a sting through Beatrice Lambent, and made her sister frown.

For just as Mr William Forth Burge had told his sister his
determination, George Canninge, the principal landholder and personage
of those parts, the newly-elected magistrate on the county bench, had
gone up to Hazel Thorne, raised his hat and said quietly:

"Miss Thorne, you look tired out.  Will you allow me to take you into
the house and get you some tea?"

"And she forgot herself," cried Beatrice Lambent passionately, as she
paced her room that night Hazel Thorne's self-forgetfulness consisted in
acting, like any unconscious girl would under the circumstances.  She
gave the speaker a grateful look full of innocency, and, taking his
proffered arm, walked with him into Miss Burge's drawing-room, where she
was received with smiles.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

TOUCHING THE SENSITIVE PLANT.

It was Burns who wrote his wish that some power would give us the
ability to see ourselves from other people's point of view.  If Hazel
Thorne had received this gift she would not have remained so steeped in
ignorance, but gazing at herself through Beatrice Lambent's eyes, have
seen that she had been guilty of an almost deadly sin.

For what could have been more heinous than for "a young person in her
station in life," as Miss Beatrice afterwards said, to presume to take
the squire's arm, an arm that Beatrice looked upon as sacred, and
thought quite polluted by the touch of one who was only a
schoolmistress, and consequently not likely to possess feelings similar
to her own?

All the same, though, Hazel did touch the sacred limb, and allowed
herself to be taken into the drawing-room, which Mrs Canninge had just
entered, and was now presiding at a tea-table.

"You'll let me do that for you, Miss Burge," she had said.  "You must be
tired out."

"Well, really and truly, Mrs Canninge, my poor legs do ache to such an
extent," said Miss Burge confidentially, "that I feel a'most ready to
drop."

"That you must, indeed," said Mrs Canninge, smiling, as the little body
toddled to a large cane arm-chair, and plumped herself down so
vigorously that the cane chair uttered a loud protest, and after giving
way in an elastic manner, kept on uttering little squeaks and creaks,
somewhat after the fashion of Miss Feelier Potts, as it made efforts to
recover itself.

Meanwhile little Miss Burge sat there smiling gratefully, and enjoying
her rest, as she gently rocked herself to and fro rubbing her hands in
regular twin motion backwards and forwards along her aching legs.

"You see, Mrs Canninge--and sugar, please--three lumps.  Yes, I always
take cream, it do improve the tea so--you see my brother takes so much
interest in the schools, and he'd set his mind upon the boys and girls
enjoying themselves, that it would have been a sin and a shame not to
have done one's best to help him; but, oh my!  It has been a job."

"I'm sure you must have worked like a slave, Miss Burge," said Mrs
Canninge, handing the tea, "and we ought all to be very grateful to you
and your brother."

"Oh, it isn't me, my dear," said Miss Burge (fortunately neither Miss
Lambent nor Beatrice was at hand to hear Mrs Canninge addressed as "my
dear")--"it is all my brother.  He hasn't a bit of pride in him.  He
says, you know, Mrs Canninge, he first learned to read and write at
Plumton School, and it's been so useful to him that--"

"Excuse me.  Miss Burge, I have not my best glasses with me, is not this
Miss--Miss--?"

"Thorne, yes, Mrs Canninge, and it's very kind of your son to bring the
poor dear in to have some tea."

Mrs Canninge looked rather curiously at Hazel Thorne, as her son
brought her into the drawing-room.  If she had been plain and ordinary
looking, Mrs Canninge would have thought nothing of the incident; but
then Hazel Thorne was neither plain nor ordinary, and, what was more,
she did not seem in the slightest degree oppressed by the novelty of the
situation, but chatted quietly to her companion, who was the more
conscious of the two.

"Oh, here is my mother," he said.  "Mother dear, I have brought you an
exhausted slave; pray feed and rest her, or she will be throwing off the
Plumton chains, and escaping to some place where they will treat her
better.  Miss Thorne, this is my mother, Mrs Canninge."

"I am very glad to know you, Miss Thorne," said Mrs Canninge quietly;
and Hazel looked her full in the eyes before lowering her own, and
bending slightly, for there was a something in Mrs Canninge's way that
was different to her son's.  George Canninge had spoken to her as if she
were his equal, while his mother had smiled, spoken kindly, and hastened
to pour out some tea; but Hazel felt and knew that it was not in the
same way as she would have spoken and acted towards one of her own set.

The shade of difference was very slight, but it was marked, and George
Canninge noted it as well, though it was lost upon little Miss Burge,
who turned to Hazel, and began to prattle away directly.

"Ah, that's right, Mr Canninge, I am glad you have brought Miss Thorne
in.  She has been regularly fagged to death.  I never did see any one
work so."

"Miss Thorne has been indefatigable," said the squire; "and, by-the-way,
Miss Thorne, I think your mamma is somewhere here.  I'll go and find
her."

Hazel was growing cold, but this little gentlemanly attention made her
smile again as she bowed her thanks, and George Canninge was just
leaving the room, when a familiar voice was heard, and Mr William Forth
Burge appeared with Mrs Thorne, handing her in very carefully, and
talking loudly all the while, as he brought her into a place where he
was sure there would be no draught, and then fetched her some tea and
cake.

"Well, Mr Burge," cried George Canninge, for he felt conscious that his
mother was freezing the current of conversation, "what are we to call
it, a success or a failure?"

Mr William Forth Burge opened his mouth and stared, but for a few
moments no words came.

"I--thought it was a big success, Mr Canninge, sir," he said at last.
"I meant it to be, you know."

"And so it is.  It is the grandest and the jolliest school-treat I ever
saw, and if the young dogs and doggesses are not--"

"Har--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!"

"Why, what are you laughing at?"

"That's a good one, sir.  Young doggesses, sir," roared Mr William
Forth Burge; but only to become preternaturally solemn directly, as he
saw that no one else even smiled.

"I was only going to say that if they don't feel grateful for all this
kindness, they--"

"Oh, there's Mr Chute outside, I told him to come in and get a cup.
You won't mind for once, Mrs Canninge, and your son, will you?  It's a
holiday-time, and I want everybody to be pleased."

"Oh, certainly not, pray ask him in, Mr Burge," said Mrs Canninge.
"My son and I both wish the school people to thoroughly enjoy
themselves.  Miss Thorne, your cup is empty, pray let me get you some
more tea."

Hazel was about to decline, for Mrs Canninge's words made her heart
sink.  She had felt so happy during the past two hours, and a warm
feeling of gratitude had sprung up in her breast towards George Canninge
for his gentlemanly courtesy and attention; but Mrs Canninge was, in
that quiet way that some ladies can adopt, showing her that she belonged
to a different grade of society, towards whom she was acting the part of
lady patroness.

For the moment a feeling of resentment sprang up in her breast.  She
felt that Mrs Canninge was trying to give her a lesson--a lesson that
she did not need.

The sensation of humiliation was, however, but momentary, and smiling to
herself, she quietly made up her mind to show the lady patroness that
she had not forgotten her position, and did not need the lesson.

The opportunity came instantly, for Mr William Forth Burge returned,
bringing in poor Mr Chute, who had been gnashing his teeth, this time
with the teeth themselves, and growing more and more wroth at having
been neglected.  He had worked as hard as any one, but he was not taken
into the drawing-room by young squires, and petted and made much of.

Neither of the Misses Lambent came and took his arm, for they were
holding aloof altogether, and pretending to be deeply interested in the
prizes won by Feelier Potts and Ann Straggalls.  Taken altogether, Mr
Chute was fast getting up to the point when people's indignation boils
over.  He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and suffering besides from a
sudden attack of longing such as he had never felt before.  He wanted to
be beside Hazel Thorne, to talk to her, though had he been by her side
not a word would have come.  He wanted to look at her, and hear her
talk.  He wanted to breathe the same air that she was breathing, and to
see her every act and look, and she had been carried off by young Mr
George Canninge, while he, Samuel Chute, who was spoken of as such a
clever master, and had been so strongly recommended, was left out in the
cold.

Mr Samuel Chute felt in that disposition of mind which comes over most
young men some time in their vealy stage, when the whole world is looked
upon as going dead against them, because they cannot possess some one
particular object; when they rapidly run over the various courses that
seem alone open to them, and which embrace enlisting, going to sea, to
the dogs, or plunging into a river or canal--at a time when a man is
handy with a boat-hook to fish them out.

Mr Chute, then, was not happy, and although he had been asked to go up
to the house to partake of some refreshment he would not go, but stalked
off into the shrubbery, and gnashed his teeth for a whole minute amongst
the rhododendrons, after which he went into a deeper shade where it was
all laurels, and as there was no one looking, gave such a stamp upon the
ground as hurt his foot in his new boot.

It was in vain that the band, invigorated by Mr William Forth Burge's
beer, was playing its happiest air, and the big drum had run wild, the
trombone following suit to such an extent that it was cutting and
slashing about in a way that was dangerous to the boys, while the
leading comet was leading indeed--half a bar ahead.  It was in vain that
sweet music sought to woo Mr Chute back to the lawn; for a whole five
minutes he would not stir, preferring to suffer in solitude.

But Mr Samuel Chute was after all human, and in spite of himself he
found that he was gradually drawn to the drawing-room window.  Here he
was seen by Mr William Forth Burge, who came out, seized and softened
him; and as the schoolmaster was marched in he felt decidedly better,
and began to think of condescending to live.

"May I give you some tea, Mr Chute?" said Mrs Canninge politely.

"If you please, ma'am," said Chute, who felt better still on noting that
young Mr George Canninge was not seated at Hazel Thorne's side.

"Let's see: we must find you a seat, Mr Chute," said Mr William Forth
Burge heartily, as he glanced round.

"There is room here, Mr Burge," said Hazel, moving a little farther
along the settee, and Mr Chute's ease was complete, for the tea he
drank was the most delicious he had ever tasted in his life, and he
could have gone on eating bread-and-butter for an hour.

He said very little, and Hazel Thorne had to make up for it by chatting
pleasantly about the proceedings, till a message came by one of the
boys, and Mr Chute was fetched away, leaving the new mistress to the
tender mercies of the young squire--at least that is how he put it; but
he felt as he told himself, quite a new man.

George Canninge came to Hazel's side as soon as Chute had gone, and
stood talking to her quietly, and in a way that would have satisfied the
most exacting; but he had been dealing with a sensitive plant.  At first
she had seemed to rejoice in the warmth of his social sunshine, but Mrs
Canninge had metaphorically stretched forth a rude hand and touched her
leaves, with the result that they shrank and looked withered; and, try
as he would, he found her quiet, distant and constrained.

"But she can be different," he said to himself as at last Hazel rose,
and, crossing to Miss Burge, asked her permission to go.

"Oh lor', yes, my dear, go when you think best; for you must be terribly
tired."

Hazel assured her that she was greatly rested now, and bowing to Mrs
Canninge she left the room, without disturbing her mother, who was
holding Mr William Forth Burge with an eye, and recounting to him a
long, true, and particular account of her early life, the position she
had occupied, and the ages and dates of the various illnesses of all her
children, including also the fact that her son Percy was growing
wonderfully like what his father had been when she first met him at one
of the Lord Mayor's balls.

"And they do say," sighed Mrs Thorne, "that my daughter is growing
greatly like what I used to be."

Meanwhile Hazel passed out into the grounds, where she was encountered
almost directly by Beatrice Lambent, who, assuming utter ignorance of
where the schoolmistress had been, exclaimed--

"Oh, you are there.  Miss Thorne.  Pray--pray get back to the children.
My brother has been astonished at your having left them for so long."

People fight with different weapons to those used of old, but they are
quite as sharp.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

TAKEN TO TASK.

There was too much sheer hard work at Plumton School for Hazel Thorne to
have much time for thoughts of anything but business.  She had seen no
more of Archibald Graves, but she was never outside the house without
feeling nervous and in full expectation of meeting him; but as the days
wore on she began to hope that her firm behaviour had not been without
its effect.

For a day or two she had felt agitated, and in the solitude of her own
room she had more than once wept bitterly for her love, but they were
tears such as are shed for the past and gone.  There was no hope in
them: they brought neither relief nor thought of the future.  Hazel
Thorne's sorrow was for a dead love, and she preferred to think of
Archibald Graves as the ideal lover of her girlish heart, not as the
real suitor who had come to her now that she was a woman, who had been
tried in the fire of adversity, and been found base.

Hazel Thorne's business matters were two-fold--the business of the
school, and the domestic affairs.

With the former she was rapidly progressing.  The feeling of novelty had
worn off and she no longer felt afraid of being able to maintain her
position among so many girls, nor wondered what the pupil-teachers were
saying whenever they whispered together; but she was afraid of Mr
Samuel Chute, who would come round to the door much more often than
necessary, to borrow something, or ask a question or two.

The domestic affairs were harder to get over because they appealed
strongly to the heart, and scarcely a day passed without some new
trouble.

To a young girl like Hazel, after the first pangs, there was enough
elasticity to make her feel happy enough in her new home.  The rooms
were small, the furniture common, but there was always that pleasant
feeling of seeing, so to speak, the place grow.  Her woman's taste set
her busily at work making little things to brighten the rooms.  Now a
few pence were spent in pots of musk for the windows.  Next there was a
large scarlet geranium in full blossom that cost the extravagant sum of
sixpence; then blinds were made for the windows.  A dozen such little
things were done week by week, and as each triumph was achieved, and the
place grew daily brighter and more tasty and refined, a feeling of
satisfaction would come at times into her breast in spite of the
wet-blanketism that was always being laid over everything by Mrs
Thorne.

"It is not that I mind the humble cottage, and the pitifully mean
furniture, Hazel, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "anything would do for
me.  I am getting an old woman now."

"No, no, dear," said Hazel.  "You are not old; and you are far better
than you were."

"You don't know, Hazel.  I alone feel the worm eating away at the bud of
my life; but as I was saying, I don't mind; it is for you I think and
weep."

"Then why think and weep, mamma dear?--there, you see I said mamma this
time."

"Don't say mamma to please me, Hazel I am only your poor helpless,
burdensome mother, now.  You say, why think and weep?  I will tell you:
because it breaks my heart to see my child wasting herself here, and
performing the most menial duties, when she ought to be taking her place
amongst the richest of the land."

"I should be as happy as could be, dear, and I don't mind the work, if
you would only get quite well."

"Well, Hazel?  Never any more.  Let me only see you satisfactorily
married, and I shall be ready to die in peace."

"No, no, no, dear!" cried Hazel; "and pray don't say any more about such
things."

"I must my dear; but tell me, has Mr Graves been down again?"

"No, mother."

Mrs Thorne sighed, as she always did at the word "mother."

"Did I--I--tell you that I had had a letter from Mr Geringer?"

"No," said Hazel quickly.  "Surely you are not corresponding with him?"

"Oh, no, my dear; I only answered his letters."

"Answered his letters?"

"Yes, my dear; he said he was coming down to see us, if I would give my
consent, and of course I did."

"Oh, mother, dear mother, how could you be so foolish?"

"Foolish, Hazel?"

"Yes, dear.  He must not come.  I could not see him.  Why can he not
leave me here in peace?"

"I--I--will not be spoken to like this by my own child!" cried Mrs
Thorne.  "It is cruel; it is wicked of you, Hazel.  You not only degrade
me to this terrible life, but you speak to me as if I were so much dirt
under your feet.  It is cruel; it is disgraceful; it is base."

"Mother, dear mother," cried Hazel, whose face was aflame with
mortification.

"No, no, don't touch me; don't come near me; I cannot bear it.  Foolish?
What have I done that Heaven should have given me such a cruel child?"

By this time Hazel's arms were round her mother's neck, and her cheek
laid upon her bosom, but it was long before Mrs Thorne would consent to
the embrace, and leave off sobbing and wringing her hands.

"When you might be rolling in your carriage, and have every luxury in
the land."

"But I want us to be independent, dear.  We might be so happy here."

"Happy?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a hysterical laugh.  "Happy--here?"

At last after similar scenes she would grow weary and forgive her child
for her cruelty, and there would be a little peace, giving Hazel an
opportunity to attend to some domestic work, and to devote an hour to
the teaching of her little sisters; but there would be tears shed at
night, and a prayer offered up for strength and patience to conquer in
the end.

The school affairs went steadily on, and the girls settled down and
began to forget the excitement of Mr William Forth Burge's party.  That
gentleman called once during school-hours, shook hands very warmly, and
stopped talking till Hazel thought he would never go.

Miss Burge came regularly on week-days and petitioned to be allowed to
take a class sometimes--a petition that was of course granted, but not
with very satisfactory results, for poor little Miss Burge's discipline
was of the very mildest nature, and as she preferred taking the class
that held Miss Feelier Potts and Ann Straggalls, the attention of the
mistress had to be very frequently called to maintain order.

"I really don't know how you do it, my dear, I don't indeed," said the
little lady; "the girls all like you, and yet they seem afraid of you as
well.  I declare I quite shrink from you when you look so stern."

"I hope you like me as well, Miss Burge," said Hazel, smiling.

"That I do indeed, my dear, and so does my brother.  He's always talking
about you.  I declare, my dear, I'm quite surprised sometimes to find
how much he thinks about you."

"It is very kind of Mr Burge," said Hazel naively; "and as he is so
proud of the schools, pray assure him that I will spare no pains to get
the girls well forward by the examination day."

"I needn't tell him anything of the sort," said Miss Burge; "he knows
you will, and he told Mr Lambent that we ought to be very glad to have
got such a mistress for our schools."

"You are too partial, Miss Burge," said Hazel, smiling.

"That I _am not_!" said the little lady in the most decisive of tones;
"and now I must go, and I'm going to call in on your mamma, and try and
cheer her up a bit, poor soul, for it must be very lonely for her while
you are in the schools and, lor! if here ain't the two Misses Lambent."

There was a very affectionate greeting at the door, and then Miss Burge
went out, and the two Misses Lambent came in, looking very stiff and
uncompromising as soon as they were alone with Hazel.

"How do you do.  Miss Thorne?" said Miss Lambent in a very chilling way;
and Miss Beatrice echoed her words, and finished their freezing as they
fell.

"Are you going to take a class, Beatrice?" said Miss Lambent.

"No, sister, I thought that I would say a few words to Miss Thorne,
unless you would prefer speaking."

"No, sister, I think you had better speak," said Miss Lambent austerely;
"and--tut--tut--tut!  I extremely regret this! such a thing never
occurred in the school before.  Miss Thorne, I will not trouble my
brother by making any report of this, but I must request you to preserve
better discipline in the school."

"Discipline, ma'am!  I thought the girls were very quiet."

"I must request that you do not speak to me, the vicar's sister, in so
haughty a tone, Miss Thorne."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; I wish to be respectful," said Hazel humbly.

"But your ways are not respectful, and I must point out to you that both
upon week-days and Sundays the behaviour of the girls has not been good.
I distinctly saw that child putting out her tongue at me--that girl--
Potts, I think, is her name."

"I will certainly speak to the child, ma'am," said Hazel quietly, though
a feeling of indignation made the blood flush to her cheeks.

"I request that you do, and also punish her severely, Miss Thorne,"
continued Miss Lambent who, being wound up, felt that this was a
favourable opportunity for going on striking.

"And now, as I am speaking, I will make a few remarks to you upon a
subject that I was about to leave to my sister."

"I will speak to Miss Thorne upon that matter, sister," said Miss
Beatrice.

"As I am speaking to Miss Thorne, I will continue, sister," replied Miss
Lambent.  "The fact is, Miss Thorne, my sister and I entertain the most
sincere wish for your welfare."

Hazel bowed.

"And it is only after mature deliberation that we have come to the
conclusion that it is our absolute duty as Christian ladies to speak to
you--"

"Upon matters that very nearly concern your position as the
schoolmistress--"

"Of Plumton All Saints," said Miss Lambent.  "Excuse me, sister, I
prefer speaking to Miss Thorne myself."

Hazel looked from one to the other, wondering what was the head and
front of her offending.

"The fact is, Miss Thorne, my sister and I sincerely wish--most
sincerely I may say--wish that you may be successful here, and in due
time--say in due time--if such an affair should be in progress, marry in
accordance with your station in life and--Hush, Miss Thorne!  Do not
speak, I insist.  I see that you are growing angry, so I beg that you
will be silent, and receive my words--our words--as being meant for your
benefit."

"I do not understand you, madam," said Hazel, in spite of the
prohibition.

"Then I will speak more plainly--we will speak more plainly, Miss
Thorne, and tell you that your conduct since you have been here has not
been marked by the discretion that should be a decided feature in the
acts of a young person in your position."

"Madam, I--!"

"Silence, Miss Thorne!" cried Miss Beatrice; and the young mistress's
cheeks were now aflame with indignation.  "I will finish, sister
Rebecca," she continued.  "For your own sake we wish you to be more
guarded, and to remember what is expected of a young person in your
position.  From the very first Sunday that you came.  Miss Thorne, we
have noted a tendency--innocent enough, no doubt--towards trying to
attract the attention of the other sex."

"Indeed, madam--"

"Silence, Miss Thorne, and once more I beg that you will not adopt that
haughty tone when addressing the vicar's sisters."

Hazel remained silent, and just at that moment, as ill-luck had it, the
door opened and Mr Chute stepped in, saw the ladies, and stepped out
again.

"You see," said Miss Beatrice with triumph in her tones, as the sisters
exchanged meaning glances, while Hazel maintained an indignant silence,
"such things are not seemly in any schoolmistress, and certainly not in
the mistress of Plumton All Saints' School."

"There was the gentleman on the first Sunday," said Miss Lambent cutting
in so as to preclude her sister speaking; "Mr Chute comes in a great
deal too often; we did not at all approve of your conduct when Mr
Canninge spoke to you at the school treat; and, taken altogether, my
sister and I felt it to be our duty to--"

At that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, and two of the bigger
girls rushed to open it, orders being forgotten as "teacher" was so
busy, and Feelier Potts triumphed, throwing open the door, and revealing
the round, smiling features of Mr William Forth Burge--features which
ceased to smile as he realised the fact that the vicar's sisters were
there.

"Oh, isn't Miss Burge here?" he said.

"No, sir, plee, sir.  Miss Burge goed ever so long ago."

"Oh, thank you.  Good-day," said Mr William Forth Burge hastily; then
raising his hat he walked on, and the door closed very slowly.  Miss
Feelier Potts finding an opportunity to make a face at a passing boy
through the last six inches of slit between door and jamb, to which the
young gentleman replied by throwing a stone with a smart rap against the
panels.

Miss Lambent's eyes nearly closed, and as the girls buzzed and went on
with their lessons, staring hard the while.  Hazel Thorne was asking
herself whether this would be the last week of her stay in Plumton, for
she felt that after this indignity it would be impossible for her to
retain her post.  Her heart beat fast, her cheeks were alternately white
and scarlet with shame and mortification, and her goaded spirit rose as
she longed to sharply chastise those who degraded her by their unwomanly
charges with their own weapon--the tongue.

But she could not speak--she dared not for fear that the anger and
indignation that were choking her should find vent in hysterical sobs
and tears.

This she could not bear, for it would have been humiliating herself
before her tormentors.  No; she felt that they might say what they
liked: she would not stoop to answer; and seeing that they had the poor
girl at their mercy, the sisters took it in turns to deliver a lecture
upon the unseemly behaviour of a young person in her position, exhorting
her to remember the greatness of her charge, and the probabilities of
the girls taking their cue from their mistress.

Of course, Miss Lambent did not make use of the objectionable theatrical
word _cue_--it is doubtful whether she had ever heard it but she managed
to express the petty vindictive spite that she felt against the young
mistress for her grievous sin in receiving so much attention from Mr
William Forth Burge, whose vulgarity she was quite ready to forgive,
should he have made her an offer; and Beatrice's eyes flashed as she
felt her own pulses thrill with satisfaction at the way in which she was
metaphorically trampling under foot this impertinent stranger who had
dared to take Mr Canninge's arm.

"And now.  Miss Thorne," said Miss Lambent, in conclusion, "we will
leave you to think over what we have said, and we trust that it will
have due effect."

"Making you see how foolishly you have behaved," put in Miss Beatrice.

"And that you will take it as a warning.  Here is a book that we have
brought you.  Take it, read it and inwardly digest its beautiful
teachings.  Good morning."

Hazel took the book mechanically, and her eyes lit upon its title--"The
Dairyman's Daughter."  Then she started and coloured painfully again,
beneath the searching, triumphant glances of the sisters, who seemed to
glory in her humiliation, for once more there was a quiet tap at the
door, the latch clicked, and Miss Lambent said to herself, "Another
gentleman."

She was quite right.  Another gentleman stepped into the school--his
mission to see Miss Thorne.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE VICAR'S SYMPTOMS.

The Reverend Henry Lambent was born when his mother was in very bad
health, and the consequence was that he had to be brought up "by hand,"
which in those days meant by spoon, and, as the reader is most probably
in utter ignorance of the process, it shall be described, as even the
wisest may have something to learn, and there is always a possibility
that information, however small, may some day be of service.

In bringing up by hand--i.e. by spoon--take a moderate portion of rusks,
tops and bottoms, nursery biscuits, captain's biscuits, or similar
highly-baked farinaceous preparation, boil soft, add milk and sugar to
suit baby's taste--for babies have taste, and can appreciate sweets and
show disgust at bitters as well as the best of us--then mix and beat to
the consistency of cream, and by testing on the lips get it to the right
heat--just moderately warm.  Next, take the baby, lay it softly upon its
back; coo, simmer, and talk soft broken English to it while a diaper bib
is placed neatly beneath its chin, tightly, so as to confine the arms
and fists as well; then take the preparation, about half a small
teaspoonful at a time, make believe to eat it yourself by putting it in
your mouth, and taking it out again, so as to be certain that it will
not burn, and then apply it to the baby's lips.

[_Note_.--This placing in the feeder's own mouth has been objected to on
the plea that it will drive an observant baby frantic, making it imagine
that it is about to be robbed of its rights; but the plan is to be
commended on the ground of safety.]

Do not be in a hurry, nor yet be appalled at the difficulty and slowness
of the operation, for as a rule seven-eighths of the preparation gets
spread over baby's cheeks and chin, portions even reaching to the
wrinkles of the neck; for here is where a clever feeder shines in the
deft management of the spoon, which is inserted here, drawn there, and
all with the delicacy of a barber with a keen razor, till every moist
portion has been scraped away, and has disappeared through the little
pink buttonhole-like apology for a gate which leads to the road to
digestion.  Keep up the cooing and repeat.

This is the genuine old-fashioned way, dating from a very early year
after the world's creation.  In fact, it seems evident from the
discovery of bone spoons, roughly fashioned, in caverns, that some of
the cave-dwellers practised it, the preparation used for nurturing the
very early baby being most probably marrow out of an auroch's leg-bone,
or, maybe, the brains of the megatherium, which may account for the
wisdom that has come down from our ancestors, who knew everything, while
we are ignorant in the extreme.

Now we have changed all that, as the French say, and the very modern
babe is supplied with somebody's patent infants' food, out of which
everything noxious has been eliminated.  Such preparations are
advertised by the dozen, and when cooked there is no more old-fashioned
spoon, but the food is placed in a peculiarly shaped bottle fitted with
hose and branch like a small fire-engine, from the indiarubber tube of
which baby imbibes health very seldom.  For what with neglect in
cleaning the apparatus, putrescent particles of milk, fermenting yeasty
paste, and the like, the infant becomes an infant prodigy if it manages
to escape the many disorders incidental to early childhood, and can be
exhibited as a specimen brought up by the bottle, which slays as many as
that effected by people of larger growth.

No unwashed feeding-bottle slew the Reverend Henry Lambent, for your
modern hookah-pattern food imbiber had not been invented when he was
born.  He was reared as aforesaid, honestly by hand, but his nurse must
have made a mistake in the packets from which she obtained his supplies,
and in place of biscuit, ground arrowroot, or semolina, have gone in the
dark and used the starch with an effect that lasted even unto manhood.

Stiffness is a mild way of expressing the rigidity of the Vicar's
person.  Rude boys made remarks about him, suggesting that he had
swallowed the poker, that he was as stiff as a yard of pump-water, and
the like.  Certainly he seemed to have come of an extremely stiff-necked
generation, as he stalked--he never used to walk--down the High Street
towards the schools.

The Reverend Henry Lambent had been taking seidlitz powders every
morning since the school feast.  Not that he had feasted and made
himself ill, for his refreshment on that day had consisted of one cup of
tea and a slice of bread-and-butter--that was all at the feast; but
since then he had been nervous, hot-blooded, and strange.  He had had
symptoms of the ailment before the day of the school-treat, but they had
been more mild; now they had assumed an aggravated form, and the
seidlitz powders brought him no relief.

And yet he had tried them well, telling himself that he was only a
little feverish, and had been studying a little too hard.  He had taken
a seidlitz powder according to the direction for use as printed upon the
square, flat box--that is to say, he had mixed the contents of the blue
paper in a tumbler of cold spring water, waited till it dissolved, then
emptied in the contents of the white paper, stirred, and drunk while in
a state of effervescence.  He had dissolved the contents of the blue
paper in one glass of water and the contents of the white paper in
another glass of water, poured one into the other, and drunk while in a
state of effervescence.  He had dissolved the contents of the papers
again separately, and drunk first one and then the other, allowing the
effervescence to take place _not_ in the tumbler.  Still he was no
better, and he almost felt tempted to follow the example of the Eastern
potentate who took the whole of the contents of the blue papers first,
and then swallowed the contents of all the white papers afterwards; but
history tells that this monarch did not feel any better after the dose,
so that the Reverend Henry Lambent was not encouraged to proceed.

He was not seriously bad, and yet he was, if this paradoxical statement
can be accepted.  He was mentally ill for the first time in his life of
the complaint from which he suffered, and he was trying hard to make
himself believe that his ailment was bodily and of a nervo-febrile cast.

The Reverend Henry Lambent's attack came on with the visible appearance
of a face before his eyes.  If he sat down to read, it gazed up at him
from the book, like a beautiful illustration that filled every page.  He
turned over, and it was there; he turned over again, and it was still
there.  Leaf after leaf did he keep turning, and it was always before
him.

He set to work at his next week's sermons, and the manuscript paper
became illustrated as well with the same sweet pensive face, and when he
read prayers morning and evening, it seemed to him that he was making
supplication for that face alone.  He preached on Sundays, and the
congregation seemed to consist of one--the owner of that face, and to
her he addressed himself morning and afternoon.  If he sat and thought
it was of that face; if he went out for a constitutional, that face was
with him; and when at least a dozen times he set off, as he felt in duty
bound, to visit the schools, he turned off in another direction--he
dared not go for fear of meeting the owner of that face.

At meal-times, when he ate but little, it seemed to be that face that
was opposite to him, instead of the thin, handsome features of his
sister Rebecca; and if he turned his gaze to the right there was the
face again instead of the pale, refined, high-bred Beatrice.  He went to
bed, and lay turning from side to side, with that countenance
photographed upon his brain, and when at last toward morning he fell
asleep, it was to dream always of that pensive countenance.

The Reverend Henry Lambent grew alarmed.  He could not understand it.
He had never given much thought to such a matter as marriage on his own
account.  He knew that people were married, because he had joined them
together scores of times, and he knew that generally people were
well-dressed, looked very weak and foolish, and that the bride shed
tears and wrote her name worse than ever she had written it before.  But
that had nothing to do with him.  He stood on a cold, stony pedestal,
which raised him high above such human weaknesses--weaknesses that
belonged to his people, not to him.

At last he told himself that it was his duty to resist temptation, and
that by resistance it would be overcome.  He realised that his ailment
was really mental, and after severe examination determined to quell it
by bold endeavour, for the more he fled from the cause the worse he
seemed to be.  It was absurd!  It was ridiculous!  It was a kind of
madness, he told himself; and again he walked over to the schools,
determined to be firm and severe.  Then he told himself this feeling of
enchantment would pass away, for he should see Hazel Thorne as she
really was, and not through the _couleur de rose_ glasses of his
imagination.

He started then, and walked stiffly and severely down to the schools,
his chin in the air and a condescending bow ready for any one who would
touch his hat; but instead of going, as he had intended, straight to the
girls, he turned in and surprised Mr Chute reading a novel at his desk
while the boys were going on not quite in accordance with a clerical
idea of discipline.

The result was a severe snubbing to Mr Chute, and the vicar stalked
across the floor to go into the girls' school; but just then he heard a
sweetly modulated voice singing the first bars of a simple school
ballad, and he stopped to listen.

He had heard the song hundreds of times, but it had never sounded like
that before, and he stood as if riveted to the spot as the sweet, dear
voice gained strength, and he knew now that just at the back of Mr
Chute's desk one of the shutters had been left slightly open, so that if
he pleased that gentleman could peer into the girls' school.

The vicar did not know how it was, but an angry pang shot through him,
and a longing came over him to send Mr Chute far away and take his
place, teaching the boys, and--keeping that shutter slightly down--
listening always to the singing of that sweet, simple lay.

And then he stood and listened, and the boys involuntarily listened too,
while their master failed to urge them on, as he too stood and forgot
all but the fact that was being lyrically told of how--

  "Down in a green and shady bed,
  A modest violet grew;
  Its stalk was bent, it hung its head
  As if to hide from view."

And, as they both listened, the Reverend Henry Lambent and Samuel Chute
felt that Hazel Thorne was in some way identified with that modest
violet hiding from view down in shady Plumton All Saints, diffusing a
sweet perfume of good works, as the song went on to tell in a way that
went straight to both their hearts.

Then their eyes met.

Directly after the sweet tones ceased, and the tune was commenced again
in chorus by the singing class, the modest violet now becoming
identified with the strident voice of Miss Feelier Potts who absolutely
yelled.

The vicar went straight out, turning to the left as he reached the path
instead of to the right, for he could not visit the girls' school then;
and he walked home, telling himself that the disenchantment was
complete--there was that open shutter--his strange feelings for Hazel
Thorne were at an end--and he paced his study all the evening, his
bedroom half the night, with the sweet air and words of that simple
school song repeating themselves for ever in his ears.

"Why, Henry, what is the matter?" cried Beatrice Lambent the next
morning, as she came upon her brother in the dining-room, waiting for
her to make his coffee.

"Matter?" he said, flushing scarlet like a girl.  "Matter?"

"Yes! you singing?  I never heard you sing before in your life."

"Was I--was I singing?" he said huskily.

"Yes, that stupid, hackneyed violet song, that the children shriek at
the schools."

"Was I?  Dear me, how strange!  To be sure--yes.  The children were
singing it while I was talking to Mr Chute yesterday.  We could hear it
through the partition."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"HENRY!"

That same day the Reverend Henry Lambent walked straight down to the
girls' school, telling himself that he was quite disenchanted now, and
that he could talk to Miss Thorne as calmly as if she were a perfect
stranger.  The feverish fit had passed away, and he could laugh at the
little bit of folly; and hence it was that he kept on thinking of modest
violets and sweet perfume, and the face of Hazel Thorne was always
before him, gazing at him with her sweet pensive eyes that always seemed
so full of trouble and care.  And as he walked he began thinking of what
joy it would be to try and soothe the trouble away from those eyes, and
make them look love and tenderness; and then he started, and felt what
an American would call "mighty bad," for George Canninge rode by him on
horseback, looking very frank, and manly, and handsome.  He did not rein
in, but cantered on with a cheery "good morning," and as soon as he had
passed a pang of jealousy shot through the vicar's breast, worse far
than that which he had felt upon the previous day.

"He has been to call at the school," he thought; and he determined on
his own part not to go; but his legs appeared to take him on against his
will, and he found himself making excuses for Hazel Thorne.

"She could not help it, perhaps," he thought.  "At any rate it is my
duty to go, and I ought to check her if she is receiving such a visitor
as this."

Then, with heavily beating heart, he reached the entrance to the girls'
school, passing through the gate slowly, and listening to the bleating
noise from the boys' side, with the occasional short, sharp barks that
Mr Chute was uttering like a sheepdog driving his flock along the dry
and dusty roads of education towards the green and pleasant pastures of
Academia.

The Reverend Henry Lambent paused for a few moments to compose himself,
and then, wondering at his want of confidence, he entered the schools as
we have seen.

The change that came over him instantly was startling.  A moment before
he had expected to be alone with Hazel Thorne, the girls counting for
nothing--he could speak in their presence, and say all he wished--and he
had felt a curious feeling of diffidence and pleasure pervade his
breast.  Now all was altered.  He was not to be alone with Hazel Thorne,
for his sisters were there, and he needed no showing that there had been
a scene, while his heart told him that his sisters had been taking Miss
Thorne to task for receiving a visit from George Canninge; perhaps they
had come and found him there.

He glanced at Hazel, who stood looking pale and indignant with the
little book in her hand, and from her to his sisters, who both seemed
nervous and excited, consequent upon the encounter that had taken place.

"You here?" he said wonderingly.

There was nothing to wonder at, for it was a matter of course that the
sisters should visit the school, and there was no need for explanations;
but both brother and sisters were agitated, and Rebecca broke out with:

"Yes; we came down to have a little conversation with Miss Thorne upon
the subject of--"

"Speak lower, Rebecca," said the vicar; "we do not wish the children to
hear."

"Exactly, dear Henry," continued Rebecca.  "We came down to advise Miss
Thorne, and to--"

"Tell her it was not seemly for her to receive so many gentlemen
visitors," said Beatrice.

"Then Mr Canninge has been here!" said the vicar involuntarily.

"Indeed no, I hope not," cried Rebecca, while Beatrice turned paler than
usual.  "Why did you say that?"

The vicar felt that he had made a false move, and he regretted it.

"I met him just now.  I thought he might have had a message from Mrs
Canninge."

"We have been speaking seriously to Miss Thorne," continued Rebecca:
"and after a little show of indignation I think she has seen the folly
of her ways, and is ready to take our good counsel home to her heart.  I
am glad that you came, for you can endorse our words.  Miss Thorne,
after our preparation of the soil, will be ready to hear."

The Reverend Henry Lambent had turned to Hazel as these words were
spoken, and their eyes met.  He was not a clever reader of the human
hearty but he saw the shame and humiliation which the poor girl
suffered, for there was an indignant protest in her look--a look that
seemed to say: "I am a helpless woman and have done no wrong.  You are a
gentleman; protect me from these cruel insults, or I must go."

"We have also given her a book to read and study," continued Miss
Lambent, "and that and our words--"

"I am afraid that you have chosen a very bad time for making an appeal
to Miss Thorne, Rebecca," said the vicar, interrupting, in low, grave,
measured tones; "and I am not sure but that the interference was
uncalled for."

"Henry!" ejaculated Beatrice, as Hazel cast a grateful look at her
brother.

"Miss Thorne, will you allow me to look at that book?" continued the
Reverend Henry, taking it from her hand.  "Yes, as I thought.  It is
most unsuitable to a young"--he was going to say "person," but he
changed it to "lady of Miss Thorne's education.  It is such a book as I
should have given to some very young girl just come into our service."

"Henry!" ejaculated Beatrice again, for it was all she could say in her
astonishment.

"I think this interview must be rather painful to Miss Thorne," he
continued quietly, "and we will not prolong it.  I was going to question
some of the girls, Miss Thorne, but--another time.  Good-day."

He bowed and walked to the door, waiting there for his sisters to pass,
which they did with heads erect and a severe, injured expression, quite
ignorant of the fact that they were being imitated by Miss Feelier
Potts, for the benefit of her class.  Then he looked once at Hazel, and
saw that there were tears in her eyes as she gazed after him.

He went out then, ready to do battle with fifty sisters, for Hazel's
look had clothed him with moral armour _cap-a-pie_.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"SHE'S MINE!"

"Mr Lambent treats me with respect," reasoned Hazel one afternoon when
the soreness had somewhat worn off, leaving a feeling that perhaps after
all it would be possible to stay on at Plumton All Saints.

She had been very low-spirited for some time, but as she recalled the
quiet, gentlemanly manner of the vicar, she felt relieved, and wished
she had said a few words of thanks, making up her mind to atone for the
omission at the first opportunity, and then setting so busily to work
that her troubles were temporarily forgotten.

While she was very busy, a lad arrived with a note from Miss Burge,
asking her to come up to the house to tea and talk over a proposal Mr
William Forth Burge had made about the schools, and ending with a
promise to drive her back in the pony-chaise.  Hazel hesitated for a few
moments, but she did not like to slight Miss Burge's invitation, so she
wrote back saying that she would come.

Then the girls had to be dismissed, and the pence counted up and placed
in a canvas-bag along with the money received for the month's coal and
blanket club, neither of the amounts being heavy as a sum total, but,
being all in copper, of a goodly weight avoirdupois.

Just as the bag was tied up and the amounts noted down, there was a
light tap at the door, and Mr Chute stepped in, glancing quickly up at
the slit made by the half-closed partition shutters to see if it was
observable from this side.

"I just came in to say, Miss Thorne--well, that is odd now, really."

Hazel looked her wonder, and he went on:

"It's really quite funny.  I said to myself, `the pence will mount up so
that they will be quite a nuisance to Miss Thorne, and I'll go and offer
to get them off her hands.'"

"Thank you, Mr Chute, I won't trouble you," replied Hazel.

"Trouble?  Oh, it's no trouble," he said, laughing in a peculiar way.
"I get rid of mine at the shops, and I can just as easily put yours with
them, and of course it's much easier to keep shillings than pence; and
then when you've got enough you can change your silver for gold."

"By-the-way," said Hazel, "when do we have to give up the school pence
and club money?"

"Only once a year," said Mr Chute, who was in high glee at this
approach to intimacy.  "You'll have to keep it till Christmas."

"Keep it--till Christmas!  What! all that money!"

"To be sure!  Oh, it isn't much.  May I--send your--coppers with mine?"

Hazel paused for a moment, and then accepted the offer, the schoolmaster
noting in his pocket-book the exact amount, and waiting while Hazel went
into the cottage to fetch the other sums she had received, the whole of
which Mr Chute bore off in triumph, smiling ecstatically, and
exclaiming to himself as soon as he was alone:

"She's mine!--she's mine!--she's mine!"

After which he performed a kind of triumphal dance around the bags of
copper, rubbing his hands with satisfaction at this step towards making
himself useful to Hazel Thorne, until Mrs Chute came into the room, and
asked him what he meant by making such a fool of himself.

Mrs Chute was a hard-looking little woman, with fair hair and a
brownish skin, and one who had probably never looked pleasant in her
life.  She was very proud of her son, "My Samoowel," as she always
persisted in calling him, in despite of large efforts upon the part of
that son to correct her pronunciation; and she showed her affection by
never hardly speaking to him without finding fault, snapping him up, and
making herself generally unpleasant; though, if anybody had dared to
insinuate that Samuel Chute was not the most handsome, the most clever,
and the best son in the world, it would have been exceedingly unpleasant
for that body, for Mrs Chute, relict of Mr Samuel Chute, senior, of
"The Docks," possessed a tongue.

What Mr Samuel Chute, senior, had been in "The Docks," no one ever
knew, and it had not been to any one's interest to find out.  Suffice it
that, after a long course of education somewhere at a national school in
East London, Mr Samuel Chute, junior, had risen to be a pupil-teacher,
and thence to a scholarship, resulting in a regular training; then after
a minor appointment or two, he had obtained the mastership at Plumton
School, where he had proved himself to be a good son by taking his
mother home to keep house for him, and she had made him miserable ever
since.

"Why, what are you thinking about, Samoowel, dancing round the money
like a mad miser?"

"Oh, nonsense, mother!  I was only--only--"

"Only, only making a great noodle of yourself.  Money's right enough,
but I'd be ashamed of myself if I cared so much for it that I was bound
to dance about that how."

Mr Chute did not answer, so she went on:

"I don't think much of these Thornes, Samoowel."

"Not think much of them, mother?"

"There, bless the boy, didn't I speak plain?  Don't keep repeating every
word I say.  I don't think much of them.  That Mrs Thorne's the
stuck-uppest body I ever met."

"Oh no, she's an invalid."

"I daresay she is!  But I'd have every complaint under the sun, from tic
to teething, without being so proud and stuck-up as she is.  I went in
this afternoon quite neighbourly like, but, oh dear me! and lor' bless
you! she almost as good as ast me what I wanted."

"But--but I hope you didn't say anything unpleasant mother?"

"Now, am I a woman as ever did say anything unpleasant, Samoowel?  The
most unpleasant thing I said was that I hoped she was as proud of her
daughter as I was of my son."

"And did you say that mother?"

"Of course I did, and then she began to talk about her girl, and grew a
little more civil; but I don't like her, Samoowel.  She smells of pride,
'orrid; and as for her girl--there--"

Mr Samuel Chute did not stop to hear the latter part of the lady's
speech, for just then he caught sight of the top of a bonnet passing the
window, and he ran into the next room, so as to be able to see its
wearer going along the road towards the market-place.

"What is the matter, Samoowel?  Is it an acciden'?" cried Mrs Chute,
running after him.

"No, no, nothing, mother," he replied, turning away from the window to
meet the lady.  "Nothing at all!"

"Why, Samoowel," she cried, looking at him with an aspect full of
disgust, "don't tell me that--you were staring after that girl!"

"I wasn't going to tell you I was looking after her, mother," said the
young man sulkily.

"No, but I can see for myself," cried Mrs Chute angrily.  "The idea of
a boy of mine having no more pride than to be running after a stuck-up,
dressy body like that, who looks at his poor mother as if she wasn't fit
to be used to wipe her shoes on, and I dessey they ain't paid for."

"Mother," cried the young man, "if you speak to me like that you'll
drive me mad!"

"And now he abuses his poor mother, who has been a slave to him all her
life!" cried the lady.  "Oh, Samoowel, Samoowel, when I'm dead and cold
and in my grave, these words of yours'll stand out like fires of
reproach, and make you repent and--There, if he hasn't gone after her,"
she cried furiously; for, finding that her son did not speak, she
lowered the apron that she had thrown over her face, slowly and softly,
till she found that she was alone, when she jumped up from the chair
into which she had thrown herself, ran to the window, and was just in
time to see Mr Samuel Chute walking quickly towards the town.

"He don't have her if I can prevent it!" cried Mrs Chute viciously, and
the expression of her face was not pleasant just then.

But Samuel Chute neither heard her words nor saw her looks, as a matter
of course, for he was walking steadily after Hazel, wondering whither
she was bound.

It was the last thing in the world that he would do--watch her, but all
the same he wanted to know where she went, and if it was for a walk, why
he might turn up by accident just as she was coming back; and then, of
course, he could walk with her, and somehow, now that he had so far been
taken into her confidence in being trusted to change the school and club
money for her, it would be easy to win another step in advance.

"I lay twopence she walks out with me arm-in-arm before another month's
out," he said triumphantly; "and mother must get over it best way she
can."

All this while Hazel was some two hundred yards ahead, for the
schoolmaster did not attempt to overtake her, but merely noted where she
went, and followed.

"She's turned off by the low road," said Samuel Chute to himself.
"She's going by old Burge's.  Well, that is the prettiest walk, and--of
course, I could go across by the footpath, and come out in the road this
side of Burge's, and meet her, and that would be better than seeming to
have followed her."

Acting upon this idea, Samuel Chute struck out of the main street and
went swiftly along a narrow lane, and then by the footpath over the
meadows to the road, a walk of a good mile and a half before he was out
into the winding road that led by Mr Burge's.

"She'll come upon me here, plump," he said with a laugh.  "I wonder what
she'll say, and whether she'll look at me again in that pretty, shy way,
same as she did when I took the school pence!  Hah, things are going on
right for you, my boy; and what could be better?"

There was no answer to his question, so Samuel Chute went on making
arrangements, like the Eastern man with his basket of crockery ware.

"I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll put both the old ladies together in
one house, while we live in the other.  Nothing could be easier.  I say,
isn't it time she was here?"

He glanced at his watch, and it certainly seemed to be time for Hazel to
have reached as far.  She was not long, however, in appearing now round
the bend of the road, looking brighter and more attractive than Samuel
Chute had seen her yet, for there was a warm flush in her cheek, and her
eyes were sparkling and full of vivacity.  But in spite of this the
schoolmaster drew his breath through his teeth with a spiteful hiss, and
as he leaned a little forward and stared at Hazel Thorne, his
countenance assumed the same ugly look, full of dislike and spite, that
had been seen in his mother's face only a short time before.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A MATCH-MAKING MAMMA.

"Don't you think, George, that dear Beatrice looks rather pale and
thin?" said Mrs Canninge.

"Who--Beatrice Lambent?" said the young man, raising his eyes from his
paper at breakfast.

"Yes, dear; very thin and pale indeed."

"Now you mention it yes, of course; but so she always did."

"Slightly, George; and there was a delicacy in the tinting of her skin--
liliaceous, I might say, but she was not pale."

"Bravo, dear!  That's a capital word.  Do for a Tennysonian poem--`the
Lay of the Liliaceous Lady.'"

"I was speaking seriously, my dear," said Mrs Canninge stiffly.  "I beg
that you will not make those absurd remarks."

"Certainly not, dear; but liliaceous is not a serious way of speaking of
a lady."

"Then I will not use it, George, for I wish to speak to you very
seriously about Beatrice Lambent."

The young man winced a little, but said nothing.  He merely rustled his
newspaper and assumed an air of attention.

"I don't think that dear Beatrice is well, George."

"Tell Lambent to send her off to the seaside for a good blow."

"To pine away and grow worse, George."

"To the interior, then, mother."

"To still pine away, George."

"Try homeopathy, then.  Like cures like.  Send her into Surrey amongst
the fir-trees--pine to cure pine."

Mrs Canninge sipped her coffee.

"Or get Miss Penstemon to give her a few pilules out of one of her
bottles--the one she selected when I came down on the Czar last year at
that big hedge."

"When you have ended your badinage, my dear son, I shall be ready to go
on."

"Done.  Finis!" said George Canninge promptly.

"I have been noting the change in dear Beatrice for some time past."

"I have not," said the young man.  "She always was very thin and
genteel-looking."

"Extremely, George; but of late there has been a subdued sadness--a
pained look in her pensive eyes, that troubles me a good deal, for it is
bad."

"Perhaps she has some trouble on her mind, dear.  You should try and
comfort her."

"_I_ could not comfort her, my dear.  The comfort must come from other
lips than mine.  Hers is a mental grief."

"Why, you don't mean to say that she is in love?" said George Canninge,
laughing.

"I mean to say that the poor girl is suffering cruelly from a feeling of
neglect, and it grieves me very, very much."

"Send the swain for whom she sighs to comfort her, my dear mamma."

"That is what I am seeking to do, George," said the lady, looking at him
meaningly.  "Don't you think it is time you threw off this indifference,
and ceased to trifle?  You are giving pain to a true, sweet woman."

"I!  I giving pain to a true, sweet woman?  Absurd!  My dearest mother,
do you for a moment suppose that I ever thought seriously about Beatrice
Lambent?"

"It has been one of my cherished hopes that you did, George, and I know
that she feels your cool indifference most keenly."

"Nonsense, dear!" he cried, laughing; "why, what crotchet is this that
you have got into your head?"

"Crotchet?"

"Yes, dear--crotchet."

"I am speaking in all seriousness to you, my son.  George, your
behaviour to Beatrice Lambent is not correct."

"My dear mother," said the young man firmly, "do you mean to tell me
that you honestly believe Beatrice Lambent cares for me?"

"Most assuredly, George."

"Poor lass, then!  That's all I can say."

"Why, George, have you not led her on by your attentions for these many
months past?"

"Certainly not!  I have been as civil and attentive to her as I have
been to other ladies--that is all.  What nonsense!  Really, mother, it
is absurd."

"It is not absurd, George, but a very serious matter."

"Well, serious enough, of course, for I should be sorry if Miss Lambent
suffered under a misunderstanding."

"Why let it be a misunderstanding, George?  Beatrice is handsome."

"Ye-es," said the young man, gazing down at his paper.

"Well born."

"I suppose so."

"Thoroughly intellectual."

"Let's see: it's Byron, isn't it, who makes `hen-pecked-you-all' rhyme
to `intellectual'?"

"George!"

"My dear mother."

"Beatrice is amiable; has a good portion from her late uncle--in fact,
taken altogether, a most eligible _partie_, and I like her very much."

"But, my dear mother," said the young squire, "it is a question of my
marriage, is it not?"

"Of course, my son."

"Then it would be necessary for me to like her as well--from my
commonplace point of view, to love her."

"Certainly, my dear; and that I believe at heart you do."

"Then, your dear, affectionate, motherly heart is slightly in error, for
I may as well frankly tell you that I do not like Beatrice Lambent, and
what is far more, I am sure that I should never love her enough to make
her my wife."

"My dear George, you give me very great pain."

"I am very sorry, my dear mother, but you must allow me to think for
myself in a matter of this sort.  There: suppose we change the subject."

He resumed, or rather seemed to resume, the reading of his paper, while
the lady continued her breakfast, rather angry at what she called her
son's obstinacy, but too good a diplomatist to push him home, preferring
to wait till he had had time to reflect upon her words.  She glanced at
him now and then, and saw that he seemed intent upon his newspaper, but
she did not know that he could not keep his attention to the page, for
all the while his thoughts were wandering back to the tent in Mr
William Forth Burge's grounds, then to the church, and again to the
various occasions when he had seen Hazel Thorne's quiet, grave face, as
she bent over one or other of her scholars.

He thought, too, of her conversation when he chatted with her after he
had taken her in to tea, and then of every turn of expression in her
countenance, comparing it with that of Beatrice Lambent, but only to
cease with an ejaculation full of angry contempt, "I shall not marry a
woman for her pretty face."

"Did you speak, my dear!" said Mrs Canninge.

"I uttered a thought half aloud," he replied quietly.

"Is it a secret, dear?" she said playfully.

"No, mother; I have no secrets from you."

"That is spoken like my own dear son," said Mrs Canninge, rising, and
going behind his chair to place her hands upon his shoulders, and then
raise them to his face, drawing him back, so that she could kiss his
forehead.  "Why, there are lines in your brow, George--lines of care.
What are you thinking about!"

"Beatrice Lambent."

"About dear Beatrice, George?  Why, that ought to bring smiles, and not
such deep thought-marks as these."

"Indeed, mother!  Well, for my part, I should expect much of Beatrice
Lambent would eat lines very deeply into a fellow's brow."

"For shame, my dear!  But come," cried Mrs Canninge cheerfully, "tell
me what were your thoughts, or what it was you said that was no secret."

"I said to myself, mother, that I should never marry a woman for the
sake of a pretty face."

Mrs Canninge's mind was full of Hazel Thorne, and, associating her
son's remark with the countenance that had rather troubled her thoughts
since the day of the school feast, her heart gave a throb of
satisfaction.

"I know that, George," she exclaimed, smiling.  "I know my son to be too
full of sound common-sense, and too ready to bear honourably his
father's name, to be led away by any temporary fancy for a
pleasant-looking piece of vulgar prettiness."

Mrs Canninge stopped, for she knew at heart without the warning of the
colour coming into her son's face, that she had gone too far; and she
felt cold and bitter as she listened to her son's next words.

"I do not consider Beatrice Lambent's features to be vulgarly pretty,"
he said.

"Oh no, of course not, George; she is very refined."

"I misunderstood you, then," said George Canninge coldly.  "But let us
understand one another, my dear mother.  I find you have been thinking
it probable that I should propose to Beatrice Lambent."

"Yes, dear; and I am sure that she would accept you."

"I daresay she would," he replied coldly; "but such an event is not
likely to be brought about for Beatrice Lambent is not the style of
woman I should choose for my wife."

He rose and quitted the room, leaving Mrs Canninge standing by the
window, looking proud and angry, with her eyes fixed upon the door.

"I knew it," she cried; "I knew it.  But you shall not trifle with me,
George.  I am neither old nor helpless yet."



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, _a 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 _protegee_ 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."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE COMING STRUGGLE.

Was there ever a young schoolmaster or mistress yet who did not view
with a strange feeling of tribulation the coming of inspection day, when
that awful being, Her Majesty's Inspector of Schools for such and such a
district, is expected down to make his report and add to or deduct so
many pounds sterling from the teacher's pay?

Of course we do these things better now; but there have been cases where
the appointment of school inspector has been given to a gentleman who
owed his elevation, not to the fact that he was a thorough scholar, a
man who had always taken great interest in the education of the masses,
a student of school management, a man of quick intellect apt to seize
upon the latent points, ready to suggest, to qualify, and help the
master or mistress upon whose teaching for the past year he was about to
report, gifted with the brain-power that would enable him to appreciate
the difficulties of the task, and ready to see that the boys and girls
of Pudley Claypole really had not the quickness of the _gamins_ and
_gamines_ of Little Sharp Street, Whitechapel Road--but to the accident
of his having friends, if not at Court, at all events with some high
official--his sisters, his cousins, or his aunts--then in power.

Now, no one could have found fault with the gentlemanly demeanour of Mr
Slingsby Barracombe.  Miss Lambent said it was a pleasure to have him at
the vicarage, and quite made a break in the dulness of their life, for
he discoursed of society in town, his high connections, the state of the
country; and he could sip tea and talk family matters with the vicarage
ladies like a woman.  He was a man of excellent presence: his hair very
slightly touched with grey, and in that stage when, as he parted it down
the middle, you could not decidedly have said whether it was a very
broad parting or a suggestion of growing bald.

Sometimes your school inspector is a reverend M.A.  Mr Slingsby
Barracombe was not, but he dressed as much like a clergyman as he could,
and his clothes were all made by one of the first clerical tailors in
town.

Mr Barracombe's uncle's wife's sister had married a gentleman whose
brother was in the Ministry; and, somehow, Mr Slingsby Barracombe was
named as likely to obtain the appointment of Inspector of Schools, did
obtain it and went on afterwards merrily inspecting and reporting for
his district after a fashion for which he ought to have had a patent,
since it was essentially his own.

"You will endeavour to have as large an attendance as you can.  Miss
Thorne," said the vicar.  "Her Majesty's inspector will be here on
Thursday, and I shall feel it deeply if you do not receive a highly
commendatory report."

"We hope--my sister and I--Miss Thorne," said Miss Lambent with
asperity, "that the girls will acquit themselves well.  Some of their
needlework has of late been terribly full of gobble stitches."

"And so disgustingly grubby," put in Miss Beatrice.

"That it has not been fit to be seen.  Pray--pray--I implore you.  Miss
Thorne--pray be more energetic with the girls."

"Don't you bother yourself, my dear," said Miss Burge.  "My brother says
he hopes the girls will all show up well, for your sake as well as the
school's; but don't you bother yourself, my dear.  You've just worked
like a slave and done no end.  Now let it all slide.  If the girls
answer well, they do; if they don't answer well, they don't.  'Taint
your fault, so don't you worry.  We're both coming to the inspection,
and my brother says if there's any nonsense and fault-finding with the
inspector he shall give him a bit of his mind.  He don't believe in
inspectors, don't Bill.  He says there was never any inspectors in his
time that he knows of, and if all the boys turn out as well as he did,
there won't be much to grumble about; so don't you fidget, but take it
as coolly as you can."

"I say, how are you getting on!" said Mr Chute, popping his head in at
the door.  "Can't stop, because I expect Lambent; and if I do come in,
it will be cats.  You know."

"Cats?  I know?" said Hazel, staring at the lumpy front of Mr Chute,
and noticing that his hair seemed to have come up more than ever.

"Yes, of course--cats!  I mean Becky and Beatrice--Rebel and Tricksy.  I
call them the cats.  Don't tell 'em I called 'em so; but I'm not a bit
afraid of that.  Don't feel nervous about the inspection, do you?"

"I do feel a little nervous Mr Chute."

"So does my mother.  She's in a regular fidget for fear I shouldn't do
well; but as I said to her, what does it matter?  When a man has done
his best with his school, why, he can't do any better, can he?"

"No; certainly not," replied Hazel, for Mr Chute was gazing at her in
his peculiarly irritating way, his head a little on one side and his
nose pointing, as if he meant to have an answer out of her if it was not
soon forthcoming.

"I think my boys are all well up, and if they don't answer sharp they've
got me to deal with afterwards, and they'll hear of it, I can tell 'em.
But don't you mind.  Old Barracombe isn't much account.  He always asks
the same questions--a lot he has got off by heart, I believe.  I always
call him the expector, because he expects answers to questions he
couldn't answer for himself."

"I hope the children will acquit themselves well," said Hazel.  "Oh, I
don't think I shall bother myself much about it.  I shall take precious
good care that they have clean hands and faces, that's about all."

Just then Mr Chute popped back outside the door, as if he were part of
a pantomime trick, and Hazel breathed more freely, thinking he had gone;
but he popped in again, smiling and imitating his visitee more and more
by assuming to take her into his confidence, and treating her as if she
were combining with him in his petty little bits of deception.

"There's nobody coming.  I looked right up the street, and I could have
seen that stalking post Lambent if he had been a mile off."

If Hazel had asked him if he could see the Misses Lambent he would have
been happy; but she did not, though Mr Chute waited with a smile upon
his face but a goodly store of bitterness in his heart, for he kept on
thinking of George Canninge, and that gentleman who came down upon the
first Sunday and caused him such a pang.

Hazel, however, did not speak.  She stood there, not caring to be rude,
but longing to ask him to go, and with that peculiar itching attacking
her fingers which made her wish to lift the Testament she had in her
hand to well box his too prominent ears.

Just then Mr Chute popped out again, and once more Hazel's heart gave a
throb of relief, for it was troubled now by the idea that Mr Chute was
growing attached to her, and there was something so horrible as well as
ludicrous in this, that she shrank from him whenever he appeared.  But
Mr Chute was not gone; he came back directly with a great bunch of
flowers grasped in his two hands and held up to his breast and over
which he smiled blandly.

"They're not much of flowers for you to receive.  Miss Hazel, but I
thought you'd like a few to put in water--_and you might like to accept
them for my sake_."

Mr Samuel Chute did not say those last words, though it formed part of
the speech he had written out when he planned making that offering of
flowers, and promised the boys who had gardens at home a penny apiece
for a bunch, which bunches had been rearranged by him into a whole, and
carefully tied up with string.

The bunch was laid down outside the door when he first entered, and at
last brought in and held as has been stated.

Hazel felt ready to laugh, for there was a smirk upon Mr Chute's face,
and a peculiar look that reminded her of a French peasant in an opera
she had once seen, as he stood presenting a large bunch of flowers to
the lady of his love.  There was a wonderful resemblance to the scene,
which was continued upon the stage by the lady boxing the peasant's ears
and making him drop the huge bouquet which she immediately kicked, so
that it came undone, and the flowers were scattered round.

Of course this did not take place in the real scene, for, after the
first sensation relating to mirth, Hazel felt so troubled that she was
ready to run away into the cottage to avoid her persecutor.

For was there ever a young lady yet who could avoid looking upon an
offering of flowers as having a special meaning?  The pleasant fancy of
the language of flowers is sentimental enough to appeal to every one who
is young; and here was Mr Chute presenting her with his first bouquet,
a very different affair, so she thought, to the bunches of beautiful
roses brought from time to time by Miss Burge.

"Just a few flowers out of our garden, my dear," the little lady said,
without any allusion to the fact that her brother had selected every
rose himself, cutting them with his own penknife, and afterwards
carefully removing every spine from the stems.

What should she do?  She did not want Chute's flowers, but if she
refused them the act would be looked upon almost as an insult, and it
was not in Hazel's nature to willingly give pain.  So she rather weakly
took them, thanked the donor, and he went away smiling, after giving her
a look that seemed, according to his ideas, to tell her that his heart
was hers for ever, and that he was her most abject slave.

Hazel saw the glance, and thought that Mr Chute looked rather silly;
but directly after repented bitterly of what she had done, and wished
that she had firmly refused the gift.

"And yet what nonsense!" she reasoned.  "Why should I look upon a
present of a few flowers as having any particular meaning?  They are to
decorate the school for the inspection, and I will take them in that
light."

Acting upon this, she quietly called up Feelier Potts and another of the
elder girls who were whispering together, evidently about the the gift,
sent them to the cottage for some basins and jugs, and bade them divide
the flowers and put some in water in each window, a proceeding
afterwards dimly visible to Mr Chute, who did not feel at all pleased.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

INSPECTION DAY.

"I should put on my best silk this morning, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne,
unrolling the broad white strings of her widow's cap and rolling them
the reverse way to make them lie flat.

"Put on my best silk, dear!" said Hazel, aghast.

"Now, that is what I don't like in you, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne
dictatorially.  "You profess to be so economical, and grudge every
little outlay for the house, but directly I propose to you anything that
affects your personal vanity you are up in arms."

"My dear mother, you mistake me."

"Oh, dear me, no, Hazel.  I may be a poor, suffering, weak woman, but I
have not lived to my years through trouble and tribulation without being
able to read a young girl's heart.  That silk is old-fashioned now, I
know, but it is quite good enough for the purpose, and yet has
sufficient tone about it, having been made by a first-class dressmaker,
to let the inspector see that you are a lady."

"My dear mother," began Hazel.

"Now, don't interrupt me, Hazel.  I do not often interfere, but there
are times, as I told Mr Lambent when he called last, when I feel bound
to make some little corrections in your ways.  You must let Her
Majesty's inspector see that you are a lady, and who knows what may
happen!  He may be so struck by the fact that he finds a real lady in
charge of this school that he will feel bound to make you an offer of
marriage.  Mr Lambent assured me that he was a very gentlemanly man and
tolerably young.  By-the-way, Hazel, have you noticed how very kind and
attentive Mr Lambent is?"

"Yes, mother.  He is very good and considerate, and thanked me yesterday
for the efforts I have made with the school."

"Quite right; so he ought.  But as I was saying about Her Majesty's
inspector, you must let him see that you are a lady by birth and
education."

"My dear mother, I think the inspector must find that the majority of
schoolmistresses are ladylike, and of course highly educated."

"I am talking about my daughter," said Mrs Thorne, who had great
difficulty in getting her cap-strings to lie flat.  "I wish you to
impress upon him, Hazel, that you are a lady; in fact I feel it to be my
duty to speak to him myself."

"My dearest mother!"

"Now, pray do not be so rash and impetuous, my dear," said the lady,
bridling.  "The best way would be to ask him to come into the
drawing-room and hand him a little refreshment--a glass of wine and a
biscuit."

"But you forget that we are living in a cottage now.  The inspector will
be staying with Mr Lambent and he will get what refreshment--"

"Hazel, don't be obstinate.  I know what I am saying.  Oh no, I don't
forget that I am living in a mean and sordid cottage with contemptible
windows," she cried, with an irritating shake of the head, and a
querulous ring in her voice that jarred to Hazel's heart.  "I know that
this room is merely what you call a parlour by construction; but the
fact of your mother--_your_ mother occupying it, my child, makes it a
drawing-room.  You will put on your silk dress, Hazel?"

"No, mother; I am going to put on the clean grasscloth," said Hazel
quietly.  "The other would be unsuitable for the school, and the dark
silk would show the dust and chalk."

"Was ever woman troubled with such a wilful girl before!" moaned Mrs
Thorne.  "Oh, dear me!--oh, _dea_-ar me!"

She declined to be comforted, and Hazel remained obstinate absolutely
refusing to go to the school in silk attire, but wearing an extremely
simple, closely-fitting, grasscloth dress, with plain white collar and
cuffs, and looking dreadful--so Miss Lambent afterwards said to her
sister; a prejudiced statement, for if ever there was an exemplification
of the proverb regarding the needlessness of foreign ornament it was in
Hazel Thorne's appearance that day.

As a rule she was disposed to be pale, but the excitement consequent
upon the important event had brought the colour into her cheeks, and she
looked brighter than she had for months.

Mr Chute's flowers were on the sills of the windows, the room had been
well sprinkled and swept, there was not a vestige of a cobweb to be
seen, and the girls had assembled in strong force, there having been a
theory in the school that an inspection meant tea and cake afterwards, a
theory that Feelier Potts, basing her remarks on experience, strongly
opposed; but the children mustered all the same, and in many cases
suffering a good deal from hair oil, applied so that patches of their
foreheads shone and invited comparison with the rest of their faces.

Mr William Forth Burge was one of the first arrivals, and he paused
with his sister upon the doorstep, to unfold a clean orange silk
handkerchief, and have a loud blow, like a knight of old seizing the
bugle at the castle-gate.

"How nice you do look, Bill!" said little Miss Burge, smiling at him
tenderly, as she raised her hand to the latch.

"Do I, Betsey!  Am I all right!  Do I look well!"

"Beautiful!" said Miss Burge enthusiastically.  "There ain't a wrinkle
about your back, nor sides, nor nowhere."

"That's right!" he exclaimed.  "I was rather afraid, for they're
precious tight, Betsey; and the coat feels as if it would give way about
the arms."

"But see how it shows off your figure, Bill dear," said the little lady;
"and you are getting a bit too stout."

"Ye-es, I s'pose I am; but it don't matter, Betsey, so long as the
'art's in the right place.  Come along."

They entered, and their greeting to Hazel was very warm.  Soon after
there was a buzz of voices heard outside, when the colour disappeared
from the cheeks of the young mistress, for she knew that the crucial
time had come.  There was a sharp tapping at the door directly
afterwards, and one of the elder girls went to open it, Hazel continuing
her work with the classes, in support of the very old fiction that the
inspector would come and take school and scholars quite by surprise.

Then the door was thrown open, and a little scene enacted on the
threshold, the ladies drawing back to allow so important a personage as
Her Majesty's inspector to enter first, and Mr Slingsby Barracombe
drawing back in turn with the vicar, to allow Miss Lambent and her
sister to take precedence.

After a little hesitation, and a few words, the ladies entered, smiling,
the gentlemen followed, and Hazel advanced to meet them, when there was
the sound of wheels, a carriage stopped, steps were let down, and George
Canninge handed out his mother, walked with her to the school, and
entered.

Salutations, introductions, and a buzz of conversation followed, during
which time Hazel felt in agony.  Why had Mr Canninge come? she asked
herself.  She did not know why, but his presence unnerved her, and she
dreaded disgracing herself in his eyes.

"We thought we should like to be present," said the young squire.  "I
hope Mr Barracombe will not consider us in the way."

On the contrary, he was delighted to see present any of the patrons of
the school, and said so as soon as he knew the social status of the
Canninges; after which he asked to be excused, smiled, bowed, and turned
to the task he had in hand.  Then George Canninge shook hands warmly
"with those dreadfully vulgar folks, the Burges," as Mrs Canninge said,
while she kept an eye upon her son and the schoolmistress in turn.

As a rule the Rev  Henry Lambent was the great man at the schools, but
upon this occasion he sank into a very secondary position, following the
inspector with a stiff kind of deference, as Mr Slingsby Barracombe
raised his glasses to his eyes, balanced them upon his nose, looked at
Hazel gravely for a few moments, and then bowed formally without a word,
before taking off his glasses and holding them behind him with both
hands as if they were hot, while he marched about the school.

National school children are at such times supposed to be all intent
upon their lessons, and never to raise their eyes to look at visitors,
especially such an awe-inspiring personage as an inspector; but it would
be just as reasonable to expect a pinch of steel filings to refrain from
turning towards a magnet plunged in their midst.  Certainly the girls in
Hazel Thorne's charge followed the inspector, their eyes taking in every
movement and Feelier Potts's malicious features almost involuntarily
moulding themselves into an excellent imitation of the peculiarities of
his face.

When Mr Barracombe had solemnly walked round the school once, with the
Reverend Henry Lambent hat in hand, behind him, and the other visitors
forming themselves into a deferential audience, who watched him as if he
were going through some wonderful performance, he said, with a loud
expiration of his breath--

"Hah!" an ejaculation that might mean anything, and one that committed
him to naught.

"Is--ah, this your first class.  Miss--ah--ah--"

"Thorne," said Hazel quietly.  "No, sir, this is the second."

"Thorne, ah--exactly.  Yes, I see--ah.  Yes, needlework--ah.  Stand."

The girls in the first class stood up smartly, and Feelier Potts's
thimble flew off, went tinkling across the floor, and was flattened
beneath one of Ann Straggalls's big feet.

"Oh, you see if I don't serve you out for that," began Feelier loudly,
her face scarlet with rage.

"Hush! silence!  How dare you, child?"

"Well, but she's squeedged it flat."

"Silence, girl!" exclaimed the inspector indignantly.  "Back to your
place."

Hazel turned crimson as she hurriedly took Feelier Potts by the arm, and
in her excitement and dread of a scene, knowing as she did the fearless
nature of the girl, she said softly--

"Be a good girl, Ophelia, and I will give you a new thimble."

There was quite a sensation during this little episode.  Miss Lambent
whispering to her sister, who nodded and shook her head, Mrs Canninge
looking with raised eyebrows at the first class through her gold-rimmed
glasses, and little Miss Burge furiously shaking her fat forefinger at
"that naughty child."  There was a hearty laugh on its way to George
Canninge's lips, but, seeing the pain the chatter was causing Hazel, he
checked his mirth and remained serious.

Mr Barracombe seemed to be in doubt as to whether he ought not to expel
Feelier Potts there and then, and as she resumed her place he frowned at
her severely, the culprit looking up at him with a most mild and
innocent aspect, till he turned his gaze upon another pupil, when
Feelier began nodding at Ann Straggalls and uttering whispered menaces
of what she would do as soon as they were out of school.

Then all eyes were turned to the inspector, who unfolded some printed
blue papers, and after coughing to clear his voice, searched in his
waistcoat pocket, and brought out a gold pencil-case, which required a
good deal of screwing about before it would condescend to mark.  Having
pinched his nose between his glasses, he commenced examining the
needlework, of which he was evidently a good judge, and doubtless knew
the difference between hemming, stitching, tacking, herring-boning, and
the other mysterious processes by which cloth, calico, and other woven
fabrics are held together.

Then there was an entry made upon the blue paper, and the inspector
looked severely through his glasses at Ann Straggalls.

"Can you tell me, my good girl, how many yards of long-cloth would be
required for a full-sized shirt?"

Ann Straggalls allowed her jaw to drop and stood staring hard at the
querist for a few moments, and then, like that certain man in the
scriptural battle, she drew a bow at a venture, but she failed to hit
the useful under garment in question, for she eagerly replied "twelve."

"Next girl," said the inspector.

"Eight."

"Next girl."

"Sixteen."

"Next."

"Twenty."

"Next.  How many yards of long-cloth would be required for a full-sized
shirt?"

The next was Feelier Potts, whose eyes were twinkling as she answered--

"Mother always makes father's of calico."

"Very good, my girl; then tell me how many yards it would take."

"Night shirt or day shirt?" cried Feelier sharply.

"Day shirt," replied the inspector severely; and George Canninge became
red in the face as the disposition to laugh grew stronger.

"Wouldn't take half so much to make one for my brother Tom as it would
for--"

"Silence!" exclaimed the inspector, and Feelier Potts pretended to look
very much alarmed, drawing her eyes together towards her nose and nearly
making Ann Straggalls titter as the inspector stooped for a fresh entry.

Hazel's attention was here taken up by another class, for, being left
unattended, the girls began to grow restive.

"Now," said the inspector, "I will ask you another question, my good
girls.  Can any one tell me what proportion the gusset bears to the
whole shirt?  The girl who knows put out her hand."

Miss Rebecca had been hoping that Mr Slingsby Barracombe would enter
upon some other branch of education; but he clung to the needlework, and
smiled approvingly as half-a-dozen, and then two more hands were thrust
out.

"Well," he said, "suppose you tell me."

"Three yards," said the first girl.

"You do not apprehend my question, my good child," said the inspector
blandly.  "I asked what proportion the gusset bore to the whole of the
shirt."

"Please, sir, I know, sir," said Feelier Potts, who was standing with
her hand pointing straight at the visitor.

"Then tell us," said the inspector, smiling.

"Four yards!" cried Feelier triumphantly.

"I said what proportion, my good girl; do you not know what I mean by
proportion?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what!"

"Rule o' three sums, same as boys learn."

"Tut-tut-tut! this is very sad," said the inspector, shaking his head, a
motion that seemed to be infectious, for it was taken up by Miss
Rebecca, communicated to Miss Beatrice, and then caught up by little
Miss Burge, whose head-shaking was, however, meant to be in sympathy
with Hazel.

"I wish he'd let me ask the girls some queshtuns, Betsey," whispered Mr
William Forth Burge, as he saw the inspector's pencil going; "I could
make them answer better than that."

But the visitor had no intention of choosing a deputy, and he went on
asking several more questions of a similar class, relating to cutting
out and making up, not one of which produced a satisfactory answer; and
the vicar looked very grave as he saw entries that he knew to be
unfavourable made with the gold pencil-case.

Then the girls had to read, and got on better; but as soon as the
inspector began to ask scriptural questions the class appeared to have
run wild, and the answers were of the most astonishing nature.  Simple
matters of knowledge that they knew perfectly the day before, seemed to
have passed entirely out of the girls' minds, and they guessed and
answered at random.  Sometimes a correct reply was given, but whenever
it came to the turn of Feelier Potts, if she did happen to know, she
managed to pervert the answer.

She told the inspector in the most unblushing manner that during the
plagues of Egypt the children of Israel suffered from fleas, and had
rice in all their four quarters.  Corrected upon this, she asserted that
these same people crossed the Red Sea on a dry day.  The class was asked
why Moses struck the rock, and Feelier whispered an answer to Ann
Straggalls, who eagerly replied--"Because it was naughty."  Due to the
same mischief-loving brain, another girl asserted that the ark of the
covenant contained Shem, Ham, and Japhet; that it was a pillar of salt
that went before the wanderers in the desert; and that it was the manna
that was swallowed up during the rebellion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram.

Taken altogether, the children did not shine in Scripture history.

Slates were passed round with a good deal of clatter, and then a
question was propounded.

"How many pounds of butter at one-and-fourpence per pound can I buy for
eight shillings?"

Ann Straggalls, after a great deal of staring at the ceiling and biting
at her pencil, proved it to be forty.  Feelier Potts rapidly dashed the
pencil to her slate, screwed up her forehead, and made some figures,
finishing off by carefully watching that no other girl should see, and
smiling triumphantly at those who had not finished; but when it came to
show slates, Feelier displayed a large pound with the figure 2 following
certain other figures, which did not show how she had arrived at this
result.

"This is very sad," said the inspector.  "My good children, you cannot
properly apprehend my questions.  Do you know what I mean by
`apprehend'?"

Out flew Feelier Potts's hand like a semaphore, and she pointed straight
at the top button of the inspector's waistcoat.

"I--ah, don't think, my good child, that you know," said the inspector.
"You answer at random."

"No, sir, plee, sir; I know, sir."

"Know what?  What did I ask?"

"Plee, sir, what `apprehend' means.  I know, sir."

"Good girl; quite right," said the inspector, smiling, "Tell us, then,
what `apprehend' means."

"Policeman taking up tipsy man," cried Feelier excitedly.

George Canninge could not resist this, but burst out into a hearty roar
of laughter, and then turned his back, for Feelier Potts was at once
struck with the idea that she had said something good, and joined in the
mirth, till she caught the inspector's eye glaring at her balefully,
when the laughter froze stiff and she began to squint so horribly that
Mr Slingsby Barracombe turned away in disgust to say to the vicar--

"Most extraordinary child this!"

George Canninge's laughter came to an end also very suddenly, for, as he
stood wiping his eyes, he found that Hazel Thorne was looking in his
direction with so much pain and annoyance expressed in her countenance
that he bit his lips, and his eyes said plainly, if she could have read
the glance, "Pray forgive me; it was very foolish."

Just then the inspector took out another sheet of paper, and moved on to
a different class, that which Hazel had been keeping in order, and here,
in due rotation, he tried the children in the various subjects they had
been learning with a most melancholy effect.  The timid children he
seemed to freeze; others he puzzled by his peculiar way of asking
questions; while, again, others he made stare at him in a way that
plainly indicated that they did not understand a word he said.

Mr Barracombe, however, paid little heed to this, but went on putting
queries, and making notes most industriously, while the sisters stood
tightening their lips, till George Canninge came and joined them, when
Beatrice, who had been growing more and more acid every minute, began to
beam once more, and made remarks to him about the school.

"I am so sorry that the children are answering in this absurd way.  I
take great interest in the schools, and come down and teach, so that it
seems like a reflection upon me."

"They don't understand him," said George Canninge impatiently.

"I'm afraid they do," replied Beatrice quickly, for she could not resist
the temptation to say something unpleasant, "but they are so backward."
She meant to have said "badly taught," but hesitated at the last moment.

"Well, what can you expect?" said Canninge.  "The inspector asks too
much of children of their class.  Why, they could not answer his
questions in a first-class school."

"But this is a first-class school, Mr Canninge," cried Rebecca sharply.

"Hush, dear; Mr Barracombe is asking the second class some geography
questions;" and as they listened they caught the end of an inquiry about
the Ouse--its source, tributaries course, and the chief towns upon its
banks.

"Well, hang me if I could tell him," said Canninge; "and I shall be
surprised if the children do."

He was not surprised, for no satisfactory answer came.  The children
told the inspector the capital of England readily enough, and the names
of the principal rivers; but his way was so strange to them that for the
most part the little things did not comprehend his questions, and
Hazel's heart sank as she sighed for the apparent density that had
fallen upon the different classes.

Everything went badly: the writing from dictation was terrible, and the
sentences made of the words read out by the inspector were horribly void
of meaning.  The Reverend Henry Lambent's face grew more troubled, the
ladies whispered together, and the buzz of the school seemed to Hazel to
make her dizzy, as she strove hard, with her nerves strained by
excitement, to keep the different classes in order, while every time she
thought of the ordeal that had to come, she turned sick with misery, and
longed for the end of the day.

"I should like to punch his 'ead, Betsey," whispered Mr William Forth
Burge at last.  "What's the good of asking them children a queshtun like
that!  They can't make out a word he says."

"Hush!  Don't interfere, Bill.  It might make Miss Thorne more nervous.
Pore dear, she do look bad."

"I don't know as I shan't interfere," whispered back the great man of
Plumton.  "I consider that I've got a bit of a voice in this school, and
I don't see no fun in this chap going away saying that everything's
wrong when I know it ain't.  How can he tell, just coming strange among
the bairns, and asking a few queshtuns anyhow like!  If they don't
answer 'em he sets it down they can't, when I know all the time they
can."

"But you'll make it worse for Miss Thorne," whispered little Miss Burge;
"and she's worried to death as it is."

"Well, I don't want to do that," he said sulkily; and he held his tongue
whilst class after class was examined, even those children who were
tried in catechism mixing the answers up in the most absurd way, or
staring helplessly in the speaker's face.

"I don't care," whispered Mr William Forth Burge at last; "he don't
know how to ask queshtuns, and for two pins I'd tell him so; now then."

"Oh don't, Bill dear; it would not be gentlemanly.  Pray do be quiet."

"Look here, then; if Lambent asks me up to dinner to meet that chap, I
shan't go."

"Hush, Bill!  She's going to give the girls, a hobject lesson."

For the crucial time had come, and about forty of the elder girls had
been faced and marched into the gallery to sit opposite their teacher,
while the visitors rearranged themselves--the Misses Lambent with an air
of long-suffering, the vicar with an air of intense trouble upon his
face, while Mrs Canninge looked vexed, and the Burges disappointed and
cross.

The inspector seated himself at one of the desks and commenced a fresh
sheet of paper, while, saving the subdued buzz in the various classes, a
painful stillness was in the room, and Hazel felt her heart throb
heavily, and plainly heard its beats.

She took a simple subject, and began in a low, trembling voice, which
sounded pained and husky, while the intensity of her nervousness was
patent to all present; but after she had been going on for a minute or
two, to her great relief George Canninge rose and left the schoolroom.

The girls were beginning to answer better now, and Hazel felt her
courage rise a little; but her heart sank and she began to tremble again
as she heard the door open once more, a step crossing the floor, and
coming to where she was speaking.  The next moment George Canninge
said--

"One moment, Miss Thorne.  You are hoarse and tired."

As he spoke there was the pleasant gurgle of cold water being poured
into a glass, and Beatrice turned pale with the rush of blood to her
heart as she saw the young squire thoughtfully hand the glass to Hazel,
who took it, giving him a grateful glance as she did so, and then drank
the refreshing fluid with avidity.

"I will take the glass," he said in the most quiet, matter-of-fact way;
and then Hazel felt as if a new spirit had been sent into her veins.  It
was so gentle and thoughtful an act, coming as it did when she was faint
and sick with the heat and agitation; and, turning to her classes, she
felt a strength within her that seemed to her astonishing.

She went on with the lesson, and her faltering voice grew stronger, her
questions clearer and more incisive; she described and painted in vivid
colours to the children the object she had made the theme of her lesson;
and in another few moments as if by a sympathetic touch, the children
were _en rapport_ with her; their young cheeks flushed, their eyes were
full of eagerness, and there was an excited burst of answers every time
she spoke, clearer and brighter and plainer.  Word-painting in the
simplest and cleverest touches, simplicity and yet vivid colouring.  The
teacher had forgotten self, the nervousness had gone, and a quarter of
an hour passed rapidly by as Hazel, in her ambition to prove that the
children over whom she had worked so hard were not the dunces they had
seemed, explained her subject, making it geographical, historical, and
orthographical as well, till when at last, after an admirable finish,
she stood there flushed, her eyes brightened and turned to the inspector
as if to ask for further commands, Mr William Forth Burge "forgot
himself"--so Miss Lambent afterwards put it--for he burst out with a
hearty--

"Brayvo! brayvo! brayvo!" clapping his hands loudly; and this infected
George Canninge, who joined in the applause.

"A capital lesson," he said aloud; "a capital lesson, indeed."

Mr Lambent smiled, and bowed to Hazel, saying softly--

"Very good indeed."

"Ah--yes," said the inspector, rising; "I must say--a very good lesson.
Miss Thorne; and I hope by the time I come again I may find the girls
considerably advanced.  At present--I will say no more.  Good morning."

There was a polite procession formed, and the visitors slowly passed
through the door, the gentlemen seeing the ladies off first, but not
until little Miss Burge had trotted back to whisper to Hazel--

"You did it beautiful, my dear," and then hurried away.

Hazel hardly grasped her words, for George Canninge had turned to bow as
he went out, and the glance he then gave set her trembling as she stood
with one hand resting upon the desk; for it seemed to her that every one
must have seen that look, and she began to ask herself if she was mad to
let that man's presence fill her with thoughts that seemed to agitate
her strangely.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A LESSON IN TEACHING.

After the plain manner in which the Reverend Henry Lambent had shown
himself disposed to take the part of the young schoolmistress against
his sisters, the attacks made by Rebecca and Beatrice were not so open;
but they found many little ways of displaying in a petty spirit that
they were by no means her friends.

Ladies by birth, it was hardly to be expected that they should stoop to
pettiness, but years of residence in a little country place with few
people of their own class for associates, and that mutual friction which
is an imperceptible popular educator in manners, had made them what they
were, and disposed to grow more little of mind as the years went on.
Their lives were too smooth and regular, too uneventful.  A school
examination, a blanket club, and a harvest festival, were the great
points of their existence, and though they visited in the parish, and
were supposed to make themselves acquainted with the cares and sorrows
of the poor, their calls were made in a perfunctory spirit, and they did
not possess that simple power of appealing to the heart which wins the
confidence of rich and poor.  Unfortunately, then, they grew narrower as
their years became more, and, at the same time, from the want of some
good, genuine, honest troubles to take them out of themselves, acidity
began to cark and corrode their natures, and work a considerable change.
If Rebecca Lambent had met with a man who possessed good firm qualities
and been married, she would doubtless have turned out a quiet matronly
body, ready to smile at trifles, and make the best of things; but
unfortunately the right _he_ had never presented himself, and Rebecca
had become a thorough district-visiting old maid, as narrow as could be,
and ready to look upon a child who had not read "The Pilgrim's Progress"
as on the high road to destruction.

Beatrice Lambent's heart was still tender.  Rebecca said that she quite
hated men.  Beatrice thought the declaration quite suitable, as far as
her sister was concerned, but her own hatreds were directed at the other
sex, and Hazel Thorne was made the scapegoat in her eyes to bear the
sins of others.  For as the days glided by, she felt a growing dislike
to the young schoolmistress, who was always committing some grievous
error, her last being that of accepting the glass of water offered to
her by George Canninge.

It would be going far to say that Beatrice Lambent would gladly have put
poison in that water had she dared, but certainly she would gladly have
dashed it in the recipient's face.

It was terrible to her that George Canninge--the hope to which her
somewhat ardent imagination was now clinging as probably the last likely
to come in her way--should take so much notice of this stranger girl,
finding in her an attraction that asked from him the attentions he would
in an ordinary way have paid to the vicar's sister; and more than once
she had shed tears on Mrs Canninge's breast, when that lady bade her be
of good cheer, and not to take any notice of these acts.

"It is a mere nothing, my dear Beatrice," said Mrs Canninge.  "George
is naturally very chivalrous, and he seems to have taken it into his
head that this girl needs his help and protection."

"But it is so cruel to me," sighed Beatrice.  "If you could let him
think it caused me pain, he might not act so again."

"My dear child," replied Mrs Canninge, "you do not know my son so well
as I.  Poor boy, he is very headstrong, and fond of asserting himself.
Depend upon it if I were to attempt to lead him towards you, the
consequences would be disastrous.  We should be setting him from sheer
obstinacy towards this girl, who by-the-way appears to me to be either
very innocent and weak, or else crafty and clever to a degree."

"But surely you cannot think she dare aspire to a thought of your son
wishing to be attentive to her."

"Oh no, my dear child.  That would be impossible.  But there, do not
trouble yourself about it.  You will see that George has forgotten all
about her in a few weeks."

Beatrice promised that she would not trouble, but went on growing more
exercised in spirit day by day.  She took herself to task also about
several little acts of pettiness in which she had detected herself, and
made a vow that she would not be so contemptible again, but preserve
towards Hazel Thorne a ladylike dignity of manner that would be more in
keeping with her position as sister of the vicar of Plumton All Saints.

Human nature is, however, very weak, and the nature of Beatrice Lambent
was a little weaker.  She had always her sister Rebecca at her elbow--a
lady who was rapidly becoming the incarnation of old-maidish pettiness
and narrow-minded local policies--and strive how she would, Rebecca's
constant droppings kept wearing a nature which, though desirous of being
firm, was not hardened like unto stone.

The sisters attended the schools with their old readiness and every now
and then, as if something within prompted her to be constantly watching
for a chance of attack, Beatrice found herself making unpleasant remarks
to or of Hazel Thorne and then going home angry and bitter, as she
realised how ladylike and quiet the schoolmistress remained under every
attack.

For, calling up the whole strength of her character, Hazel had
determined to persevere.  She had several times been so cruelly
mortified by the treatment of the sisters that she felt that she must
go; but this was her first school, and she knew that she was bound to
stay there a sufficient time to obtain good testimonials for a second.

The vicar came down on the day following the examination, and told her
that the inspector had expressed himself greatly disappointed at the
state of the school.

"I am sorry to say, Miss Thorne, that he casually let drop his intention
of speaking rather hardly respecting our state, which--I am afraid I
must tell you his exact words."

"If you please, sir," said Hazel quietly; and she raised her eyes with
the strange effect of making him lower his, and speak in a quick,
indirect way.

"He said that the state the school was the more to be deplored from the
fact that we had secured a young lady of evident power of teaching.  The
object lesson, he said, was most masterly, and therefore--"

The vicar stopped and raised his eyes for a moment to meet the dear,
candid look that seemed to search his soul.

"Pray tell me all, sir."

"I--I hesitate.  Miss Thorne," he said, "because I do not think the
inspector's opinion was just."

"I thank you, sir," said Hazel gravely.

"He--he suggested that you could not be giving your heart to your work,
and that in consequence the children were far more backward than in
either of the neighbouring schools."

"It must be from want of ability, sir," said Hazel; "for I cannot charge
myself with neglecting my duties in the slightest degree."

"Exactly.  I am sure of it.  I know you have not, Miss Thorne.  I merely
repeat the inspector's words as a kind of duty, and I leave it to you to
make any alterations you may think best in the direction of your
teaching, for I sincerely hope that we may have a better account to show
on Mr Barracombe's next visit."

He smiled gravely, bowed, and went away with a longing desire to shake
hands, but this he kept down, and walked hurriedly home.

The vicar's sisters were not so agreeable in their remarks upon their
first visit after the inspection.  They did not attack Hazel with rebuke
upon the poor way in which the girls had shown up, but condoled with her
in that peculiarly aggravating manner adopted by some women towards
those they do not admire.

"We were so sorry for you, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca; "my heart quite
bled to see how badly the children answered."

"And it seemed to me such a pity," said Beatrice, "that they will be so
inattentive to the many orders you must have given them about their
needlework.  Did it not strike you as being exceedingly grubby?"

That word "grubby" was brought out in a way that was absolutely
wonderful.  The pronunciation was decidedly Parisian in the rolling of
the r, and Miss Beatrice seemed to keep the word upon her tongue,
turning it about so as to thoroughly taste how nasty it was before she
allowed it to pass forth into the open air.

"The girls do make their work exceedingly dirty before it is done," said
Hazel quietly.  "I deeply regretted, too, that they should have answered
so badly.  I am afraid that it was often from their not understanding
the questions."

"Oh, I don't think that, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca, with a kind of
snap.  "You'll excuse me, I set it down to their ignorance."

"And yet, Miss Lambent, I next day asked the girls as many of the
inspector's questions as I could recall, and they answered them with the
greatest ease."

"Oh, really, Miss Thorne, I cannot agree with you there," said Beatrice,
with an unpleasant smile.  "If they could answer you, why could they not
answer the inspector?"

"From inability to understand him, ma'am."

"I could understand every question.  Rebecca, could not you!"

"Every word, sister.  I thought Mr Barracombe singularly clear and
perspicuous.  The very model of a school inspector."

Hazel bowed.

"I shall try very hard to make them more ready in their answers by
another time," she said with humility.

"I hope you will, I am sure, Miss Thorne," said Beatrice, "for it must
have been very painful to you, even as it is to us, to know that you
have had a bad report of your school.  May we--do you object to our
taking a class each for a very little while?"

"Which class would you like, ma'am?" said Hazel gravely, in reply.

"Oh, whichever you please, Miss Thorne; we never like interfering
between the mistress and her pupils, and wish to be of help so as to get
the children on--do we not, Rebecca?"

"Decidedly, Beatrice.  To help you.  Miss Thorne: certainly not to usurp
your position.  I thought if we could take a class for you now and then
in Scripture history it might be useful to you.  Perhaps--I say it with
all deference.  Miss Thorne, to one who has been trained--you are not so
strong in Scripture history as we are."

"I feel my weakness in many subjects, Miss Lambent," replied Hazel.

"Oh no, don't say that," said Beatrice, with a flash of her cold blue
eyes.  "You are so very clever.  Miss Thorne.  We were quite struck by
your object lesson.  But Scripture history, you know.  We have been
always with our brother, and we have made it so deep a study that it has
come natural to us to have all these theological matters at our tongues'
ends.  Catechism, too--I think, Rebecca, we remarked that the girls were
much behind in `Duty towards my Neighbour' and `I desire.'"

"Very much so, Beatrice; and `Death unto Sin' was dreadful."

"So was `To examine themselves,'" said Beatrice.  "I think, Miss Thorne,
we might be of some assistance there."

"I shall be very glad of your help.  Miss Lambent," said Hazel, who was
quite unmoved.  "Pray do not think I resent or should resent your coming
at any time.  No amount of time could be too much to spend upon the
children."

"That's her nasty, cunning assumption of humility," thought Beatrice.
"She hates our coming, but she dare not say so."

"Is there any other branch where we might assist you, Miss Thorne?"
asked Rebecca.  "There are so many girls, and you are--you will excuse
me for saying so--you are very young, and I could not help noticing--
pray before I go any farther fully understand that we would not on any
account interfere.  As you must have seen, our brother the vicar objects
to the proper duties of the schoolmistress being interfered with."

Hazel hid her mortification, bowed, and Rebecca went on--

"I could not, I say, help noticing that the girls displayed a want of
discipline."

"Yes; I noticed that with sorrow," said Beatrice, giving Hazel a look of
tender regret.

"And I thought if we could help you to impress upon the children more of
the spirit of that beautiful lesson in the Catechism--"

Miss Lambent drew herself up stiffly, closed her eyes, stretched out one
hand in a remarkably baggy glove, and recited loudly enough for the
girls to hear--

"`To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and
masters.  To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.'
Would you object, Miss Thorne, to the girls all repeating that aloud?"

Hazel signed to the girls to stand, when there was a rush up like a
human wave, and in all pitches of voice the familiar portion of "My duty
towards my Neighbour" was repeated several times over after Miss Lambent
who waved her hands like a musical conductor, and gave peculiar cadences
to her voice as she went on over the sentences again and again, in happy
unconsciousness that Feelier Potts was saying, "Oh, Goody me!  Oh, Goody
me!" in constant iteration, instead of the prescribed forms, and making
Ann Straggalls laugh.

"I think that will do," said Miss Lambent, smiling.  "If we can make the
children thoroughly take to heart, and then digest mentally the beauty
of those orderly words, the discipline of the school will be greatly
improved.--Sit!"

The order coming from fresh lips, some of the girls sat down, while some
remained standing, and, just as Miss Lambent repeated her command with a
shrill intonation, Hazel made a sign with her hand, and every girl
resumed her place.

"Now, once more," cried Miss Lambent; "stand!"

The girls rose readily, and the lady who strongly objected to any
interference with the mistress, shook her head, and cried--

"Sit!"

The girls resumed their seats this time pretty well, and rose at the
word of command.

"There, you see.  Miss Thorne, it is soon done.  I think you will be
able to get them well in order in time.  Oh, by-the-way, Beatrice, did
you say anything to Miss Thorne about punishing Potts?"

"No; I thought you meant to mention it.  Will you do so now?"

"You will speak to her upon the subject, I will go and take the juvenile
class."

As she spoke, Rebecca went off to the lower end of the schoolroom, while
Beatrice _hemmed_ to clear her voice.

"My sister thinks that Ophelia Potts ought to be severely punished, and
held up as an example to the whole school, Miss Thorne.  Of course you
have punished her?"

"No, I have not punished her, Miss Lambent; but I have talked to her a
great deal."

"Not punished her, Miss Thorne!  Dear me, I am surprised.  The girl was
most rude and impertinent on the inspection day.  I really wonder that
you have not punished her severely.  She sets a bad example to the whole
school."

At that very moment the young lady in question was behaving most
dramatically, copying every motion of Miss Lambent, who was
gesticulating and shaking her head a good deal while teaching the
juvenile class; but catching Hazel's eye, the girl bent at once over her
slate.

"Ophelia Potts."

"A most absurd name, Miss Thorne!  Why could not they call her Jane or
Sarah?"

"Parents have curious fancies in the names they give their children,
ma'am," replied Hazel.  "This girl is of a singular disposition, and I
cannot help thinking that punishment would harden her."

"But you saw how she behaved, Miss Thorne.  Why do you say that?"

"The girl is of a very affectionate disposition, and I think I can win
her over by kindness.  She is very clever, and one of my best pupils,
and I think in time she will be all I could desire."

"I must beg to differ from you.  Miss Thorne," said Beatrice, shaking
her head.  "I have known Ophelia Potts four years, and I am perfectly
sure that nothing but severe castigation will ever work a change in her.
But of course that is for you to decide.  My sister and I could not
think of interfering.  We only wish, as you are so young, to offer you a
few suggestions, and to be of whatever service we can."

"I am very grateful.  Miss Lambent--"

"Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please," said the lady in corrective
tones.  "My sister is Miss Lambent."

"Miss Beatrice Lambent," said Hazel gravely; "and I shall always strive
to avail myself in every way of your and your sister's assistance."

"She is as deceitful as can be," said Beatrice spitefully, as they were
walking home.  "That abominable humility makes me feel as if I could box
her ears, for it is all as false as false."

"Henry is perfectly stupid about her," replied Rebecca.  "He thinks her
a prodigy; but mark my words, Beatrice, he'll find her out before long,
and bitterly repent not having sent her about her business at once."

"I can't imagine what Henry is thinking about," sighed Beatrice; "but he
will find out his mistake."

Somewhere about this time Hazel had dismissed the girls, and told
Feelier Potts to stop back, an order which that young lady obeyed for a
few moments and then made a rush for the door.

"Ophelia!"

The girl's hand was already on the latch, and in another moment she
would have darted through; but Hazel Thorne's quiet voice seemed to
affect her in a way that she could not understand, and letting her hand
fall to her side, she hesitated and turned.

"Come here, Ophelia."

The girl hung back for a moment, and then, as if drawn to the speaker,
she approached in a slow, half-sulky, defiant way, gazing sideways at
her teacher, and seeming ready to dart off at a word.

"She'd better not hit me," thought Feelier.  "I won't never come no more
if she do.  I'll soon let her know, see if I don't."

By this time she was close up to Hazel, who, instead of looking at her
in a mending way, smiled at the girl's awkward approach and suspicious
gaze.

"You think I am going to punish you, Ophelia, do you not?"

"Yes, teacher; Miss Lambent told you to."

"Miss Lambent said that you deserved punishment for behaving badly in
school, but I told her that there was no need, for I am going to ask you
to help me, Ophelia, and not give me more work to do.  There are so many
girls, and if they are tiresome, my work grows very, very hard."

"The girls are very tiresome, please, teacher."

"Then why don't you help me in trying to keep them quiet?  You do know
so much better."

The girl looked up at her with one eye, and a general aspect as if some
progenitor had been a magpie.

"I mean it, Ophelia.  You are a quick, clever girl, and know so much
better.  It grieves me when you will play tricks, and make my work so
hard."

"Please, teacher, may I go now?  Mother wants me."

"You shall go directly, Ophelia; but I want you to promise me that you
will be a better girl."

"Please, teacher, mother leathers the boys if they don't get home in
time for dinner, and dinner must be ready now."

"You shall go directly, my child; but will you promise me?"

"If I don't get home to dinner, teacher, I shan't be 'lowed to come
'safternoon."

"Then you will not promise me, Ophelia?"

The girl gave a half-sulky, half-cunning look at the speaker, and then,
taking a weary nod of the head to mean permission, she darted away, and
the schoolroom door closed after her with a loud bang.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

NOSEGAYS ARE NOT ALWAYS SWEET.

"Please, teacher, I've brought you some flowers."

Hazel Thorne turned round, to find that the speaker was Feelier Potts,
who was holding up a goodly bunch of roses, snapdragons, rose bay, and
other homely flowers tied up with some considerable amount of taste,
save that the band which held the blossoms against a good background of
ribbon grass was a long strip of flannel list, that made the bunch bulky
and strange.

There was a curious, half-defiant, half-smiling look in the girl's face,
as she handed the nosegay, and Hazel hesitated for a moment, and looked
severe, for it was as if the flowers were meant as a peace-offering or
bribe, to act as a passport in connection with Miss Feelier Potts'
evasion on the previous day.

Feelier saw the look, and was drawing back the nosegay with her
expressive young face full of chagrin, but she brightened directly as
her teacher smiled, took the flowers, smelt them, and said--

"How sweet!  Thank you, Ophelia.  Will you be kind enough to go indoors
for me, and ask for a jug of water to place them in?"

"Yes, teacher," cried the girl excitedly, and she rushed off, to come
back with the jug, into which the flowers, after being relieved of their
flannel outer garment, were placed, and then stood upon the corner of
the desk, while from time to time that morning Feelier's eyes twinkled
as she glanced at the post of honour occupied by her present, and then
gazed triumphantly round at her fellow-pupils, whispering every now and
then--

"I gave teacher them flowers."

Mr Samuel Chute also saw those flowers through the opening between two
shutters, and he noted how from time to time Hazel went to her desk and
smelt the roses.  This fired him with the idea that he must make Hazel
the offer of another bouquet himself, and he concluded that, by the way
in which those flowers were received, he might tell how his love affairs
were likely to prosper.

For they did not seem to progress so well as he could wish.  Time back
he had determined that the last person in the world for him to marry
would be a schoolmistress.  His idea was to "marry money," as he termed
it, a notion highly applauded by Mrs Chute, who gave it as her opinion
that her son was a match for any lady in the land.  But when the new
mistress rose upon the horizon of his view he altered his mind, and
concluded not only that he would marry a schoolmistress, but that _the_
schoolmistress he would marry was Hazel Thorne.

"You do as you like, Samuel, of course," said Mrs Chute; "but to my
mind she's not good enough for you.  But you do as you like."

Mr Chute made up his mind that he would do as he liked, and among the
things he determined to do as he liked about was the giving of a
bouquet, only he did not know how to compass it; for flowers of a
superior kind were not plentiful at Plumton All Saints, and the only way
to obtain anything at all chaste was to apply to Mr Canninge's
gardeners at Ardley, or to Mr William Forth Burge's, or the rectory.

This was awkward but unavoidable, and, besides, he said to himself.
Hazel Thorne would never know whence they came.

So Mr Chute made a mental note _re_ flowers, and then went on with his
lesson-giving, while Feelier Potts, who was wonderfully quiet and
well-behaved, went on dilating about her present and rejoicing in the
grand position of donor of flowers to the manager of the school.

How quickly passing are our greatest joys.  Just as Feelier was
confiding to a girl in the second class, now seated back to back, that
she gave teacher them flowers, there was a loud dab at the panel of the
door, and directly after a rattling of the latch, as a fierce-looking
woman walked straight in, exclaiming loudly--

"Where's my gal?  I want that gal of mine."

Feelier Potts saw the stout fierce-looking woman, whose aspect indicated
that she had been washing, enter the schoolroom, and knew perfectly well
who she was and what she wanted, but Feelier sat perfectly still, and
ready to disown all relationship, probably from a faint hope that she
might rest unseen; but it was not to be, for, as the stout woman raised
her voice and exclaimed again, "Where's my gal?" fat Ann Straggalls,
with the most amiable of intentions, and prompted by a notable desire to
do the best she could to oblige, exclaimed loudly--

"Please, Mrs Potts, Feelier's here.  Oh--oh!  Please, teacher,
Feelier--oh my! oh!"

Ann Straggalls was howling loudly, for, just as she finished her
announcement of Feelier's whereabouts, that young lady threw out one
youthful leg, and delivered a sharp kick on Ann Straggalls' shin, the
kick being the sharper from the fact that the class of boot worn by the
Potts family was that known as "stout" and furnished with nails.

"What is the matter here?" exclaimed Hazel, hurrying to the spot.

"Oh, it's that gal of mine," said Mrs Potts, also hurrying up from
another direction.  "You just come here, miss."

"Please, teacher, Ann Straggalls's been telling tales."

"Please, teacher, she ki-ki-kicked me."

"You come here, miss," cried Mrs Potts, who had not the slightest
veneration in her nature; and she made a grab at her daughter, who
avoided it by a backward bound over the form upon which she had been
seated, and keeping several girls between her young person and her irate
mamma.

"Mrs Potts, I presume?" said Hazel.

"Yes, my name's Potts, and I'm not ashamed of it neither," said the
woman.  "I want my gal."

"Will you have the goodness to come to the door and speak to me?" said
Hazel.  "I cannot have the discipline of the school interrupted like
this, Mrs Potts."

The irate lady was about to make an angry retort, but that word
"discipline" was too much for her.  Mrs Potts had a husband whose
weakness it was to have "bad breakings out" at times.  Not varieties of
eczema, or any other skin disease, but fits of drunkenness, when he
seemed to look upon the various branches of his family as large or small
kinds of mats, which it was his duty to beat, and, from his wife
downwards, he beat them accordingly whenever they came within his reach.
The consequence was, that from time to time he was haled before the
magistrates, and cautioned, and even imprisoned, the justices of the
peace telling him that as he was so fond of disciplining he must receive
wholesome discipline himself, and considerately upon the last occasion
giving him a month.

Now Mrs Potts objected to marital punishment, but it was short if not
sweet, and when it was over Potts went to work.  She objected, however,
much more to magisterial punishment, because it fell upon her.  If Potts
was fined, she suffered in the housekeeping money by running short, and
if on the other hand he was sent to prison, while he was lying at ease
and fed on bread and water, a pleasantly lowering diet for a man of his
inflammatory nature, she had to set to work and earn by the hard use of
soap, soda, hot water, and much rubbing, the necessary funds to buy food
for the youngsters' mouths.

Discipline, then, had a very important ring to her ears, and she became
amenable directly to the quiet words of authority, following Hazel
meekly to the door, going through the process of wiping a pair of very
crinkly, water-soaked hands upon her apron the while.

"Another time, Mrs Potts, if you will knock at the door, I will come
and talk to you, for, as the mother of children, you must know how
necessary it is to preserve discipline amongst the young."

"Which well I know it, miss; but I'm that aggravated with that limb of a
gal, that if I don't take it out of her I shall be ill."

"What is the matter, then!" cried Hazel.

"Matter, nuss?  Why, everything's the matter when that gal's got her own
way.  Here did I tell her, only this morning, that, as I'd got to stop
at the wash-tub all day, she must stay at home and look after the little
bairn, and what does she do but take my scissors and cut off every
flower there was, and tie 'em up and slip off.  I didn't know where
she'd gone to, till all of a sudden I thought it might be to school; and
here she is.  And now I would like to know what she did with them
flowers."

"Flowers!" said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind.

"Well, there now, if that ain't them upon your desk, nuss!  That's my
love-lies-bleeding, and London-tuft, and roses.  Oh, just wait till I
get hold on her.  Did she bring 'em to you, miss?"

"Yes, Mrs Potts; she brought me the nosegay.  I am very sorry that she
should have done such a thing without asking leave."

"I ain't got much about the house that's nice to look at," said the
woman, gazing wistfully at the flowers; "and she's been and cutten it
all away.  But only just wait till I get her home."

"Don't punish the girl, Mrs Potts," said Hazel quietly.  "I think it
was from thoughtlessness.  Ophelia knew I was fond of flowers, and
brought them for me.  I will talk to her about it.  Indeed I am very
sorry that she should do such a thing."

"Well, miss, if so be as you're fond o' flowers, and will give her a
good talking to, why I won't say no more about it.  Ah, you bad gal!"

This was accompanied by a threatening gesture from the stout lady's
fist, which, however, did not seem to cause Miss Feelier Potts much
alarm, that young personage only looking half defiantly at her parent,
and as soon as the latter's eyes were removed, indulging herself by
making a few derisive gestures.

"You will take the flowers back with you, Mrs Potts.  I am very sorry."

"Which I just won't, miss, so now then," said the woman sharply.  "If
you like flowers, miss, you shall have 'em; and if you could make a
better gal of that Feelier, I'm sure there ain't nothing I wouldn't do
for you.  And now, as my water's all getting cold, I must be off!"

"But you said that you wished Ophelia to come home and help you.  I
don't like the girls being kept away, but of course it is her duty to
help you at a time like this.  Ophelia Potts."

"Yes, teacher; please I wasn't talking," said Feelier sharply.

"Come here."

"No, no, miss, you let her 'bide, and when I'm gone just you give her a
good talking to."

"And you will not punish her, Mrs Potts?"

"No, miss, I'll leave it all to you;" and, quite tamed down by the quiet
dignity of the young mistress, Mrs Potts returned to her soap and soda,
and the little "bairn" that Feelier was to attend enjoyed itself upon
the doorstep, off which it fell on an average about once every quarter
of an hour, and yelled till it was lifted up by its mother's wet hands,
shaken, and bumped down again, when it returned to its former sport with
its playthings, which consisted of four pebbles and an old shoe, the
former being placed in the latter with solemn care, and shaken out again
with steady persistency, the greatest gratification being obtained
therefrom.

Meanwhile Hazel had an interview with Feelier, who listened attentively
to "teacher's" remarks anent the objectionable plan of stealing other
people's goods when a present is intended in another direction, all of
which Miss Feelier quietly imbibed, and, mentally quoting the words of
common use with her brothers, she said, "She'd be blowed if she'd bring
teacher any more flowers, so there now!" while on being allowed to go
back to her place she solaced herself by giving Ann Straggalls a severe
pinch on the arm, and making her utter a loud cry.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

MRS THORNE DISCOURSES.

"Ah, my child, when will you grow wise?" said Mrs Thorne one day when
Hazel, making an effort to master her weariness, was bustling in and out
of the room with an apron on, her dress pinned up, and her sleeves drawn
up over her elbows, leaving her white arms bare.

"Grow wise, dear!  What do you mean?"

"Leave off doing work like a charwoman day after day, when you might be
riding in your carriage, as I told Mrs Chute only this afternoon."

"You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother!  Has she been here?"

"Of course she has, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne with asperity.  "Do you
suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give
up all society?  Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to
associate with a woman like Mrs Chute--a very vulgar woman indeed; but
if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be
amiable and kind to my neighbours.  She is a very good sort of woman in
her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and--yes,
of course I did--told her that my daughter might be riding in her
carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I'm
sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a
brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be
his wife.  Why, only last week he said--"

"Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?" cried Hazel, whose
cheeks were crimsoning.

"Of course I have, my dear child.  Why should I not hear from so old a
friend?  He said that if you would reconsider your determination he
should be very, very glad."

"But you did not write back, mother?"

"Indeed I did, my dear.  Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a
lady?  I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was
softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still,
if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope."

"O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?" cried Hazel
piteously.

"Because I thought it to be my duty," said Mrs Thorne with dignity.
"Young people do not always know their own minds."

Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her
mother should not read the annoyance in her face.

"Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my
duty to warn you against her, and--and her son."

Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her
fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes.

"She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she
has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel
Chute."

The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a
crash.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, do be more careful, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne
angrily.  "There's that broken now, and, what with your breakages and
those of the children, it is quite dreadful.  Of course she owned that
her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew."

"You knew that, mother!" said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one
but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict
between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast.

"Of course I did, my dear.  Do you suppose I do not know what men are,
or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to
read men like a book," she continued with complacency.  "I have seen
Master Chute's looks and ways, and poppings into the girls' school; but
as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect
anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far
higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband."

Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give
free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an
effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed
and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of
dignity.

"No, `my dear Mrs Chute,' I said--and I must give the poor woman credit
for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of
respect for me--`no, my dear Mrs Chute,' I said, `you have been very
kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions
and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and
the children.  Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of
anything more.  He must,' I told her, `see for himself that a young lady
of my daughter's position and personal attractions might look anywhere
for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had
not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so.  Mr William
Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and
that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar;
while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than
that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.'  I would not
stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here,
but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter,
and therefore I said, `Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of
common-sense, largely increased by education'--I said that, Hazel, as a
stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow--`Mr Samuel Chute must see that
such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.'

"It is a great responsibility, a family," said Mrs Thorne, lying back
in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips.  "Percy is a
great anxiety--he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to
keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy
somewhat in order.  Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than
marry Edward Geringer.  Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me," she
said with a simper; "but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls.
Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer.  He is not
young; in fact, he is growing elderly.  But he would leave you all his
money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no
incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases.

"Ah, dear me! dear me!" she went on with a sigh, "what a different fate
mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had
had better health!  But there, I will not murmur and repine.  I have
only one thought, and that is to see my children happy.  By the way, it
is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have
new frocks and hats--I am quite ashamed to see them go out--and Percy
wants five pounds.  What in the world he can want five pounds for, I'm
sure I don't know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow's
wants in a busy place like London.  I've had--let me see--five and seven
are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten
are thirty-seven--thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for
that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more.  Percy is a very great
anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his
head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother
in some good post.  He might make him his private secretary, and give
him charge of his estates.  Who knows?  And--Bless the child, what is
the matter?"

Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her
face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her
shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven
to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker
day by day.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE VICAR IS SYMPATHETIC.

Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the
school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of
everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel
Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where
three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have
the place tidy for the following day.

The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over
the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in
spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her
that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to
enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the
fields.  For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find
the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the
dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire
and prepared the evening meal.

There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would
take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for
the tasks of another day.

To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of
repining.

"Ah, Hazel!" she would say, "it cuts me to the heart to see you
compelled to go through all this degrading toil--a miserable cottage, no
servant, and work--work--work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed
herself to death in a bare garret.  Oh, I'd give anything to be able to
help you; but I'm past all that."

"I don't mind it a bit, dear," Hazel would cry cheerfully, "I like to be
busy;" and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at
least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief,
or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the
benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down.

All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by
her mother's reproaches and plaints.  Of late she had grown very cold
and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the
criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed.  There
was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help
realising the truth of her mother's remarks, and this induced her to
walk as circumspectly as she possibly could.

Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon,
she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the
presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with--

"You haven't given me your pence to change for you lately.  Miss Thorne.
I haven't offended you, have I?"

"Offended me, Mr Chute?  Oh no," she replied.  "I will count them up
to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school."

"Oh, no; don't do that," he said hastily.  "Girls are honest enough, I
dare say, but you shouldn't put temptation in their way.  I'll come in
and fetch them.  I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!"

"Yes, lovely indeed!" replied Hazel, "but the weather seems tiring."

"Oh, no, it ain't," he said sharply.  "That's because you're not well."

"I'm afraid I'm not very well," said Hazel; "I so soon get tired now."

"Of course you do.  That's because you don't go out enough.  You ought
to have a good walk every day."

"Yes; I believe I ought," replied Hazel.

"It's going to be a lovely evening," said Mr Chute.

"Is it?" said Hazel wearily.

"Yes, that it is.  I say--it's to do you good, you know--come and have a
nice walk to-night."

"Come--and have a walk!" said Hazel wonderingly.

"Yes," he said excitedly, for he had been screwing himself up to this
for days; "come and let's have a walk together.  I--that is--you know--
I--'pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can't hardly say what I mean, but I'm
very miserable about you, and if you'd go for a walk along with me
to-night, it would do me no end of good."

"Mr Chute, I could not.  It is impossible," cried Hazel quickly.

"Oh no; it ain't impossible," he said quickly; "it's because you're so
particular you won't.  Look here, then--but don't go."

"I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk."

"Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!"

Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head.

"It is very kind of you," she said quietly; "but I cannot go.  Good
afternoon, Mr Chute."

"You're going in like that because you can see Lambent coming," he said
in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; "but don't you get
setting your cap at him, for you shan't have him.  I'd hang first; and,
look here, you've put me up now--haven't I been ever since you came all
that is patient and attentive?"

"You have been very kind to me, Mr Chute," said Hazel, standing her
ground now, and determined that he should not see her hurry in because
the vicar was coming down the street.

"Yes, I've been very kind, and you've done nothing but trifle and play
with me ever since you saw how I loved you."

"Mr Chute, you know this is not the truth!" cried Hazel indignantly.
"I have tried to behave to you in accordance with my position as your
fellow-teacher."

"Then you haven't, that's all," he cried fiercely.  "But you don't know
me yet.  I'm not one to be trifled with, and there ain't time to say
more now, only this--you've led me on and made me love you, and have you
I will--there now!  Don't you think you're going to hook Lambent, or
Canninge, or old Burge; because you won't.  It's friends or enemies
here, so I tell you, and I'll watch you from this day, so that you
shan't stir a step without my knowing it.  I'm near enough," he added
with a sneer, "and when I'm off duty I'll put mother on.--Oh, I say,
Hazel, I _am_ sorry I spoke like that."

"Good-day.  Miss Thorne," said the vicar, coming slowly up with a
disturbed look in his face.  "Good-day, Mr Chute."

"'Day, sir," said Chute, standing his ground, while the vicar waited for
him to go.

"You need not wait, Mr Chute," said the vicar at last; and the
schoolmaster's eyes flashed, and he was about to make an angry retort;
but there was something in the cold, stern gaze of the clergyman that
was too much for him, and, grinding his teeth together, he turned upon
his heel and walked away.

"Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne," said the vicar with a
grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to
be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one
knot.  "I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great
interest in your welfare.  Miss Thorne."

"I do not think you impertinent, sir," she replied; "and I have to thank
you for much kindness and consideration."

"Then I may say a few words to you," he said gravely; and there was an
intensity in his manner that alarmed her.

"I beg--I must ask"--she began.

"A few words as a friend.  Miss Thorne," he said in a low, deep voice,
and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever,
for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at
her.  "You are very young.  Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible
position.  It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the
schools and those who have them in charge.  In short," he continued,
changing from his slow, hesitating way, "I feel bound to tell you that I
could not help noticing Mr Chute's very marked attentions to you."

"Mr Lambent," began Hazel imploringly.

"Pray hear me out," he said.  "I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask
you if it is wise of you--if it is your wish--to encourage these
attentions?  It is quite natural, I know--I do not blame you; but--but
after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne,
if you would speak to me candidly."

Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a
few moments' pause to command her voice, she said firmly--

"Mr Chute's attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and
have given me much anxiety."

"Have given you much anxiety?" he said softly, as if to himself.

"When you came up, Mr Chute had been making certain proposals to me,
which, as kindly as I could, I had declined.  Mr Lambent," she added
hastily, "you said just now that I was very young.  I am, and this
avowal is very painful to me.  Will you excuse me if I go in now?"

He raised his eyes to hers at this, and she saw his pale handsome face
light up; and then she trembled at the look of joy that darted from his
eyes, as, drawing himself up in his old, stiff way, he raised his hat
and saluted her gravely, drawing back and opening the gate to allow her
to go in, parting from her then without another word.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A SURPRISE.

Hazel's first impulse was to hurry up to her room, but to her
astonishment, she became aware of the fact that her mother had been
watching both interviews, by her manner, for she was standing inside the
room door, and throwing her arms round her daughter she kissed her on
both cheeks.

There was another surprise for Hazel though, for a loud voice
exclaimed--

"Oh, I say, Hazel, ar'n't you going it?  I shall tell Geringer you're
going to marry the parson."

"Percy!  You here!" she cried, completely ignoring his words.

"Looks like it, don't it?  I say, how jolly white you've got."

"Have you asked for a holiday, Percy!" she said, responding to his
caress, and noting at the same time how tall and manly he was growing,
for he was passing from the tall, thin boy into the big, bony,
ill-shaped young man, with a hoarse voice and a faint trace of down upon
his lip and chin.

At the same time she noted a peculiarly fast, flashy style of dress that
he had adopted, his trousers fitting tightly to his legs, his hair being
cut short, and his throat wrapped in a common, showy-looking tie,
fastened with a horseshoe pin.

"Have I asked for a what?" he said, changing countenance a little--"a
holiday?  Well, yes, I suppose I have--a long one.  Eh, ma?"

He looked at Mrs Thorne as if asking for help, and she responded at
once.

"I wouldn't let Percy come into the school, my dear, but let him wait
till you came out," she said.  "The fact is, Hazel, my dear, the poor
boy has been so put upon and ill-used at the place where he consented to
act as clerk, that at last, in spite of his earnest desire to stay there
for both our sakes, my dear--I think I am expressing your feelings,
Percy?"

"Right as the mail!" he replied quickly.

"He felt that as a gentleman he could submit no longer, and so he has
left and come down."

"Left and come down?" said Hazel mechanically, as she thought of the
narrowness of her present income, and the impracticability of making it
feed another hearty appetite as well as those at home.

"Yes; they were such a set of cads, you know," said Percy, sticking a
cheap glass in one eye and holding it there by the brow.  "Regular set
of cads, from the foreman down to the lowest clerk."

"Did you have a quarrel with your employer, Percy?" said Hazel gravely.

"I don't know what you mean by having a quarrel with my employer,
Hazel," replied the boy.  "I told him that he was a confounded cad, and
that I wouldn't stand any more of his nonsense."

"What had you been doing, Percy?"

"Doing?--doing?  Why, nothing at all.  It was impossible to get on with
such a set of cads."

"There must have been some reason for the quarrel," said Hazel.

"Really, my dear, this is very foolish of you," cried Mrs Thorne
quickly.  "You do not understand these things.  For my part, I think
Percy has done quite right.  It was bad enough for the poor boy to have
to submit to the degradation of going to work, without putting up with
the insults of a--of a--a--"

"Set of cads, ma," said the lad.

"Yes, my boy--cads," said Mrs Thorne, getting rid of the word with no
little show of distaste.

"I think, mamma, that out of respect to Mr Geringer, who has been so
kind to us, you ought to write to Percy's employer."

"Haven't got an employer now, so you can't write to him," said the boy
sharply.  "Nice sort of a welcome, this, from one's own sister.  If I'd
known it was coming to this, I'd have jolly soon gone down Charles
Street."

"Charles Street!  Oh, my dear Percy, pray, pray don't think of going
there!" cried Mrs Thorne.  "What is going down Charles Street?"

"Going to enlist, mamma--taking the shilling."

"Oh, my boy!--oh, Percy!"

"Well, what's the good of coming down here to have your own sister turn
dead against you, like the confounded cads at the office."

"I do not turn against you, Percy," said Hazel; "but I cannot help
thinking there is something wrong."

"That's right; go it.  Nice opinion you've got of your brother.
Something wrong, indeed!  Why, what do you suppose is wrong?"

"For shame, Hazel!  How dare you!" cried Mrs Thorne.  "It is cruel to
him, and an insult to me.  Why do you think such things of your poor
orphaned brother?  If your father had been alive, you would never have
dared to speak so harshly.  Oh, Hazel, Hazel, you make my life a burden
to me, indeed, indeed."

"My dear mother, those words are uncalled for.  I only asked Percy for
some explanation of his conduct.  We have had no warning of this; not
one of his letters has hinted at the possibility of his leaving his
situation; but we do know that he has been extravagant."

"Go it," cried Percy sulkily; and he began to rummage in his pockets.

"Really, Hazel, I think he has managed on very little," said Mrs Thorne
indignantly.

"I differ from you, mother; for I had hoped that my brother would have
striven to help us, and not found himself compelled to drain our
resources more and more."

"Look here," cried Percy, "I sha'n't stand this.  There's plenty more
posts to be obtained, I dare say, and then I shall be a burden to no
one."

"Don't talk like that, my dear," cried Mrs Thorne.  "Hazel is only a
little tired and cross, and she'll be as different as can be, when she
has had her meal.  There, I won't be angry with you, my dear; sit down
and have some tea.  Poor Percy was nearly starved, and I got some ready
for him myself.  I was afraid you would not like to be called out of the
school."

Hazel glanced at the little table where the remains of the tea were
standing, with empty egg-shells, a fragment of bacon, the dirty cups,
and a large array of crumbs.

"I made him a good cup, poor fellow! he was so worn out; so if you fill
up the pot, my dear, I dare say you'll find it all right."

This was the first time that Mrs Thorne had attempted to prepare the
tea, and when she had performed her task it was in an untidy way.  Now
that the meal was over, everything looked wretchedly untempting to a
weary person seeking to be refreshed.

Hazel looked at Percy, but he avoided her eye, and sitting down with his
back to her, he began to fill a little cutty pipe from an indiarubber
pouch.

"My dear Percy, what are you about?" cried Mrs Thorne.

"Only going to have a pipe," he said, striking a vesuvian and holding it
to the bowl; "a fellow can't get on without his weed."

Hazel's eyes flashed as she saw the thick puffs of smoke emitted from
her brother's lips, but she did not speak; she waited for her mother,
whose forehead looked troubled, but who made no remark.

"If I speak now," thought Hazel, "it will only make more
unpleasantness."  So she filled up the teapot which was half full of
leaves, and then sat down to her comfortless meal.

Finding that she was silent, Percy took it that she had repented, so he
assumed the offensive as he sat and smoked, showing himself an adept at
the practice, and soon half-filling the little room with the pungent
vapour.

"Precious mean little place this for you to have to live in, mamma," he
said contemptuously.

"Yes, it is, my boy, and I feel it very deeply," said Mrs Thorne in a
lachrymose tone.

"Ah, just you wait a bit," he said.  "I've left that old office, but
don't you be afraid.  A fellow I know has put me up to a few things, and
perhaps I shall astonish you one of these days."

"You mean you will get on well, my dear?"

"That's it.  Only you wait.  There's plenty of money to be picked up by
any one with _nous_.  Ten times as much as any one can get by keeping
his nose to a desk and trying to please a set of cads."

"Yes, dear, I suppose so."

"Some people have no more spirit than a fly," continued Percy.  "Fancy a
girl like our Hazel settling down in a bit of a hut like this, when she
might have been the making of us all."

"Ah, yes, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "that is what I often tell your
sister, who might, if she had liked, have married--"

"My dear mother, will you kindly discuss that with Percy when I am not
here!"

"Oh, of course, if you wish it, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne.  "I am not
mistress here, Percy.  This is Hazel's home, where I and your poor
little sisters are allowed to live on sufferance and--"

_Sob_--_sob_--_sob_.

"Oh, I say, Hazy, it's too bad," cried Percy.  "You know how weak and
ill poor mamma has been, and yet you treat her like this."

"Yes, my boy; I'm a mere nonentity now, and the sooner I am dead and put
beneath the sod the better.  I'm only a useless burden to my children
now."

"Don't talk like that, ma dear," cried the lad.  "You only wait a bit,
and as soon as I've got my plans in order I'll make you a regular jolly
home."

"That you will, I know, my dear boy," cried Mrs Thorne; "and I hope you
will try hard to do something to redeem our lost position."

"What are your plans, Percy?" said Hazel suddenly.

"Oh, nothing that you could understand," he said haughtily.  "I don't
wonder at poor ma being miserable, if you treat her as you are treating
me!"

"Percy," said Hazel gently, "only a few months ago you had no secrets
from me, and we planned together how we would work and make mamma a
happy home."

"And nicely you've done it," cried the lad ungraciously.

"You declared, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you would never
turn from me, but that you would strive to take poor papa's place, and
be a help and protector to your mother and sisters.  I ask you, how are
you keeping your word?"

Percy fidgeted about in his chair, glanced at his mother, and then began
playing with his pipe.

"If you have made some grievous mistake, dear, tell us at once, so that
we may join with you in trying to repair it; but do not weakly take
umbrage at my asking you rather searchingly what you have been doing."

"I don't know what you mean," said the boy sulkily.

"Tell me exactly how you came to leave your office?"

"I did tell you.  A set of cads!"

"Then I shall write to Mr Geringer, and ask him to send me the full
particulars.  Perhaps we can make peace for you so that you can go
back."

"Go back, Hazy?"

"Yes: go back.  I do not wish to seem unkind, Percy, but you will not be
able to stop here."

"And why not, pray?" cried the lad defiantly.

"There is one reason why not," said Hazel, pointing to the pipe.  "You
ought not to have lit that here, Percy.  This is not my house, but the
cottage attached to the school, in which, while I teach the children, I
am allowed to live."

"Now you're beginning about my bit of tobacco," cried the lad.  "You're
as bad as old Geringer!"

"Really, Hazel, you are in a very, very cruel frame of mind to-night,"
said Mrs Thorne, whimpering; "but never mind, my boy, you shall share
my home as long as your poor mamma has one.  Perhaps Hazel will give us
a refuge here to-night--to-morrow we will seek one elsewhere."

"You will do no such foolish thing, mamma," said Hazel with spirit; "and
as for you, Percy, I insist upon knowing the whole truth."

The boy flushed and threw up his head defiantly; but Hazel rose from her
place, crossed to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders.  Then,
bending down, she kissed him, and stood by him with her arm round his
neck.

"Tell me everything, dear," she said; "it is your sister who asks."

For answer Percy dashed his pipe beneath the grate, laid his arms upon
the table, his head went down, and he began to cry like a great girl.

"Oh, Hazel, Hazel, what have you done?" cried Mrs Thorne.  "Percy,
Percy, my boy, come here."

"Hush, mother!" said Hazel sternly; and, kneeling down, she drew the
boy's unresisting head upon her shoulder, and held it there, smoothing
his hair the while.

"Oh, Hazy, Hazy," he sobbed at last.  "I'm a beast--a brute--a wretch;
and I wish I was dead."

"There--there!  Hazel, see what you have done!" cried Mrs Thorne
angrily.  "Oh, my boy, my boy!  Come here to me, Percy; I will stand by
you whatever comes."

But Percy seemed to be quite satisfied to stay where he was, for he made
no movement beyond that of yielding himself more and more to his
sister's embrace.

"Hush, dear!" she said tenderly.  "If you have done wrong, be frank and
outspoken.  Let us hear the truth."

For answer, the lad, approaching manhood in stature, but with his
child-nature still greatly in the ascendant, wept more bitterly; but at
last, perfectly heedless of his mother's plaints and appeals, he raised
his head, wiped his eyes, and, flinging his arms round his sister,
kissed her passionately again and again.

"There; now you will tell us all, Percy," said Hazel, responding to his
caresses.

"You'll turn your back on me if I do," he groaned.

"Is it likely that I should, Percy!  There, speak out frankly--is it
something about money!"

"Yes," said the lad, hanging his head.

"You have been getting in debt!"

"Well, not much.  Hazy--not more than I could soon pay off," said the
boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching
eyes.

"There is something more?"

"Ye-es," he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments'
hesitation, "It was all Tom Short's fault."

"Who is Tom Short?" asked Hazel.

"A fellow in our office.  He won seventy pounds by putting money on
horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get
some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma."

"There, Hazel, you hear!" cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly.

"And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy--a habit poor papa used
to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun."

"Well, no, dear, it wasn't exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and
putting money on any horse you chose.  He did the betting.  You only
give him your money and wait."

"Till you know it is lost, Percy!"

"Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky.  Some
fellows win no end that way."

"And you have always lost, Percy?"

"Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so," he cried earnestly, "you lose,
and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one
winning means making up for no end of losses."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Hazel sadly.

"And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn't
turned yet.  I'm sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on."

"That is what all gamblers think, Percy."

"Don't call me a gambler, Hazel, because I'm not that."

"And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you,
Percy?"

"Yes," he said despondently; "but I mean to get it all back again some
day, and to pay it, and interest too."

"That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting."

"I don't see why not," he said.  "Other fellows do."

"Let them," replied Hazel; "but it is not a course to be followed by my
brother.  Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in
betting?"

"Ye-es," faltered Percy; "and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short."

"And they dismissed you?"

"Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know."

"Call things by their right names, Percy.  Well, I am glad you have told
us.  We will say no more now.  But to-morrow we must begin to take steps
to get you another engagement."

"But look here, Hazel," cried the lad, "if you and mamma could knock
together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that
I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races.
You've no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way.  Ah,
you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such
things.  You wouldn't laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a
thousand."

"No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a
thousand," said Hazel.  "But there, we will say no more now; only
promise me this,--that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet
make any more bets."

"Yes, I'll promise," said the boy sulkily.  "I suppose I must."

"I'm sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear,"
said Mrs Thorne.  "He has been perfectly open and frank.  All that you
can find against him is that he has been unlucky.  Poor boy!  If your
father had been alive!"

Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her
sufferings, and the cruelty of fate--of what would have happened if Mr
Thorne had lived, and finished up during a _resume_ of her prospects
when she was Hazel's age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep,
Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this
addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with
their limited means.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE FACTS.

Several things interfered with Hazel's obtaining a good night's rest.
She had given up her bedroom to Percy, and the little sofa was cramped
and hard.  But had she been in the most luxurious of beds, Hazel Thorne
would not have slept well, for she was haunted by the angry, vindictive
look of Mr Samuel Chute, and troubled by his threats.  Next there was
the shame and mortification of knowing that her mother's weak words had
gone home, and were being used against her.  Then the quiet deference of
the vicar and his peculiar way made her uneasy as she went over and over
her interview with him, and recalled the smallest matters of his
reference to Mr Chute.

Lastly there was Percy's sudden arrival, and the battle she found
herself having with the idea that, in spite of his apparent frankness,
the boy had not told her all.

At last, towards morning, she dropped into an uneasy sleep, in which she
dreamed that Mr William Forth Burge had told her he loved her, and that
he would provide for Percy and make her mother a comfortable home, if
she would be his wife.

In her trouble she awoke suddenly, to find that it was morning; and,
unwilling to tempt sleep again, she rose, dressed, and prepared the
kitchen and sitting-room for the breakfast before going upstairs and
softly awakening the two little girls, who, under her tuition, had
become adepts at dressing each other in turns.

Whispering to them to be silent and not awaken their mother, Hazel stole
down again, and went to the door to glance up the street, for it was
nearly half-past seven, and she had a strange fancy that a letter would
arrive that morning.

Sure enough, before another ten minutes had passed away she saw the
postman coming down the last row of houses towards the schools, and she
was about to hurry out and meet him, when, through the wire
window-blind, she caught sight of Mr Chute, who stepped out and
received a letter from the postman, with whom he at once entered into
conversation.

Hazel, from where she stood, could see everything that passed, and that
Chute stretched out his hand to take a large blue envelope from the
postman's hand; but this the rustic official refused to allow.  He,
however, permitted the schoolmaster to peruse the address, and that of
another letter, before going on with his delivery.

Hazel felt that he was coming there, and she opened the door in time to
stop his heavy thump.

"Two letters, miss--big 'un and little 'un," he said, thrusting the
missives into her hand.  The next moment Hazel was reading the
directions, both of which were to her mother.

One was from Mr Geringer--she knew his hand well.  The other, the large
blue envelope, was probably from Percy's employer.  She had expected
that letter; and, yes, there were the names on the back, stamped in blue
letters in an oval, "Suthers, Rubley, and Spark."

Hazel stood hesitating as to what course she should pursue.  She held in
her hands, she knew, the explanation of Percy's return home.  If the
letters contained painful revelations her mother would suffer terribly.
Ought she to let her see the news without reading it first?

Of late all the correspondence had fallen to her share, and Mrs Thorne,
when a letter had arrived, had been in the habit of saying, "Open that,
Hazel, and see what it is."

She hesitated a few minutes, and then opened the blue envelope.

The letter was short and stern in its diction, saying that knowing Mrs
Thorne to be a lady of good family, and one who had suffered much
trouble, the firm had felt it to be their duty to write to her before
taking further proceedings with respect to her son, who had, they
regretted to say, abused the confidence placed in him, and been guilty
of embezzlement, to what amount they were not prepared to state.

Hazel stood with her brow wrinkled, gazing straight before her for some
minutes before, with a weary sigh, she opened the second letter--Mr
Geringer's--which endorsed the information contained in the first, and
finished as follows:--

  "It is very terrible, my dear Mrs Thorne; and, for my poor friend's
  sake, I deeply regret that his son should so soon have shown a
  disposition to go wrong.  It comes the harder on me because I was the
  cause of his going to these people, who took him entirely upon my
  recommendation.  I regret your position, of course, and beg to assure
  you of my deep sympathy.  Had we been related by marriage, I should
  have felt it my duty to see the lad through his difficulty, the
  result, I find, of folly, he having entered upon a course of betting
  upon horses.  As it is, you must excuse me for saying that my credit
  will not allow of my having my name mixed up with the transaction."

He remained, as a matter of course, Mrs Thorne's very sincere and
attached friend; but, all the same, he had given Hazel a severe stab in
the course of the letter, which again placed her conduct in an
unsatisfactory light.  Was she always to be accused of standing in the
way of her mother's and brother's prospects?  And as she asked herself
that question, quietly folding the letters the while, she could not help
seeing Mr Geringer's selfishness showing through all.

But what was to be done?  The people evidently meant to prosecute Percy,
and at any moment he might be taken into custody.  She knew enough of
the law to see that he was in a very perilous position, and if her
mother knew, she trembled for the consequences.

"I am glad I opened the letters," she thought; "but now I know, what
shall I do?"

A host of ideas passed through her brain, for the most part wild,
impossible notions, that could not be carried out.

Percy must escape--go away somewhere; but how, and to what place?

This was unanswerable; and besides, she knew that sooner or later, the
police, if in search, would be sure to find him.

No; he must stop and face it out--it would be the most honourable
proceeding.  But she wanted help--she wanted some one to cling to in
this hour of difficulty; and to all intents and purposes she was alone,
for it was impossible to ask her mother's aid and guidance at a time
like this.

What should she do?

Mr Geringer?

No; his letter showed how her refusal rankled in his breast, and if she
appealed to him he might wish to make some bargain with her to act as a
payment.

Mr Lambent?

No; she could not ask him.  He was most kind, but she shrank from
appealing to him.  She dared hardly think of him, and dismissed him at
once; for, set aside the exposure and the lowering of her position in
his eyes, he frightened her.  And then there were his sisters, who would
be sure to know.

Archibald Grave's father?

No; she dared not appeal to him.  And when she began to run over the
list of her relatives, there did not seem one likely to take a step to
help her in this terrible strait--help her, for everything seemed to
fall upon her shoulders.

"What shall I do?  Whom shall I ask?" she said half aloud; and, as half
prayerfully she asked the question, there rose up before her the round,
simple, honest face of Mr William Forth Burge, smiling at her as was
his wont and seeming to invite her to ask his help.

"Oh no; it is impossible," she said half aloud, as Mr Chute's words of
the previous evening came back to her mind.  "I could not ask him.  What
would he say?"

But all the same, she could not help thinking of his amiability, the
interest he had taken in her and hers, and that even if she dared not
herself ask him, there was a mediator in the person of Miss Burge, who,
gentle, amiable little body that she was, would readily espouse her
cause.

"But what are they to me?  It would not be right to ask them.  I dare
not--I cannot do it."

Just then the two children came dancing down to leap up at her and kiss
her, making her sorry for their sakes that her face wore so dismal a
look.  But it did not trouble them.  It was, "How long will breakfast
be, sis?" and then they were off out to look at their little gardens, to
see how much the plants and seeds had progressed during the night.

Hazel went through another phase of troublous thought while the children
were in the garden, and the kettle was singing its homely song; and as
she thought she stood waiting to make the tea so as to carry up Mrs
Thorne's cup, which was always partaken of before that lady attempted to
rise in the morning.

Just as the tea was made there was a step on the stairs and, looking
very sleepy and red-eyed, Percy came into the kitchen.

"Morning, Hazel," he said rather sheepishly, as he looked at her in a
half-penitent curious way; but he made no offer to kiss her, nor she
him.  "I say, what time does the post come in here?"

"The post Percy?" said Hazel quietly, as she went on preparing Mrs
Thorne's tea.  "Do you expect a letter?"

"Yes," he said.  "I'll go out and meet the postman, and see what the
place is like.  Letters'll be here soon, I suppose?"

"Not till to-morrow morning," said Hazel, watching his changing
countenance.

"Not till to-morrow morning!" he cried wonderingly.

"No; there is only one delivery here a day.  The postman has been."

Percy was taken aback, and he stood staring, unable to find words and to
meet his sister's stern, angry look.

"Percy," she said at last, "are you trying to be a man?"

"Of course I am," he said quickly.  "Every fellow at my time of life
tries to be one."

"Would it not have been more manly, then, when I invited your confidence
last night, if you had told me frankly the whole truth?"

Percy's jaw dropped and he stood gazing at her with a vacant, pitiful
expression.

"Then a letter has come this morning," he said.

"Two letters have come this morning," she replied, "and I know
everything.  Stop!  What are you going to do?"

"Cut," he said sulkily.  "It is of no use to stay here."

"Do you think the police would not find you if you went away?"

"Police!" he cried, turning pale.

"Yes.  Your employers warned us in the letter that they had not settled
yet what they should do since--since--oh, heavens! is it true?--they
found out that my brother was a thief."

"No, no--not a thief, Hazy!  'Pon my soul, I only borrowed the money.  I
meant to pay back every shilling.  I made sure that I should win, and I
never meant to steal."

"You committed theft of the worst kind, Percy.  A common thief breaks in
and steals; he has not been trusted with that which he takes.  You had
been; and you not only broke your trust but stooped to the basest
ingratitude as well."

"Yes, I know, Hazy," he cried hoarsely, and with his lips white; "but
tell me, does my mother know?  Oh, for pity's sake, don't tell poor ma!"

"Do you think it will pain her more than this discovery has pained me?"

"Is that why she isn't down?  Has it made her ill?  I meant to have been
first and got the letters; but I was so dog-tired last night I overslept
myself.  I say, Hazel, does she know?"

"She does not know yet; but she must know."

"No, no! pray don't tell her!  You mustn't--you shan't tell her!" he
cried.  "It would only be making bad worse."

"And how am I to account for your absence when you are fetched away?"

"I say, Hazel, is it so bad as that?" he cried piteously.

"Yes; I am afraid so.  There is no knowing what steps your late
employers may take."

"Set of beastly cads!" muttered Percy.

"For objecting to their clerk's dishonesty!  Shame on you, if you have
any shame left."

"And now you turn against me, Hazy!" cried the lad.  "I did think last
night that you were sorry for me and meant to help me."

"I am sorry for you,--sorry that you could have disgraced yourself and
us to this terrible extent I feel it bitterly that you should have kept
back what you did last night; but that cannot be changed now, and--"

"Isn't breakfast ready?" cried Cissy, coming to the door.  "We are so
hungry."

"Yes, dears, come in," cried Hazel cheerfully.  And the little party,
after Mrs Thorne had been diligently attended to, sat down to the
homely breakfast, Percy making a pretence of being too much troubled to
taste anything, but ending by eating with all the heartiness of a
growing lad; while it was Hazel who just managed one scrap of bread and
a cup of tea, as she sat thinking of what proceedings she had better
take.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

ANN STRAGGALLS TURNS MESSENGER.

It was soon school-time, and leaving her brother, who needed no
instructions to send for her should any one call, Hazel Thorne hurried
to her duties, read prayers with wandering mind, and then, fully
resolved upon what course to pursue, she started the children at their
various lessons, and at last, in the midst of the noisy buzz, went to
her desk and, quite in a fit of desperation, wrote to Mr William Forth
Burge, simply saying that she was in great trouble, and would he as a
friend come and give her his help and counsel?

As soon as she had finished and folded the letter she began to hesitate,
asking herself whether she ought not first to have written to Miss
Burge; but she came to the conclusion that she had done right and
picking out the most trustworthy girl she could think of at the time,
she bade her take the letter up to Mr Burge's house.

Hazel Thorne was excited enough during all these proceedings but her
excitement would have increased had she been aware of the fact that one
of the partition shutters was slightly lowered, and from this point of
vantage Mr Samuel Chute was from time to time inspecting her every act.

For Mr Chute was a good deal exercised in his spirit.

"If it isn't to be friends it shall be enemies," he said; and he not
only set himself to watch, but told his mother--to use his own words--to
have an eye on the next-door people, a commission which Mrs Chute
seized upon with avidity, it being one greatly to her taste.

Samuel Chute, then, knew of Percy Thorne's coming before Hazel, and also
who the tall, overgrown lad was.  He knew of the arrival of the business
letters that morning, and after due debate in his own mind, he came to
the conclusion that there was something wrong.

"They won't get over me in a hurry," he muttered; and taking it that
there was a conspiracy of some kind afloat, he went quite early into the
school and lowered the shutter, ready to keep a watch upon Hazel's
movements, and to be ready--he only knew why--with movements of his own.

So it was there that he saw Hazel looked agitated and ill at ease, and
also saw her write a letter and call up one of the girls, fat Ann
Straggalls--the slow, innocent and sure--being selected for the task.

Mr Chute thrust his hands through his hair and made it stick up
fiercely as he left his desk, frowned all round the room, said "Sh! sh!"
in several classes, and then walked quickly to the door, turned and gave
a glance round to find every eye in the school directed at him, and then
stepped out into the front just in time to find Ann Straggalls engaged
in a struggle with Hazel's missive, which refused to be tucked down into
the bosom of the stout young maiden's dress, consequent upon the
tightness of certain strings.

"Here!  Hi!  Straggalls!" cried Chute, and the girl crawled shrinkingly
to him in the same way as the boys would have turned, a sharp, quick
call from Mr Chute always suggesting impending punishment to the
youthful mind.

"How is it you are not in school, Ann Straggalls?" said the schoolmaster
importantly.

"Plee, sir, teacher, sir, sent me with this letter, sir.  I've got to
take it, sir."

"What letter, Straggalls?"

"This letter, sir," said the girl, holding out the crumpled missive.

"Letter?  Ah, a letter for you to take, eh?" he said, after a glance at
the direction; and his teeth gritted together as he thought that Hazel
had never written to him.

He would have detained the missive, but he dared not, and half turning
upon his heel, he saw that the vicar's sisters were coming down the
street, an observation which impelled him to make a quick retreat.

"There, go on," he said; "and mind and make haste back."

"Yes, sir, plee, sir, that's what teacher told me to do."

"Writing to Burge, eh?" said Mr Chute as he re-entered his school.
"That's to tell him that I spoke out to her yesterday.  Ah! just let him
take her part and I'll soon give him a bit of my mind.  She's carrying
on with him, is she?  I know it as well as if I'd been told; but perhaps
I shall be one too many with all of them yet."

The next minute he was bitterly regretting that he had not detained and
read the letter, though he knew all the time that he dared not, and he
finished up for the present by having another peep at Hazel through the
slit above the shutter, expecting, as his brain suggested, that she
would be writing another letter, but only finding her busy with one of
the classes.

Meanwhile, with her cheeks flushed and eyes brightened at the escape she
had just had, Ann Straggalls stumped eagerly along to perform her
commission, but only to encounter the Lambent sisters, before whom she
stopped short compelling them also to stop or else turn off to right or
left, unless they were willing to fall over her.  For, according to
traditional instruction at Plumton Schools, it was the proper thing for
every schoolgirl who met the vicar's sisters to make a bob to each, and
these two bobs Ann Straggalls diligently performed.

"Not in school, Straggalls?" said Rebecca, in a stern, inquisitorial
tone of voice.

"No, 'm, please, 'm.  Teacher's sent me with a letter, 'm."

"Indeed!" cried Beatrice, thrown by excitement off her guard.  "To Mr
Canninge?"

"No, 'm, please 'm; to Mr William Forth Burge, 'm."

"To Mr William Forth Burge!" cried Rebecca, excited in her turn.  "What
is Miss Thorne writing to him for?"

"Please 'm, I don't know, 'm.  Teacher said I was to take this letter,
'm, and I don't know any more."

"It is very strange, Beatrice," said Rebecca querulously.

"Strange indeed," replied her sister, who felt better on finding that
her suspicions were incorrect, and worse at having betrayed the bent of
her own thoughts, and not troubling herself about her sister's feelings
in the least.

"Ought we to do anything, Beatrice?" said Rebecca, whose fingers itched
to get hold of the letter.

"Do anything?" said Beatrice.

"Yes," said Rebecca in a low tone, unheard by Ann Straggalls, whose
large moist lips were some distance apart to match her eyelids, as she
stared at the vicar's sisters; "ought we to let that note go?"

"Oh, I could not think of interfering," said Beatrice, shaking her head.
"Besides, it would be impossible.  Henry gives the new mistress great
latitude, and possibly he might approve of her corresponding with Mr
Burge."

"I--I don't like letting her go," said Rebecca, hesitating, a fact of
which her sister was well aware.  "I don't think it is proper, and it
seems to me to be our duty to take some steps in such matters as these."

"I shall not interfere with Miss Thorne in any way," replied Beatrice.
"Henry is, I dare say, quite correct in his views respecting the
mistress's behaviour, and I certainly shall not expose myself to the
risk of being taken to task again by my brother for interfering, as he
called it at the schools.  You had better make haste, Straggalls, and
deliver your message."

"Please, 'm, it's a letter, 'm," said Ann Straggalls in open eyed
delight at catching the speaker tripping.

"Make haste on and deliver your letter, child," said the lady with
dignity; and the girl made two more bobs and hurried away.

"It was quite impossible, Rebecca," said Beatrice reprovingly.  "The
letter is no business of ours."

"Are we going down to the school to-day?" asked Rebecca.

"Not now," replied her sister; "but we might call upon Mrs Thorne.  I
wonder what Mr Chute has had to do with that letter to Mr Burge."

"Yes, I was wondering too.  He was certainly talking to the girl
Straggalls as we came into sight."

And then, itching with curiosity, the sisters walked on.

Ann Straggalls held her head a little higher as she went on up the
street through the market-place.  She felt that she was an ambassadress
of no little importance, as she had been stopped twice on her way.

As luck had it, she came upon the Reverend Henry Lambent as he was
leaving the Vicarage gates, looking very quiet and thoughtful, and he
would have passed Straggalls unnoticed, had not that young lady been
ready to recognise him, which, nerved as she was by her pleasant feeling
of self-satisfied importance, she did by first nearly causing him to
tumble over her, as she made the customary bob by way of incense, and
then saying aloud--

"Plee, sir, I've got a letter."

"A letter, child!  Let me see--oh, it is Straggalls."

"Yes, sir--Annie Straggalls, sir, plee, sir."

"Then why don't you give me the letter, child?  Who is it from?"

"Teacher, plee, sir."

A flush came into the vicar's pale cheeks, and he raised his drooping
lids as he impatiently held out his hand and waited while Ann Straggalls
struggled to produce the letter.  She had had some difficulty in placing
it in what she considered to be a safe receptacle, forcing it down below
the string that ran round the top of her frock.  That struggle, however,
was nothing to the one which now took place to release the missive, for
the note had crept down to somewhere about Ann Straggalls' waist where
it was lying so comfortable and warm that it refused to be dislodged, in
spite of the pushing of one hand, and the thrustings down of the other.
The young lady posed herself in a variety of attitudes, reaching up,
bending down, leaning first on one side, then upon the other, but all in
vain.  She grew red in the face, her hands were hot, and the vicar
became more and more impatient; but the letter was not forthcoming, and
at last she exclaimed, with a doleful expression of countenance--

"Plee, sir, I can't get it out."

"You've lost it," cried the vicar angrily.

"No, sir, I ain't, plee, sir.  I can feel it quite plain, but it's
slithered down to my waist."

"You tiresome girl!" cried the vicar impatiently, for it was an awkward
dilemma, and he was beginning to think of the penknife in his vest
pocket, and the possibility of cutting the note free without injury to
the young lady's skin, when she solved the difficulty herself by running
off to where she saw a little girl standing, and the result of the
companion's efforts was so successful that Ann Straggalls came running
back beaming with pleasure, the letter in her hand.

"Good girl!" exclaimed the vicar, thrusting a sixpence into her palm, as
he eagerly snatched the letter, devoured the address with his eyes, and
the flush died out of his cheeks.

"Why, the letter is for Mr Burge," he said excitedly.

"Yes, sir; for Mr William Forth Burge, plee, sir."

"Take it," exclaimed the vicar huskily, and thrusting the note hastily
into the girl's hands, he turned sharply round and walked back into the
house, thoroughly unnerved by the incident, trifling as it may seem.

"He's give me sixpence!" said Ann Straggalls wonderingly; and
then--"Didn't he seem cross!"

At last, after these interruptions, which duly published the fact that
Hazel Thorne openly wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, the note came to
that gentleman's hand, for Ann Straggalls reached the gate, pushed it
wide open, and knowing from experience what a splendid gate it was, she
passed through, and stopped to watch it as it swung back past the post,
with the latch giving a loud click, and away ever so far in the other
direction; then back again with another click; away again with another,
and then to and fro, quicker and quicker, click--click--click--click--
clack, when the latch caught in its proper notch, and Ann Straggalls
smiled with satisfaction, and wished that she had such a gate for her
own.

The clicking of the gate took the attention of Mr William Forth Burge,
who was busy amongst his standard rose-trees, with a quill-pen and a
saucer, using the former to brush off the abundant aphides from the buds
into the latter.  He smiled with satisfaction as he released from its
insect burden some favourite rose, whose name was hanging from it upon a
label like that used for the old-fashioned medicine bottles--"one
tablespoonful every four hours"--but, all the same, it was undoubtedly
unpleasant for the aphides that were being slaughtered by the thousand.

Miss Burge had her work and a garden-seat, and she was looking up from
time to time, and smiling her satisfaction at seeing her brother so
happy, for of late he had been dull and overclouded, and did not take to
his dinners and his cigars so heartily as of old.

She too looked up as the gate clicked, and together the brother and
sister watched the coming girl, who had not seen them yet, but was
staring, open-mouthed, at the various flowers.  First she made a pause
before one, and her fingers twitched with the intense desire she felt to
pick it; then before another which she bent down to smell, and so on and
on slowly, fighting hard and successfully against temptation, till she
came to a rose in full bloom, before which she came to a complete
standstill.

"Oh, you beauty!" she cried aloud as she bent down and began sniffing
with all her might.  "Oh, don't I wish Feelier Potts was here!"

But Feelier Potts was not there, fortunately for Mr William Forth
Burge's _Gloire de Bordeaux_, for that young lady would have felt no
more scruple in ravaging the bush than in picking the buttercups and
daisies of the fields; so at last Ann Straggalls turned with a sigh of
regret, to find herself face to face, with the owner of the garden, who
was smiling at her blandly.

"Plee, sir, I've brought a letter, sir, from teacher, sir."

Little Miss Burge felt startled as she saw the change that came over her
brother's face, for, in place of its customary ruddiness, it grew
mottled, and he stood gazing at the girl as if her words could not be
true.

"A letter?  For me?"

"Yes, sir, plee, sir; teacher sent it."

"Take her in, Betsey; give her some cake or biscuits," he said hastily,
as he almost snatched the missive.

Little Miss Burge sighed as she took the girl by the hand and led her
away, Mr William Forth Burge following directly after with the letter,
which he took into his study, for it was too sacred to be read out in
the open air.

It only took a minute to seat Ann Straggalls in the hall with a big lump
of cake in her hand, portions of which she transferred to her mouth and
worked at with machine-like regularity, and then Miss Burge hurried to
the study, to find her brother walking up and down in a great state of
excitement.

"Betsey," he cried hoarsely, "she's written to me--she's sent for me!"

"Oh, Bill, has she?" cried the little woman sadly.

"Yes; she's written to me--she's sent for me."

"Bill dear, I don't like that."

"What?"

"It don't--please don't be angry with me--but it don't seem nice."

"Not nice--not nice!" he cried almost fiercely.  "Why, read here.  Poor
gal! she's in trouble.  There's something wrong.  Here, where's my best
coat.  I'll go down."

"Oh! that's different," cried little Miss Burge, who seemed greatly
relieved.  "Poor girl!  Why, whatever can be the matter?"

"I don't know.  You mustn't stop me, Betsey," he cried.  "I must go
directly--I must."

"Oh, Bill!  Bill!  Bill!" sobbed the little lady, throwing her arms
round his neck and bursting into tears.

"I can't help it, Betsey," he cried; "I can't help it.  I never had it
before, but I've got it badly now, dear; and I ain't a bit ashamed to
own it to you."

"Oh, Bill!"

"Don't try to stop me, Betsey."

"But you won't do anything foolish, dear?"

"It wouldn't be foolish if it was her," he said excitedly.

"No, Bill, I suppose not; but I don't like her sending for you to come."

"There, there," he cried, "I won't hear another word."  And he proved it
by hurriedly taking his hat and going down straight to the school,
leaving his sister in tears, and Ann Straggalls deep in cake.

Mr Chute was on the look-out, and saw him pass, and directly after the
schoolmaster took up a slate and a pencil, and placing the slate against
the partition, began to write thereon, with his back to the boys, but
with his eager eyes gazing through the slit at where Hazel was busy with
her pupils.

A minute later he saw Mr William Forth Burge enter the schoolroom and
shake hands.  Hazel spoke to him, but the words did not reach Chute's
ears; and soon after, as the hands pointed to twelve, the children were
dismissed, and Hazel and Mr William Forth Burge were alone, but, to
Chute's great disgust they went out and into the cottage.

"Well, of all the shabby--Oh, I can't stand this!" cried the
schoolmaster, stamping his feet.  "It's too bad."

But, bad or good, he had to submit to it for his chance of overhearing
the conversation was gone.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"I'M VERY GLAD YOU'RE IN TROUBLE."

"I'm very glad you're in trouble, Miss Thorne," said Mr William Forth
Burge, as he took the chair in the little parlour which Hazel placed for
him, Mrs Thorne, not being dressed to her own satisfaction, having
escaped into the kitchen, where her son was seated, sulky, and with his
countenance full of gloom.

"Are you?" said Hazel, smiling sadly.

"No; not glad you're in trouble, but that you've felt that I could help
you," said the visitor, suddenly recollecting that Hazel was standing,
and rising to put a chair for her in turn.

"I am so lonely here--so helpless," said Hazel after a pause, for she
hesitated to begin and lay bare the trouble that was at her breast.

"Well, don't say lonely, Miss Thorne," said the great man.  "I'm sure my
sister and me has always felt a sort of longing to be neighbours, and to
be friendly.  For don't you think because I'm a rich man that it's made
a bit of difference in me."

"I felt your kindness so much, Mr Burge," she replied earnestly, "that
I ventured to ask for your advice and help in this very great trouble."

"That's right," he exclaimed, his admiration and respect for the speaker
shining out of his honest eyes.  "I'm a very plain, common sort of man,
my dear, but I've had lots of business experience, and p'r'aps I can
help you better than some people would think."

There was a pause here, for Hazel's tongue seemed to refuse its office.
Her visitor's manner was so tender and kind, as well as respectful, that
it touched her to the heart, and she looked at him piteously, as if
imploring him to give her time.

"It's a good big bit of trouble, I can see, my dear," he said quietly.
"Give yourself time and speak out; and if William Forth Burge can help
you through with it, you may feel that it's as good as done.  Suppose I
try a bit of a guess--just to help you like.  Now, is it money?  Don't
be offended at my saying so, but is it money, now?"

"It is about money," faltered Hazel, making an effort.

"I thought so," he said, brightening up and rubbing his hands softly.
"Then don't you worry a bit more, my dear; for my sister Betsey's got
lots of money saved up, and there's nothing wouldn't please her better
than putting your bit of trouble all right for you."

"I must explain to you, Mr Burge," said Hazel.

"Oh, I don't know," he said gently.  "It might hurt you, perhaps; and,
dear heart alive! why should you make yourself miserable about such a
thing as money!  Now, just you look here, my dear Miss Thorne.  I'm
going straight home, and I'll send down my sister Betsey, and you just
say offhand to her what will put it straight--fifty, or a hundred, or
two hundred, or whatever it is--and she'll have it in her ridicule, and
the job's done.  There, I shall make you cry if I stay, and I don't want
to do that, you know.  Good-bye.  God bless you!"

He had started up, and was standing, hat in hand, holding out his hand
to her, which she took and held while she tried to speak.

"No, no, Mr Burge," she said at last.  "Let me tell you all."

"To be sure you shall," he said soothingly.  "There, there! don't be
afraid to speak to me, my dear.--Just you say to yourself, `William
Forth Burge is an old friend of mine, and I'd trust him with anything,
and he's just the man to go to when I'm in trouble.'"

"You are very kind," faltered Hazel, fighting hard to be brave.  And at
last she told him the story of her brother's lapse.

"The young dog!" he cried angrily; and his voice was raised.  "How dare
he do such a thing, and disgrace you and his mamma?  I--I could thrash
him well."

"It is so terrible--so shocking a thing.  I don't know what to do, Mr
Burge.  I feel so helpless: for the people, his employers--seemed to
hint at prosecution."

"Is--is he in there?" whispered Mr William Forth Burge, winking one eye
and pointing with his thumb at the door.

"Yes; he is in the next room," replied Hazel.

"I shouldn't wonder a bit," said the visitor very loudly.  "I should say
they are sure to prosecute and put him in prison."

The moment after he nodded and frowned and winked at Hazel.

"Let's frighten him a bit," he whispered.  "Let him think he is going to
be in great trouble, and it will make him remember.  But you give me the
people's names, my dear, and I'll set my lawyer on to 'em; and don't you
worry yourself any more.  I'll square it all for you, and make it
right."

"But the shame--the disgrace!" cried Hazel.

"It's no shame or disgrace of yours, my dear," he said.  "You couldn't
help it.  I had three boys in my place at different times as was bitten
that way.  Lots of 'em are.  A silly young dog!  He deserves to be well
flogged.  But just you leave the thing to me, and I'll put it right.
But what are you going to do with him afterwards?  You can't keep him
here!"

It was a question Hazel could not answer, for like a blow the idea came
to her that by his act of dishonest folly her brother had lost his
character, and that the chances were greatly against his obtaining
further employment.

"Ah!  You don't know," said Mr William Forth Burge cheerfully.  "You
can't think.  It is a job, isn't it?  Sometimes, my dear, I have thought
that boys are a regular mistake.  They're a terrible lot of trouble,
unless they make up their minds to be very careful and particular, and
that they don't often do.  But never you mind.  We'll see if we can't
set it all right by-and-by.  We'll get him out of the scrape first, and
then see what's to be done with him afterwards.  Now, suppose I put down
who the people are; and you may as well give me the letters you talked
about.--That's right.  Now wait a bit."

Mr William Forth Burge's coat was buttoned very tightly across his
chest, and he had some difficulty in getting at the breast-pocket; but
he extricated therefrom a large metallic paper pocket-book, such as
would be used by a commercial traveller about to receive an order,
opened the clasp, found a suitable place, and fixed it by placing the
elastic band of the pocket-book round the leaves, after which he
moistened the tip of the pencil between his lips from habit, and
proceeded to enter the day and date of the month.

"Nothing like doing these things in a business-like way, my dear," he
said, as he wrote on, asking questions and making his notes, ending by
saying:

"Now, suppose we have in the young fellow."

"Have him in?" faltered Hazel.

"Yes; let's have him in and give him a bit of a talking to.  Don't you
think it will be best?"

Hazel thought for a few moments, and in that brief space she seemed to
realise exactly what Percy would say, and how he would resent being
taken to task by their visitor.

Mr William Forth Burge guessed her thoughts, and nodded and smiled.

"You're afraid I shall be too hard upon him.  That's just the way with
worn--I mean ladies.  You're too gentle and kind--just like your nature.
Why, my sister, Betsey, she'd come here in a case like this, and she'd
tell that brother of yours that he was a very naughty boy, and mustn't
do so any more, and there would be an end of it; only it wouldn't do any
good.  For, bless you, my dear, if you talk like that to a boy who has
been a bit out in the world, he'll pretend to be very sorry and that
he's going to be quite square, and as soon as you're out of sight he'll
grin at you and think how soft you are.  Now, suppose you fetch him in."

For answer Hazel rose and went to the kitchen, where she found that
Percy had tried to secure himself by taking his two young sisters one
upon each knee, and holding them there as a sort of armour of innocence
against attack.

"Percy, there is a gentleman in the next room wishes to see you."

"Oh, I can't go--I daren't go!" the boy said excitedly.  "What does he
want?"

"Surely, Hazel, my dear, you are not going to expose poor Percy to
insult," cried Mrs Thorne.

"Mamma," said Hazel firmly, "I have asked Mr Burge to come down here
and help me in an endeavour to settle Percy's affairs."

"Settle his affairs!  Oh! surely, Percy, you have not been such a bad
boy as to go and get into debt?"

"Yes, mother," said Hazel quickly, as she responded to the boy's
imploring look, "Percy has behaved badly, and entangled himself with a
very serious debt and Mr Burge is going to see what can be done."

"Then you've been a bad, wicked, thoughtless boy, Percy!" exclaimed Mrs
Thorne in a whining voice; "and I don't know what you don't deserve--
going spending your money in such a reckless way, and then taking trust
for things you ought not to have had."

"Don't you turn against me, ma," whimpered the lad.

"But I must turn against you, Percy.  It is my duty as your mamma to
teach and lead you, and when you are going wrong to scold you for being
naughty.  Now, put those children down directly, and go upstairs and
brush your hair, and then go and see Mr William Forth Burge, who will,
I dare say, being a very respectable sort of man, talk to you for your
benefit.  Hazel, my dear, make my compliments to Mr William Forth
Burge, and tell him I am much gratified by his calling, but that I never
receive till after three o'clock.  Tuesdays and Fridays used to be my
days, but of course one cannot be so particular now."

"Yes, mother," said Hazel quietly.  "Come, Percy," she continued, and
she took his hand.

"I say, Hazy, must I go?" said the lad, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead.

"Yes: come along and be brave and respectful.  Let Mr Burge see that
you are truly sorry, and I think he will try and see your employers, and
make some arrangement."

"What--so that there shall be no police bother?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, I hope so."

"I couldn't stand that, Hazy; I couldn't indeed.  I should go and enlist
or jump off a bridge, or something of the kind."

"Don't be foolish, Percy, but try and meet the difficulty like a man."

"Yes," he said, "I will.  But stop a moment.  I say, is my collar all
right?  Those children have been tumbling me."

"Yes, it looks quite right."

"And--must I go upstairs and brush my hair?"

"No, no; it looks quite smooth.  Now, come--be brave and face it as you
should."

"Oh yes, it's all very well for you, who haven't got it to do," he
replied.  "You can't think what it is."

"Yes, Percy, I can; and it makes me say to you: Why expose yourself to
such bitter humiliation?  Would it not have been better to be able to
hold up your head before all the world and to say: I am poor, and occupy
a very menial position, but I am a gentleman?"

"Yes, Hazel is quite right my dear," said Mrs Thorne.  "It is what I
always say to her: Never forget that you are a lady; and I am glad to
find that she does not forget my teachings."

"I'll come now," said Percy.  "I--I think I'm ready;" and, clinging to
his sister's hand, he went with her into the room where Mr William
Forth Burge was seated behind his book, with his pencil across his
mouth, as if it had been a bit to bridle his tongue from uttering that
which he had wished to say.  He was trying to look very stern, but an
admiring glance shot from his eyes as Hazel closed the door after her
and then said simply:

"This is my brother, Mr Burge."

There was a few moments' pause, during which Percy, after a quick look
at the great man of Plumton, stood there humbled and abashed, for the
knowledge of his position completely took away his natural effrontery,
and seemed to have made him ten years younger than he was.  A flash of
resentment came for a moment, and made his eyes brighten and his cheek
colour on hearing their visitor's salutation, but they both died out
directly, for all Percy Thorne's spirit seemed to have evaporated now.

"Well, sir," cried Mr William Forth Burge fiercely, for here was an
opportunity for crowing over a lad who was a very different sort of boy
to what he had been.  He had never meddled with moneys entrusted to him,
and had been content to plod and plod slowly and surely till he had made
himself what he was.  This boy--Percy Thorne--had tried to make himself
rich by one or two bold strokes--by gambling, in fact, and this was a
chance; so "Well, sir," he cried, "and what have you got to say for
yourself?"

Percy looked up and looked down, for it was evident he had nothing to
say for himself, and he ended by gazing appealingly at his sister, his
lips moving as if saying: "Speak a word for me!  Please do."

Mr William Forth Burge could be sharp enough as a business-man, simple
as he was in some other matters, and he noted Percy's glance, and softly
rubbed his hands beneath the table as he rejoiced in the fact that he
had been called in to help Hazel in this family matter.  Then, seizing
upon the opportunity of showing where he could be shrewd and strong, he
said quietly:

"I think, Miss Thorne, you had better leave us together for a few
minutes, and well see what can be done."

Hazel hesitated for a moment, and then, in spite of an appeal from her
brother, walked to the door, turning then to direct a glance at her
visitor which completely finished the work that her eyes had
unconsciously already done, and for a few moments after she had gone the
ex-tradesman sat with his gaze fixed upon the table, completely unnerved
and unable to trust himself to speak.

He soon recovered, though, and turned sharply to where the tall, thin
boy stood, miserable and humiliated, resting first on one foot and then
on the other, and after staring him completely out of countenance for a
few moments, he showed himself in quite a new character, and gave some
inkling of how it was that he had been so successful in his trade.

"Now, young fellow," he said sharply, "I know all about it, and what a
scamp you have been."

Percy blushed again, and raised his head to make an angry retort.

"Well, scoundrel, then, or blackguard, if that other name isn't strong
enough for you."

"How dare"--began Percy, scarlet.

"Eh?  What?  How dare I?  Well, I'll tell you, boy.  It's because I'm an
honest man, and you ain't.  There: you can't get over that."

Percy could not get over that.  The shot completely dismantled at one
blow the whole of his fortifications, and left him at his enemy's mercy.
Giving up on the instant he whimpered pitifully--

"Please don't be hard on me, sir; I have been a scoundrel, but if you--
you--could give me another chance--"

Boy prevailed, and all Percy Thorne's manliness went to the winds.  He
was very young yet in spite of his size, and, try how he would to keep
them back, the weak tears came, and he could not say another word.

"Give you another chance, eh?" said the visitor sharply.  "That's all
very well, but we've got to get you out of this scrape first.  Your
people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark, write as if they meant to prosecute
you for robbing them."

"But I meant to pay it again, sir--I did indeed!" cried Percy.

"Yes: of course.  That's what all fellows who go in for a bit of a spree
with other people's coin say to themselves, so as to give them Dutch
courage.  But it won't do!"

"But indeed I should have paid it sir."

"If you had won, which wasn't likely, boy.  Only one in a thousand wins,
my lad, and it's always somebody else--not you.  Now then, suppose I set
to work and get these people, Suthers, Rubley, and Spark"--he repeated
the names with great gusto--"to quash the prosecution on account of your
youth and the respectability of your relations, what would you do?"

"Oh, I'd be so grateful, sir!  I'd never, never bet again, or put money
on horses, or--"

"Make a fool of yourself, eh?"

"No, sir; indeed, indeed I would not."

"Well, what sort of people are these Suthers, Rubley, and Spark?"

"Oh! dreadful cads, sir."

"If you say that again," cried the ex-butcher sharply, "I won't make a
stroke to get you out of your trouble."

Percy stared at him with astonishment.

"It's all very fine!" cried Mr William Forth Burge.  "Every one who
don't do just as you like is a cad, I suppose.  People have often called
me a cad because I've not had so good an education and can't talk and
speak like they do; and sometimes the cads are on the other side."

"I'm very sorry, sir," faltered Percy.

"Then don't you call people cads, young fellow.  Now then, you mean to
give up all your stupid tricks, and to grow into a respectable man,
don't you?"

"Yes, sir; I'll try," said Percy humbly.

"Then just you go to your bedroom, brush that streaky hair off your
forehead, take out that pin, and put on a different tie; and next time
you get some clothes made, don't have them cut like a stable-boy's.  It
don't fit with your position, my lad.  Now, look sharp and get ready,
for you're going along with me."

"Going with you, sir?"

"Yes, along with me, my lad; and I'm going to keep you till you are out
of your scrape.  Then we'll see about what's to be done next."

Percy left the room, and his sister came back, to find Mr William Forth
Burge looking very serious; but his eyes brightened as he took Hazel's
hand.

"I am going to take your brother away with me, and I sha'n't let a
moment go by without trying to put things square.  I think the best
thing will be for me to take him right up to London, and go straight to
his employers; but I haven't told him so.  If I did, he'd shy and kick;
but it will be the best way.  And I dare say a bit of a talk with the
people will help to put matters right."

"But will they prosecute, Mr Burge?  It would be so dreadful!"

"So it would, my dear; but they won't.  They'll talk big about wanting
to make an example, and that sort of thing, and then they'll come round,
and I shall square it up.  Oh, here he comes.  There, say good-bye to
your sister, young man, for we've no time to spare.  Now, go in first.
Good-bye, Miss Thorne."

"Mr Burge, I cannot find words to tell you how grateful I am," cried
Hazel in tears.

"I don't want you to," he replied bluntly, as he shook hands
impressively, but with the greatest deference.  "I couldn't find words
to tell you, my dear, how grateful I am to think that you are ready to
trust me when you want a friend."

Here Mr William Forth Burge stuck his hat on very fiercely, and went
home without a word, Percy Thorne walking humbly by his side, and
checking his desire to say to himself that after all, Mr William.
Forth Burge did seem to be a regular cad.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

MR BURGE IS BUSINESS-LIKE.

"I am the last person in the world, Rebecca, to interfere," said
Beatrice, as she busied herself making a series of holes with some thick
white cotton, which she wriggled till something like a pattern was
contrived; "but I cannot sit still and see that young person misbehaving
as she does."

"I quite agree with you, dear, and it shocks me to see into what a state
of moral blindness poor Henry has plunged."

"Ah!" sighed her sister, "it is very sad;" and she sighed again and
thought of a certain scarlet woman.  "What would he say if he knew that
Miss Thorne openly sent letters to Mr William Forth Burge?"

"But they might be business letters," said Rebecca.

"Miss Thorne has no right to send business letters to Mr William Forth
Burge," said Beatrice angrily.  "If there are any business matters in
connection with the school, the letter, if letter there be--for it would
be much more in accordance with Miss Thorne's duty if she came in all
due humility--"

"Suitably dressed," said Rebecca.

"Exactly," assented her sister. "--to the Vicarage and stated what was
required.  Or if she wrote, it should be to the vicar, when the letter
would be in due course referred to us, and we should see what ought to
be done."

"Exactly so," assented Rebecca.

"Mr William Forth Burge has been a great benefactor to the schools; but
they are the Church schools, and, for my part, I do not approve of
everything being referred to him."

"I--I think you are right, Beatrice," assented Rebecca; "but Mr William
Forth Burge has, as you say, been a great benefactor to the schools."

"Exactly; a very great benefactor, Rebecca; but that is no reason why
Miss Thorne should write to him."

"I quite agree with you there, Beatrice; and now I have something more
to tell you, which I have just heard as I came up the town."

"About the schools?"

"Well, not exactly about the schools, but about the school-cottage.  I
heard, on very good authority, that the Thornes have a young man staying
in the house."

"A young man!"

"Yes; he arrived there yesterday afternoon, and Mr Chute, who was my
informant, looked quite scandalised."

"We must tell Henry at once," cried Beatrice.

"Of what use would it be?" said Rebecca viciously.  "He would only be
angry, and tell us it was Miss Thorne's brother, or something of that
sort."

"It is very, very terrible," sighed Beatrice, "Of what could Henry be
thinking to admit such a girl to our quiet country district?"

Just at the same time their brother also was much exercised in his own
mind on account of the letter that he had seen in Hazel's handwriting
directed to Mr Burge, and he was troubled the more on finding that she
should appeal to Mr Burge instead of to him--the head of the parish,
and one who had shown so great a disposition to be her friend--for even
then he could not own that he desired a closer intimacy.

The Reverend Henry Lambent knit his brows and asked himself again
whether this was not some temptation that had come upon him, similar to
those which had attacked the holy men of old; and as he sat and thought
it seemed to him that it could not be, for Hazel Thorne grew to him
fairer and more attractive day by day, and, fight hard as he would
against those thoughts, they grew stronger and more masterful, while he
became less able to cope with them.

And all this time Mr William Forth Burge, the stout and plain and
ordinary, was working away on Hazel's behalf.  He was showing the
business side of his nature, and any one who had studied him now would
easily have understood why it was that he had become so wealthy.  For
there was a straightforward promptness in all he did that impressed
Percy a good deal; and when, after keeping him for some hours at his
villa, wondering what was to happen next--hours that were employed in
copying letters for his new friend--the said new friend announced that
they were going up to London, Percy, with all the disposition to resist
obeyed without a word, and followed to the station.

"Don't seem very well off," thought Percy, as Mr William Forth Burge
took a couple of third-class tickets for London.

He read the boy's thoughts, for he said sharply--

"Six shillings third class; eighteen shillings first class.  Going this
way saves one pound four."

Percy said, "Yes, sir," and subsided moodily into the corner of the
carriage opposite to his companion, and but little was said on the
journey up.  Mr William Forth Burge took the boy to a quiet hotel, and
wrote a letter or two, as it was too late to do any business that night.
The next morning Percy was left in the coffee-room to look furtively
over the sporting news in the _Standard_ while his new friend went off
to see Mr Geringer, who, on hearing his business, seemed greatly
displeased at any one else meddling with the Thornes' affairs; and
though he did not refuse to go with his visitor to intercede for Percy,
he put him off till the next afternoon, and Percy's champion left his
office chuckling to himself.

"Asks me to wait till next day," he said, "so that he may go and see the
state of the market for himself.  Won't do, Mr Geringer, sir.  That's
not William Forth Burge's way of doing business."  And he went straight
to the firm, gave his card, and was shown in to Mr Spark, a dull, heavy
man, remarkable in the business for his inertia.

Yes, of course they should prosecute Percy Thorne, if that was what the
visitor wanted to know; and if the said visitor wanted to know anything
else, would he be kind enough to be quick, for Mr Spark's time was very
valuable?

"Quick as you like, sir," said Mr William Forth Burge, who showed the
new side of his character.  "I've been in trade, and I know what's what.
Now, sir, I'm the friend of the boy's sister; father dead--mother a
baby.  Business is business.  Prosecute the boy, and you put him in
prison, and spend more money; you get none back.  Forgive him, and take
him on again, and, if it's fifty pounds, I'll pay what's lost."

Then followed a long argument, out of which Mr William Forth Burge came
away a hundred pounds poorer, and with Percy Thorne free to begin the
world again, but handicapped with a blurred character.

That evening they were back at Plumton.

"But there's going to be no prosecution, or anything of that sort, Miss
Thorne; and, till we hear of something to suit him, he shall stop at my
house and do clerk's work in my office."

"But I feel sure you have been paying away money to extricate him from
this terrible difficulty, Mr Burge," cried Hazel.

"Well, and suppose I have," he said, smiling; "I've a right to do what I
like with my own money, and it's all spent for the benefit of our
schools."

"But, Mr Burge," cried Hazel eagerly, and speaking with the tears
running down her cheeks, "how can I ever repay you?"

"Oh, I'll send in my bill some day," he said hastily.  "But as I was
going to say, Master Percy shall stay at my place for the present.  I
could easily place him at a butcher's or a meat salesman's, but that
ain't genteel enough for a boy like him.  So just you wait a bit and--"

"See," he would have said, but all this time he had been backing towards
the door to avoid Hazel's thanks, and he escaped before his final word
was spoken.

"There's something about that man I don't quite like," said Mrs Thorne
as soon as their visitor had gone.

"Not like him, dear?" cried Hazel wonderingly.

"No, my dear; there's a sort of underhandedness about him that isn't
nice."

"But, my dear mother, he has been up to town on purpose to extricate
Percy from a great difficulty, and, I feel sure," said Hazel warmly, "at
a great expense to himself."

"Yes, that's it!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne triumphantly.  "And you mark my
words, Hazel, if he don't try to make us pay for it most heavily some
day."

"Oh, really, mother dear!"

"Now, don't contradict, Hazel, because you really cannot know so well as
I do about these things.  Has he not taken Percy to his house?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then you will see if he doesn't make that boy a perfect slave and
drudge, and work him till--Well, there now, how lucky!  What can have
brought Edward Geringer down now?"

Hazel turned pale, for at her mother's exclamation she had turned
sharply, just in time to see Mr Geringer's back as he passed the
window, and the next moment his knock was heard at the door.

"Well, my dear," exclaimed Mrs Thorne, as Hazel stood looking greatly
disturbed, "why don't you go and let Mr Geringer in?  And, for goodness
sake, Hazel, do be a little more sensible this time.  Edward Geringer
has come down, of course, on purpose to see you, and you know why."

Further speech was cut short by the children relieving their sister of
the unpleasant duty of admitting the visitor, who came in directly
after, smiling and looking bland, with one of the little girls on each
side.

"Ah, Hazel!" he exclaimed, loosing his hold of the children.

Hazel tried to master the shrinking sensation that troubled her, and
shook hands.  Her manner was so cold that Geringer could not but observe
it; still, he hid his mortification with a smile, and turned to Mrs
Thorne.

"And how are you, my dear madam?" he exclaimed effusively as he took
both the widow's hands, to stand holding them with a look that was a
mingling of respect and tenderness, the result being that the widow
began to sob, and it was some little time before she could be restored
to composure.

"I had a visit," he said at last, "from a gentleman who resides in this
place, and upon thinking over your trouble I have engaged to go with him
to-morrow afternoon to see poor Percy's employers; but I felt bound to
run down here first and have a little consultation with you both before
taking any steps."

He glanced at Hazel, and their eyes met; and Hazel read plainly that she
was the price of his interference to save Percy, and as she mentally
repeated his letter, she met his eye bravely, while her heart throbbed
with joy as she felt ready to give him a triumphant look of defiance.
He started, in spite of himself, as Mrs Thorne exclaimed--

"It is just like you, Mr Geringer--so kind and thoughtful!  But Mr
William Forth Burge has settled the matter with those dreadful people.
They kept a great deal of it from me, but I know all, now it is well
over; and it is very kind of you, all the same."

"I try to be kind," he said bitterly, "but my kindness seems to be
generally thrown away.  Miss Thorne, I am going to the hotel to stay
to-night.  A note will bring me back directly.  Mrs Thorne, you must
excuse me now."

He spoke in a quiet very subdued voice, and left the house, lest they
should see the mortification he felt and he should burst out into a fit
of passionate reproach, so thoroughly had he hoped that, by coming down,
he might work Percy's trouble to his own advantage, and gain so great a
hold upon Hazel's gratitude that he might still win the life-game he had
been playing so long.  But this was check and impending mate, and had he
not hurried away he felt that he would have lost more ground still.

He walked up to the hotel in a frame of mind of no very enviable
character, fully intending to stay for a few days; but on reaching the
place he found that it was possible to catch the night-train back to
town.

"Better let her think I am offended now," he muttered.  "It is the best
move I can make;" and he went straight back to the station, so for the
present Hazel saw him no more, and to her great relief.

Percy only came to the cottage once a week, saying that Mr William
Forth Burge kept him hard at work writing, and he should be very glad to
get a post somewhere in town, for he was sick of Plumton, it was so
horribly slow, and Mr William Forth Burge was such a dreadful cad.

Percy's stay proved to be shorter than he expected, for at the end of a
month he was one morning marched up to Ardley, and brought face to face
with George Canninge, who was quiet and firm with him, asking him a few
sharp questions, and ending by giving him a couple of five-pound notes
and a letter to a shipping firm in London, the head of which firm told
him to come into the office the very next day, and was very short, but
informed him that his salary as clerk would begin at once at sixty
pounds a year, and that if he did his duty he should rise.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

ANOTHER TROUBLE.

It was, some will say, a childish, old-fashioned way of keeping cash,
but all the same it was the plan adopted by Hazel, who every week
dropped the amounts she had received from the school pence, after
changing the coppers into silver, through the large slit of an old
money-box that had been given her when a child.  It was a plain,
oak-wood box, with ordinary lock and key, and the slit at the top was
large enough to admit of each week's shillings and sixpences being tied
up in note-paper, in the ladylike way adopted by the fair sex--that is
to say, a neat packet is made and tied up with cotton.  After the tying
up Hazel used to put the amount it contained upon the packet, enter the
said amount in a memorandum-book, drop the packet through the slit, and
lock up the drawer in which the box reposed.

During the early portion of her stay at Plumton, as previously shown,
Mr Chute went on changing the pence for her from copper to silver, but
after a time Hazel felt a certain amount of diffidence in charging the
schoolmaster with the task, and made an arrangement with the grocer and
draper of the place, who readily made the exchange.

Then there was the monthly payment to the blanket fund, which was also
placed in the same receptacle, after being duly noted; and there were
times when Hazel thought that it would be a good thing when she could
get rid of an amount that was rather a burden to her, and she even went
so far as to think that she would ask Mr William Forth Burge to take
charge of the amount, but for certain reasons she declined.

It was no uncommon thing for Hazel to run very short of money for
housekeeping purposes, and several times over it would have been a great
convenience to have made use of a portion of the school pence and
replaced it from her salary; but she forbore, preferring that the sums
she held in charge should remain untouched as they had come into her
hands.

After expecting for what seemed a very great length of time, she at last
received a beautifully written but ill-spelt letter from one of the
churchwardens, requesting her to send him in a statement of the amounts
received for the children's pence, and to be prepared to hand over the
money at a certain appointed time.

The letter came like a relief to her as she sat at dinner; and upon Mrs
Thorne asking, in a somewhat ill-used tone, who had been writing that
she was not to know of, her daughter smilingly handed her the letter.

"It was such a thorough business letter, dear, that I thought you would
not care to read it."

But Mrs Thorne took it, read it through, and passed it back without a
word.

"I think you seem a good deal better, dear," said Hazel, smiling.

"Indeed, I am not, child," replied Mrs Thorne sharply.  "I never felt
worse.  My health is terrible: Plumton does not agree with me, and I
must have a change."

"A change, dear?" said Hazel, sighing.

"Yes.  It is dreadful this constant confinement in a little poking
place.  I feel sometimes as if I should be stifled.  Good gracious,
Hazel! what could you be thinking about to come and live in a town like
this?  Let's go, my dear, and find some occupation more congenial to
your spirit.  I cannot bear to go on seeing how you are wasted here."

"My dear mother!" exclaimed Hazel wonderingly.

"I repeat it, Hazel--I repeat it, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne
excitedly.  "You are not fit for this place, and the wretched people
down here do not appreciate you.  Let us go away at once."

"But, my dear mother, it is impossible.  I should, even if I thought it
best, be obliged to give some months' notice; and besides, it would be
ungrateful to Mr and Miss Burge, and to the vicar, who is most kind and
considerate."

"Oh yes; I know all that," whimpered Mrs Thorne.  "But all the same, we
must go."

"Must go, mother dear?"

"Yes, child--must go.  It is a cruelty to you to keep you here."

"But I have been so well, mother; and I seem to be winning the
confidence of the people, and the children begin to like me."

"Oh yes--yes--yes; of course they are bound to like you, Hazel, seeing
what a slave you make yourself to them.  But all the same, my dear, I
protest against your stopping here any longer."

"My dear mother," said Hazel, rising and going to her side to bend down
and kiss her, "pray--pray don't be so unreasonable."

"Unreasonable?--unreasonable?  Am I to be called unreasonable for
advising you for your benefit?  For shame, Hazel--for shame!"

"But my dear mother, suppose I accede to your wishes and decide to
leave: where are we to go?  I should have to seek for another
engagement."

"And you would get it, Hazel.  Thousands of school managers would be
only too glad to obtain your services."

Hazel shook her head and smiled.

"No, mother dear; you are too partial.  Engagements are not so plentiful
as that.  Think it over, and you will look at the matter differently.
We have not the means at our command to think of moving now."

"But we must leave, Hazel, and at once," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly.
"I cannot and I will not stay here."

"But it would be unreasonable and foolish, dear, to think of doing so
under our present circumstances.  For the children's sake--for Percy's
sake, pray be more considerate.  We must not think of it at present.
After a time, perhaps, I may have the offer of a better post and the
change may be such a one as you will like.  Come, dear, try and be
content a little longer, and all will be right in the end."

"Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne angrily, "I insist upon your giving up this
school at once!"

"My dear mother!"

"Now, no excuses, Hazel I say I insist upon your giving up this school
at once, and I will be obeyed.  Do you forget that I am your mother?  Is
my own child to rise up in rebellion against me?  How dare you?  How
dare you, I say?"

"But my dear mother, if we decide to leave, where are we to go?  Where
is the money to pay for our removal?  You know as well as I do that, in
spite of my care, we are some pounds in the tradespeople's debt."

"Now she throws that in my face, when I have worked so hard to make both
ends meet, and cut and contrived over the housekeeping, thinking and
striving and straining, and now this is my reward!"

"I do not blame you, dear," said Hazel sadly; "I only think it was a
pity that you should have ordered goods for which we had not the money
to pay."

"And was I--a lady--to go on living in the mean, sordid, penurious way
you proposed, Hazel?  Shame upon you!  Where is your respect for your
wretched, unhappy parent?"

It was in Hazel's heart to say, half angrily, "Oh, mother, dear mother,
pray do not go on so!" but she simply replied, "I know, dear, that it is
very hard upon you, but we are obliged to live within our means."

"Yes: thanks to you, Hazel," retorted her mother.  "I might be living at
ease, as a lady should, if my child were considerate, and had not given
her heart to selfishness and a downright direct love of opposition to
her parent's wishes."

"Dear mother," cried Hazel piteously, "indeed I do try hard to study you
in everything."

"It ought to want no trying, Hazel.  It ought to be the natural outcome
of your heart if you were a good and affectionate child.  Study me,
indeed!  See what you have brought me to!  Did I ever expect to go about
in these wretched, shabby, black things, do you suppose--I--I, who had
as many as two dozen dresses upon the hooks in my wardrobe at one time?
Oh, Hazel, if you would conquer the stubbornness of that heart!"

"My dear mother, I must go and put away the dinner-things; but I do not
like to leave you like this."

"Oh, pray go, madam; and follow your own fancies to the top of your
bent.  I am only your poor, weak mother, and what I say or do matters
very little.  Never mind me, I shall soon be dead and cold in my grave."

"Oh, my dear mother, pray, pray do not talk like this!"

"And all I ask is, that there may be a simple headstone placed there,
with my name and age; and, if it could possibly be managed, and not too
great an expense and waste of money for so unimportant a person, I
should like the words to be cut deeply in the marble,--or, no, I suppose
it would be only stone, common stone--just these simple words: `She
never forgot that she was a lady.'"

Here Mrs Thorne sighed deeply, and began to strive to extricate herself
from her child's enlacing arms.

"No, no, no, Hazel; don't hold me--it is of no use.  I can tell, even by
the way you touch me, that you have no affection left for your poor
suffering mother."

"How can you say that dear?" said Hazel firmly.

"Nor yet in your words, even.  Oh, Hazel, I never thought I should live
to be spoken to like this by my own child!"

"My dear mother, I am ready to make any sacrifice for your sake."

"Then marry Mr Geringer," said the lady quickly.

"It is impossible."

"Move from here at once.  Take me away to some other place.  Let me be
where I can meet with some decent neighbours, and not be Chuted to death
as I am here."

Mrs Thorne was so well satisfied with the sound of the new word which
she had coined that she repeated it twice with different emphases.

"My dear mother, we have no money; we are in debt and it might be months
before I could obtain a fresh engagement.  Mother, that too, is
impossible."

"There--there--there!" cried Mrs Thorne, with aggravating iteration.
"What did I say?  Everything I propose is impossible, and yet in the
same breath the child of my bosom tells me that she is ready to do
anything to make me happy, and to show how dutiful she is."

"Mother," said Hazel gravely, "how can you be so cruel?  Your words cut
me to the heart."

"I am glad of it, Hazel--I am very glad of it; for it was time that your
hard, cruel heart should be touched, and that you should know something
of the sufferings borne by your poor, bereaved mother.  A little real
sorrow, my child, would make you very, very different, and teach you,
and change you.  Ah, there is nothing like sorrow for chastening a hard
and thoughtless heart!"

"Mother dear," said Hazel, trying to kiss her.  "I must go into the
school."

"No, no! don't kiss me, Hazel," said the poor, weak woman with a great
show of dignity; "I could not bear it now.  When you can come to me in
all proper humility, as you will to-night, and say, `Mamma, we will
leave here to-morrow,' I shall be ready to receive you into my embrace
once more."

"My dear mother, you drive me to speak firmly," said Hazel quietly.  "I
shall not be able to come to you to-night and to say that we will leave
here.  It is impossible."

"Then you must have formed some attachment that you are keeping from me.
Hazel, if you degrade yourself by marrying that Chute I will never
speak to you again."

"Hush, mother! the children will hear."

"Let them hear my protests," cried Mrs Thorne excitedly.  "I will
proclaim it on the housetops, as Mr Lambent very properly observed last
Sunday in his sermon.  I will let every one know that you intend to
degrade yourself by that objectionable alliance, and against it I now
enter my most formal protest."

Mrs Thorne's voice was growing loud, and she was shedding tears.  Her
countenance was flushed, and she looked altogether unlovely as well as
weak.

Hazel hesitated for a moment, her face working, and the desire to weep
bitterly uppermost, but she mastered it, and laying her hand upon her
mother's shoulder, bent forward once again to kiss her.

It was only to be repulsed; and as, with a weary sigh, she turned to the
door, Mrs Thorne said to her angrily--

"It is time I resumed my position, Hazel--the position I gave up to you
when forced by weakness and my many ills.  Now I shall take to it once
again, and I tell you that I will be obeyed.  We shall leave this place
to-morrow morning, and I am going to begin to pack up at once."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A QUESTION OF CASH.

"Heaven give me strength to be patient and forbearing!" said Hazel
softly, as she left the cottage and went into the school, for it was
just upon two o'clock.  "What am I to do?  Will she have forgotten this
by night?"

Far from it, for as soon as Hazel returned Mrs Thorne began again with
fresh importunity, and in so strange a manner that her daughter grew
frightened, and hesitated as to whether she should send for medical
advice; but after a while the poor woman grew more calm, took out her
work and began knitting some unnecessary ornament with costly wool;
ending, to Hazel's great relief, by going off fast asleep.

She signed to the children to be quiet, and led them softly to bed
without waking the sleeper; after which, at liberty for the first time
that day, she sat down in her own room to think, previous to drawing up
a statement of the school pence ready for giving to the churchwarden
upon the following day.

Hazel's thoughts wandered far--to Archibald Graves, to Mr Geringer, and
then to the vicar, his sisters, and good-hearted, kindly Mr Burge, to
whom she felt that she could never be sufficiently grateful.  Lastly,
she went over her mother's strange fit that day.  Mrs Thorne had never
seemed settled at Plumton, and had always been full of repining, but had
never been so excited and importunate before.

"She will be better to-morrow," thought Hazel, "and perhaps revert to it
no more.  I told her aright--it is impossible for us to go away from
here; and now--"

She had been speaking half aloud during the last few minutes; but she
said no more, only sat thinking deeply of the troubles she had had to
encounter since she had been at Plumton, and a pleasant smile came upon
her lip as she thought that the troubles had been more than balanced by
the kindliness and friendly ways of many there.  Even the parents of the
children had a pleasant smile and a cheery word for her whenever she
went to inquire after some sick absentee.

"No," she thought to herself.  "I should not like to leave my children
now."  And she smiled as she recalled scenes with Ann Straggalls and
Feelier Potts.  Then over the sunshine of her memories came clouds once
more, as the stiff, chilling presence of the Lambent sisters intruded
itself and changed the aspect of her workaday life.  Then, as she sat
and thought there came back the scene of the school feast the enjoyment
of the children, and then--

A vivid blush came into Hazel Thorne's face, and she rose from her seat
angry with herself and ready to cry shame for the direction her thoughts
had taken, and that was towards George Canninge and the attentions he
had paid her.

She tried to drive these thoughts away, but they returned
pertinaciously, and, try how she would, she kept picturing his face, his
words, the quiet gentlemanly courtesy with which he had always treated
her.

"Oh, it is monstrous!" she cried aloud at last and taking her paper,
pen, and ink, she prepared to make out the statement ready to deliver
next day; but though she tried to keep her thoughts to the work, she
found it impossible, and at last the tears gathered in her eyes, and,
weary and low-spirited, she found herself thinking bitterly of her
position in life, and her want of strength of mind for allowing such
thoughts as these to intrude.

At last she began to master herself, and taking up her pen, she opened
her memorandum-book, copied out the various amounts received week by
week ever since her coming, cast them up, and found that she had a total
of twenty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence, including nearly
six pounds that had been paid in for club money.

This done, she went down on tiptoe to see if Mrs Thorne had awakened;
but she was sleeping soundly, and after glancing at the children Hazel
returned to her task, though not to recommence, for once more the
thoughts of George Canninge, and his conduct towards her, came back,
till, blushing vividly for her folly, she made a stern effort and
resumed her work.

She had pretty well ended, but there was this to be done: she felt that
she ought to unfasten the little packets of money and count them over
and check them, ending by placing the whole of the silver in a stout
canvas-bag which she had provided for the purpose.  Leaving her seat,
then, she opened the drawer and took out the heavy oaken box, placed it
upon the table, and unlocked it slowly, her thoughts wandering to George
Canninge all the time, but only to be rudely brought back by the box
before her.

She had not opened it before during many months, but in imagination she
had pictured its contends--a number of little white packets tied up with
cotton lying one upon the other in a sort of neat chaos.  Instead of
this there were the pieces of paper certainly, but they had been opened,
and the scraps of cotton were lying about with the crumpled paper and a
number of pence.

It struck her as strange, that was all.  She did not for the moment
remember placing pence in the box, but she must have done so once,
probably when she could not get them changed for silver.  It was hard to
recall what she had done in the course of so many weeks, and after
trying for a few moments, she let the effort go, and picked up two or
three of the pieces of paper to read her memorandums on the outer side.
This one was six shillings and fivepence, that five and elevenpence,
then a heavier one that had held ten shillings and sixpence; and again
another, evidently when some arrears had been paid up, for it had
contained eleven shillings and ninepence.

Then the paper dropped from Hazel's hand, and, with lips parted and a
look of astonishment in her eyes, she hurriedly took out the heap of
pieces of paper, to find that, one and all, they had been emptied, and
that at the bottom of the box lay about five shillings' worth of
coppers, not a single silver coin remaining behind.

"Ah!" ejaculated Hazel, and a chill of horror ran through her, followed
by a peculiar sinking sensation of dread.  Where was the money left in
her charge--where were the contents of those little packets which she
had so carefully tied up and entered?  Not one remained untouched, for
the box had been opened, and she had been robbed!

No: it was impossible.  Who could know of the existence of that money?
Strangers might know that she received the money weekly, but no one
would be aware of the fact that she placed it in that box, locked it,
and then locked the box in her drawer.

She must have made some mistake.  It was impossible that she could have
been robbed.  It was a mistake certainly, and she hurriedly turned out
the contents of the box upon the bed, and counted up the pence first--
four shillings and ninepence.  Then there were the empty papers.

Hazel put her hand to her head, feeling bewildered, and wondering
whether she had not made some strange mistake.  Did she know what she
was doing, or was her memory failing from over-study?

Making a determined effort to be cool, she took the papers, arranged
them by their dates, and checked them off by the statement which she had
drawn up, to find that they tallied exactly; but when she had done that
she was no further than before, and at last she stood there in a state
of helpless despair, face to face with the fact that she had at last
been called upon to give an account of her stewardship and the moneys
that should have been ready for handing over to the churchwarden were
gone.

Hazel sank down upon the floor with her hands clenched and her brain
dizzy, to try and think out the meaning of this strange problem.

She recalled that she had had other difficult questions to solve before
now--puzzles that had seemed perfectly insurmountable, but that they had
grown less formidable by degrees, and the difficulties had been
surmounted.  Perhaps, then, this would prove less black after a time,
and she would make out how it was.

Had she paid anybody? taken any of the money? given change?

No; she could recollect nothing, and in place of growing clearer, the
problem grew momentarily more and more confused.

Her brow became full of wrinkles, her head more giddy, and as she
crouched upon the floor with the empty money-box upon the bed, and the
candle that stood upon the table surrounded by the empty wrappers, long
of snuff and mushroom topped, she began more and more to realise the
fact that at last she was face to face with a difficulty far greater
than any that she had yet been called upon to deal with since she had
been at Plumton.

It was horrible.  She had to give up a heavy amount on the next day--a
sum that she held in trust--and it was missing.

What should she do?  What could she do?

She could have sobbed in the agony of her heart; but she forced herself
to think--to try and make out where the money had gone.

The children would not have taken it; they did not know of its
existence.  Then who could?

Percy?

Oh no, it was impossible.  He had--

Oh no; she would not harbour the thought.  He had been weak and foolish,
but she felt that she should scorn herself if she harboured such a
thought as that her brother would have taken the money that she had in
charge.  It was too dreadful, and she would not believe it.

Then who could it be?

As she asked herself this again and again she suddenly heard a sound
below as of a chair being thrust back.  Then some one rose, and there
came the opening of a door, and steps upon the stairs.

Hazel rose softly, and stood behind the dim unsnuffed candle as the
steps came higher.  The door was thrust open, and the breath that Hazel
had been holding back till she felt that she must suffocate escaped with
a loud sigh, and mother and daughter stood gazing across the table at
each other.

The thought was horrible, almost maddening--but there was Mrs Thorne
with her cap half off, and her hair slightly disarranged by her
sleeping, staring in a shrinking, half-angry way before her daughter's
searching gaze.

For Hazel had no such thought before.  Now it came with almost stunning
violence, and she saw in it the explanation of her mother's strange
manner that day--her sudden desire to leave Plumton at any cost, as soon
as she had read the letter containing the request for the school funds
to be given up.

Words rose to Hazel Thorne's lips, and then sank back; they rose again,
and she still remained silent.  It was in her mind to ask her mother in
accusing tones what she knew of the absent money, for she, and she
alone, knew where it was kept and could have had access to the keys.

But no; those words were not uttered.  She could not speak them.  It was
too horrible!  But Hazel's eyes accused the poor, weak woman, who waited
for nothing more, and exclaimed:--

"There, there, Hazel! don't glower at me like that child!  It's all your
fault; leaving me so short as you did for days and weeks together.  Not
a shilling to call my own, and poor Percy always writing to me for new
clothes and pocket-money; and then things wanted to make the house tidy.
I was obliged to use the money; I don't know what I should have done
without it.  You must pay it back out of your next quarter's salary; and
there: pray don't look at me like that.  It's very dreadful to be
reduced to taking every penny from your own daughter, and--"

"Oh, mother, mother!" wailed Hazel; "say no more.  What have you--have
you done?"

"What have I done?  What was I to do?  How can you be so foolish, Hazel?
Do you suppose I can keep up even so small an establishment as this
upon the wretched pittance you give me for housekeeping?"

Hazel gazed at her mother wonderingly, for the poor woman took hardly
any interest in the household management which fell almost entirely upon
her child, who found no little difficulty in keeping matters straight.
And now Mrs Thorne was seizing upon this as a reason for her
abstraction of the money; for she made no denial whatever, but, driven
to bay, haughtily acknowledged the fact.

"Then you really did take this money, mother?"

"Of course I did, Hazel.  Why should I leave it when it was lying idly
there?  It was absurd."

"But, my dear mother, the money was not mine."

"What nonsense, Hazel!  What does it matter whether it was yours or not?
Money's money.  The school people don't want you to give them the very
pennies that the children brought."

"No, mother; but they want the amount."

"Then give it to them, Hazel.  My dear child, what a ridiculous fuss you
do make?"

"But, mother, do you not understand--do you not see that I have no
money, and no means of making it up?"

"Really, Hazel, you are too absurd," said Mrs Thorne with forced
levity.  "What is the ridiculous amount?"

"Between twenty and thirty pounds."

"Absurd!  Why, I have often given as much, or more, for a new dress.
There, get the money from the school people--Mr Lambent, Mr Burge, or
somebody--and pray do not bother me about it any more."

"Mother, dear mother," cried Hazel, "have you no thought?  Tell me, have
you any of this money left?"

"Of course not, and I must beg of you not to address me in so
disrespectful a manner.  It is a very good thing that your little
sisters are not awake.  I would not have them hear you speak to me like
this on any consideration."

"How ever could you think of taking the money?"

"Now, this is too absurd; Hazel, when you leave me for days together
without a penny.  Why, I have even been obliged to go to Mrs Chute to
borrow a shilling before now."

"You have borrowed shillings of Mrs Chute, mother?"

"To be sure I have, my dear; and of course I had to pay them back.  She
said it was absurd not to use the school pence."

"She told you that?" cried Hazel quickly.

"Yes, my dear; and she said that both she and Mr Chute often used the
pence, and made the sum up again when he took his salary.  There, I am
sleepy.  For goodness' sake, put away that box and get to bed, and don't
be so ridiculous."

Hazel looked piteously at her mother, and stood hesitating for a few
minutes, asking herself what she was to do in such a strait, for it
seemed as if Mrs Thorne had quite lost all sense of right and wrong.

Was this really, then, the reason why her mother had expressed such a
keen desire to got.  It seemed like it, and this explained a great deal;
for as Hazel studied her appearance more, it became evident to her that
the poor woman was in a state of intense nervous trepidation, and that
she hardly dare meet her daughter's eye.

"Mother," said Hazel at length, "the churchwarden will be here
to-morrow, asking me for this money.  What am I to say?"

"Say nothing, you foolish child!  Pay him out of some other money."

"You know, mother, that I have no other money whatever."

"Then tell him to wait, like any other trades-person.  He is only a
common man.  Such people as these must take their money when they can
get it."

"Are you wilfully blinding yourself to the fact, mother, that we have
committed a theft in using this money?"

"My dear, absurd child--"

"That it is as great a trouble as that from the consequences of which
poor, foolish Percy has just been rescued by Mr Burge?"

"Then go to Mr Burge, Hazel, and tell him that you were obliged to use
the money because the salary is so small.  He will give you the amount
directly, my dear;" and she nodded and smiled as she eagerly reiterated
her advice.

"Mother, mother, what are you thinking of?"

"I'm thinking of what is for the best, Hazel, under the circumstances,"
said Mrs Thorne pompously.

"Mother," cried Hazel excitedly, for she was now regularly unstrung, "I
could not degrade myself by going and asking Mr Burge for that money,
and I dare not face the churchwarden to-morrow when he comes.  You took
the money--cruelly took the money that was not mine--and I must send him
to you."

"No--no; no, no, my dear Hazel, I could not, I will not see him!  It is
impossible.  I dare not face him, Hazel.  No, no!  Let us go away; there
is plenty of time.  Let us go and settle down somewhere else, and let
them forget all about it.  They soon will."

"Mother, are you bereft of your senses?" said Hazel.  "Oh, for shame,
for shame!  How could we go away and leave such a name behind us?  How
could I ever hold up my head again?  Oh, how could you?  How could you?"

"I'm sure, my dear, I never thought it would cause all this trouble, or
I wouldn't have taken the paltry, rubbishing money.  But Hazel, Hazel,"
she cried, glancing round in an excited manner, "you--you don't think--
you don't think--they'd take me up for it?  Hazel, it would kill me; I'm
sure it would.  I've been frightened, my dear, ever since I took the
first packet; but taking one seemed to make me take another."

"Mother," said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind, "does Mrs
Chute know that you took this money?"

"Yes, my dear; I told her every time, and she said it was quite right
and the best thing I could do.  Oh, my dear child, pray, pray do
something!  Let's--let's run away, Hazel; and take all we can carry, and
leave the rest."

"Be silent mother.  Sit down, and let me think," said Hazel in a cold,
hard voice.

"Oh, don't speak to me like that Hazel!" cried Mrs Thorne
reproachfully.  "What have I done to deserve it?"

Hazel glanced at her wonderingly, for the poor woman's words were
absurd; but she had evidently spoken in all sincerity, and there was a
mute agony of mind and appeal in her countenance, which made her child
feel that it would be folly to look upon her any more as one who was
thoroughly answerable for her actions.

"Hadn't we better go, Hazel?" she said again.  "This is a miserable
place, and we should be better away.  The people are not nice.  We could
get a long way off by morning, and then we shouldn't be worried any more
about this wretched school money."

"Pray, pray be quiet, mother!" said Hazel wearily; "you distract me!"

"Ah! you are beginning to feel what trouble is now.  I've--had my share,
Hazel."

"Mother, will you be silent, and let me try to think of some way out of
this difficulty?"

"Of course I will, my dear; though I don't see why you should speak so
pertly to me, and show such want of respect for your poor, bereaved
mother.  For my part, I don't think you need trouble your head about it.
The churchwarden will know that you are a lady, and if, as a lady, you
give him your word that you will send the money to him--say to-morrow or
next day, or next week--I'm sure it cannot be particular to a few days."

Hazel covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows upon her
knees, while Mrs Thorne went maundering on; and as the poor girl sat
there, mingled with her thoughts came her mother's garrulity.  Now it
was strong advice to go at once to Mr Burge, who, in spite of his
vulgarity, was very rich and well-disposed.  Mrs Thorne said that she
would not for a moment mind asking him herself, and that would settle
the matter at once.

Then she thought that Mr Lambent, who, in spite of his stiffness, was a
thorough gentleman, had displayed a good deal of interest in Hazel.  He
would lend her the money in a moment if he had it; but then Mrs Thorne
was not sure that he had got it, and he might not be able to get it in
time; for, as Hazel would know when she grew older, clergymen were very
often short of money, especially curates; and if she, Mrs Thorne, had
her time to come over again, she should never listen to the attentions
of a curate.  Yes: Mr Lambent would, of course, lend the money if he
had it, for he was a perfect gentleman, and could not, of course, refuse
a lady; but then he might not have it and if this were the case, all he
could do would be to speak to the churchwarden and tell him to wait.

Then there was Mr Canninge, a very gentlemanly man, who might be quite
ready to advance the amount as a sort of donation to the school,
especially as Hazel was so genteel, and ladylike.  She felt that she
rather liked Mr Canninge, and if she were Hazel she should be very
particular how she behaved to Mr Canninge--for there was no knowing.
Some gentlemen had common-sense enough not to look for money, and she
had her suspicions on the day of the school feast.

"Yes," rattled Mrs Thorne, "he was very attentive that day.  I remarked
it several times.  I have a very observant eye, Hazel, for that sort of
thing, and depend upon it my dear, if you play your cards properly,
there are far more unlikely things than your becoming mistress of Ardley
Hall.  Yes; I should say that you might very well send Mr Canninge a
nicely-worded note, written on thoroughly good paper--in fact, I'd get
some for the purpose--and take pains with your writing, so as to let him
see that you are a lady.  I should tell him that a sudden demand has
been made upon you for fifty pounds--yes, I'd make it fifty pounds,
anything under looks so paltry, and as if you were a common
begging-letter writer.  I don't know but what I'd make it a hundred
while I was about it.  The extra money would be so useful, my dear; you
could buy yourself a few dresses with it and make yourself more
attractive.  You would be sure to win Mr Canninge, I feel certain.  The
very fact of your showing him that you look upon him almost as a friend
would be sufficient to make, as it were, a link between you.  Ah! my
dear, if young people would only think a little more of their advantages
they would be far more successful in life."

Here Mrs Thorne yawned very audibly, and looked at Hazel, who was still
bending down, hearing everything, and struggling at the same time to see
her way out of the difficulty before them, and to keep back the feelings
of misery and degradation aroused by her mother's words.

"She has actually gone to sleep!" said Mrs Thorne, who seemed quite to
have forgotten the terrors of the past few hours.  "Ah, these young
people--these young people!  Heigh-ho!--has--have--Dear me, how sleepy I
am!  I think I'll go to bed."

She glanced at Hazel, and hesitated for a moment, as if about to touch
her, but directly after she left the room, saying--

"I won't wake her.  Poor girl! she works very hard, and must be terribly
tired."

As Mrs Thorne closed the door and went into the adjoining room, Hazel
rose from her crouching attitude, her faced lined with care-marks, and a
hopeless aspect of misery in her heavy eyes.

Hazel stood gazing at the door, listening to every sound from the little
adjoining room, till she heard her mother sigh and throw herself upon
the bed, when she said in a low voice, "God help me!" and knelt down to
pray.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

PAYING THE PIPER.

"You must ask Mr Canninge, Hazel, or else Mr Burge or Mr Lambent,"
said Mrs Thorne dictatorially.  "Either you must ask one of those
gentlemen, or I shall certainly feel that it is my duty to leave Plumton
and seek a refuge at the home of one of my relatives."

"Mother," said Hazel decidedly, "I cannot ask one of those gentlemen.
Can you not see that it would be a degradation that I could not bear?"

"If you would think less of your own degradation, Hazel, and more of
mine," said Mrs Thorne, "I think it would be far more becoming on your
part."

It was breakfast-time, and, hot-eyed, feverish, and weary, Hazel was
trying to force down a few morsels of dry bread as she sipped her weak
tea.

She made no reply, but was working hard to find some solution of the
difficulty in which she found herself, but could see none.

One thing was evident to her, and that was the fact that she must take
the full blame of the pence being missing, and undertake to pay it out
of her next half-year's salary.  It was impossible for her to accuse her
mother, and she could think of no relatives who would advance the money.
Her head ached violently, and she was suffering from a severe attack of
lassitude that deadened her brain-power making her ready to go back to
her bed and try to forget everything in sleep.

But there was the day's work to meet and at last, in a dreary, hopeless
spirit, she went to the school, seeing Mr Chute on his way to the
duties of the day, and meeting his eye, which was full of an ugly,
malicious expression, that made her shrink and feel that she had indeed
made this man her enemy.

The children were more tiresome than usual, or seemed to be, and it was
only by a great effort that she was able to keep her attention to the
work in hand.

At another time she would not have noticed it, but now every tap at the
schoolhouse door made her start violently, and think that it was the
churchwarden, Mr Piper, come for the school pence.

"A guilty conscience needs no accuser," she thought to herself, as she
set to once more trying to see her way to some solution of her
difficulty, but always in vain; and at last she found herself letting
the trouble drift till it should find bottom in some shallow shoal or
against the shore, for nothing she could do would help her on.

The only thing she could hit upon was to say to the churchwarden that
she would bring him up the money shortly, and in the meantime she might
find out some means of raising it wishing the while that the jewellery
of which she once had a plentiful supply was still her own.

She could think of no other plan, and was drearily going on with her
work, when there came a loud tap from one of the lower classes, presided
over at that time by Feelier Potts, and followed by a howl.

"What is that?"

"Please, teacher, Feely Potts hit me over the head with a book."

"Please, teacher, I kep' on telling her you'd got a bad headache,
teacher, and told her to be quiet, and she would keep on making a noise,
and--and--and I think I did box her with the Testament, teacher."

"But you know, Ophelia how strictly I have forbidden any monitor to
touch one of her class."

"Yes, please, teacher; and I wouldn't have touched her now, only I knew
you'd got such a bad headache, and she would be so tiresome I felt as if
I could knock her head right off."

"Ophelia!" exclaimed Hazel, as she felt ready to smile at what was
evidently a maternal expression.

"Please, teacher, I won't do so no more."

"Then go to your class.  I shall trust you, mind.  You have given me
your word."

"Yes, teacher," cried the girl eagerly; "and is your head better,
please, teacher!"

"No, Ophelia; it is very bad," said Hazel wearily.

"Then, please, teacher, let me run home and get mother's smelling-salts.
She's got a new twopenny bottle.  Such strong 'uns.  Do, please, let me
go and fetch 'em, teacher."

"Thank you; no, Ophelia," said Hazel, smiling at the girl, whose eyes
were sparkling with eagerness.  "I have a bottle here.  Now, go back to
your class, and remember that you will help me most by being attentive
and keeping the girls quiet, but not with blows.  I do not keep you
quiet and attentive, Ophelia, by striking you."

"No, please, teacher; but mother does."

"I prefer gentle means, my child.  I want to rule you, if I can, by
love."

Feelier looked sharply round to see if she was observed, and then bobbed
down quickly, and before Hazel knew what the girl intended to do, she
had kissed her hand and was gone.

It was a trifling incident, but in Hazel's depressed condition it
brought the tears into her eyes, and made her think for the first time
of how hard it would be to leave her girls if fate said that through
this terrible defalcation she must give up the school.  The toil had
been hard, the work tiresome, but all the same there had been a
something that had seemed to link her to the children, and she began to
find out now how thoroughly her heart had been in her daily task.

There were endless little troubles to encounter; even now there was a
heap of confiscations taken from the children, petted objects that they
carried in imitation of their brothers--sticky pieces of well-chewed
indiarubber, marbles, buttons; one girl had a top which she persisted in
bringing to school, though she could never get it to spin, and had twice
been in difficulties for breaking windows with it--at times when its peg
stuck to the end of the string.  There were several papers of sweets,
and an assortment of sweets without papers, and in that semi-glutinous
state that comes over the best-made preparations of sugar after being
submitted to a process of biscuiting in a warm pocket.  Half-gnawed
pieces of cake were there too, and fancy scraps of a something that
would have puzzled the keenest observer, who could only have come to the
conclusion that it was comestible, for it displayed teeth-marks.
Without analysis it would not have been safe to venture upon a more
decisive opinion.

It had been imperceptible, this affection for her school, coming on by
slow degrees; and as in the middle of her morning's work Hazel suddenly
found herself face to face with the possibility of having to resign, she
felt startled, and began to realise that in spite of the many troubles
and difficulties with which she had had to contend, Plumton had really
been a haven of rest and the thought of going completely unnerved her.

She started violently several times over as tap after tap came to the
door; but the visitors were always in connection with the children.
"Please, may Ann Straggalls come home?  Her mother wants her."

"Please I've brought Sarah Jane Filler's school money."  Then there were
calls from a couple of itinerant vendors of wonderfully-got-up
illustrated works, published in shilling and half-crown parts, to be
continued to infinity, if the purchaser did not grow weary and give them
up.

At last there came a more decided knock than any of the others, and
Hazel's heart seemed to stand still.  She knew, without telling, that it
was the churchwarden, and she was in no wise surprised at seeing him
walk in with his hat on, without waiting to have the door opened, but
displaying a certain amount of proprietorship only to be expected from
an official of the church.

Mr Piper was the principal grocer of Plumton, and in addition to the
sale of what he called "grosheries," he dealt largely in cake--not the
cake made with caraways or currants, but linseed oil-cake, bought by the
farmers for fattening cattle and giving a help to the sheep.  Mr Piper
"did a little," too, in corn, buying a lot now and then when it was
cheap, and keeping it till it was dear.  There were many other things in
which Mr Piper "did a little," but they were always bits of trading
that meant making money; so that take him altogether, he was what people
call "a warm man," one who buttoned up his breeches-pockets tightly, and
slapped them, as much as to say, "I don't care a pin for a soul--I'm too
independent for that."

This was the gentleman who, tightly buttoned up in his best coat, and
looking, all the same, as if he still had his shop-apron tied, walked
importantly into the school with his hat on, and nodded shortly as the
girls began to rise and make bobs, the curtseys being addressed to the
broadcloth coat more than to Mr Piper himself, a gentleman of whom all
the elder girls had bought sweets, and who was associated in their minds
with the rattling and clinking of copper scales with their weights.  For
a goodly sum per annum was expended by the Plumton school children in
delicacies, a fact due to the kindness of Mr William Forth Burge, who
always went down the town with half-a-crown's worth of the cleanest
halfpennies he could get, a large supply of which was always kept for
him by Mr Piper's young man, who even went so far as to give them
a-shake-up in a large worsted stocking with some sand and a sprinkling
of vitriol, knowing full well that these halfpence were pretty sure to
come to him again in the course of trade.

It was, then, to Mr Piper's best coat that the girls made their bobs,
that gentleman being held in small respect.  In fact as soon as he
entered Feelier Potts went round her class, insisting upon every girl
accurately toeing the line; and then, whispering "Don't laugh," she
began to repeat the words of the national poet who wrote those touching,
interrogative lines beginning, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled
peppers," and finishing off with, "Please, Mr Piper, I want a pen'orth
of pickled peppers."

"'Morning, Miss Thorne," said Mr Piper importantly, and speaking in his
best-coat voice, which was loud and brassy, and very different to
his mild, insinuating, "what's-the-next-article, ma'am,
yes-it-is-a-fine-morning" voice, which was used behind the counter, and
went with a smile.

"She ain't ready with that money, I'll lay a crown," said Mr Piper to
himself.  Then aloud--"I have been getting Mr Chute's school pence,
Miss Thorne, to put in my accounts.  I always collect the school money
once a year."

Just then the school-door opened quietly, unheard by Hazel and the
churchwarden, and also unnoticed by Miss Feelier Potts, who, forgetting
all promises of amendment, was delighting her class by asking Mr Piper
in a low voice for half-ounces and pen'orths of all sorts of impossible
articles suggested by her active young brain, beginning with sugared
soap, and on through boiled blacklead to peppermint mopsticks.

The terrible moment had come, and Hazel said, as firmly as she could--

"I am not ready with the accounts, Mr Piper; but I will see to them at
once, and--"

"Oh, all right: I'm in no hurry," he replied; and Hazel's heart gave a
leap of relief, but only to sink down heavily the next moment, as he
continued--"I always give one morning a year to this job, so get the
money and a pen and ink, and I'll soon run through it with you."

"You misunderstood me, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel, whose cheeks began to
burn before turning pale with shame.  "I have made up the account but I
have not the money ready."

"Couldn't have made out the account properly without the money counted
out ready," he said triumphantly.

"I checked it by the sums I had put down each week, Mr Piper," said
Hazel.

"To be sure.  Well, it won't take us long to count the money out."

"But I have not the money by me," said Hazel desperately, for she could
make no excuse at the moment.

"Oh!" said Mr Piper slowly, as he made a curious rasping noise by
rubbing a rough finger upon his closely-shaven cheek: "have not got the
money by you."

"No; not at present," faltered Hazel; and once more the tell-tale blush
came flushing to her cheeks.

"Oh!" said Mr Piper again; and his interjection was as long as a
ten-syllable word.

"I will send or bring it up to you in a few days."

"Oh!" said Mr Piper once more, and he took out his pocket-book at the
same time, but made no attempt to go.  He slowly took a pencil from a
sheath at the side, and examined its point before thrusting it in again,
as if trying very hard to make sure that it was a fit.

Hazel was in agony, and would have given anything to be alone, but Mr
Piper went on testing the depth of his pencil-sheath in the leather
pocket-book, and drawing the pencil out again.

"You see, it always has been paid upon the morning I said I'd call.
I've got Mr Chute's money in here."

He slapped his breeches-pocket twice in a very emphatic manner, and
looked at Hazel the while, as if asking her to deny it if she dared.

"I--I was taken rather by surprise," faltered Hazel.

"Nay, nay," said the churchwarden; "I gave you a day's notice."

"Yes," said Hazel, "but I was not ready.  I will send or bring the
amount in a few days, Mr Piper."

"I wanted to have made up my accounts," he said, gazing still at his
pencil and pocket-book in a meditative way.  "You see, it puts me out,
being a business-man.  I have all this churchwarden work to do, and
don't get nothing by it, and it puts me wrong when things go contrary
like, and I can't get in the accounts.  Now, your pence, for instance--I
ought to have had them a month ago."

"I am very sorry, sir, but I was not aware when they ought to be paid
in."

"You see, I make up all these parish things regular like, and if I can't
get the money in it throws me all out."

"I am very sorry, Mr Piper."

"Yes," he said, turning his pencil upside down, and trying whether it
would go in the reverse way; "but, you see, that don't help a busy man.
I give up one morning like this every year to the school accounts, and
dress myself"--he glanced at the sleeve of his black coat--"and come
down, and if the money isn't ready, you see, it throws me out."

"Yes, I understand, Mr Piper," faltered Hazel; "and I am very sorry."

"Yes," he continued, trying to coax the pencil down by giving it a
revolving movement, which succeeded better, though not well, for the
leather of the pencil-sheath was getting worn with use, and it went into
so many folds that Mr Piper had to withdraw the pencil and try it in
the proper way--"Yes, it is a nuisance to a busy man," he continued.  "I
don't know why I go on doing this parish work, for it never pleases
nobody, and takes up a deal of a man's time.  I wouldn't do it, only Mr
Lambent as good as begs of me not to give it up.  P'r'aps you'll give me
what you have in hand, miss."

"Give you what I have in hand?" said Hazel.

"Yes!  Part on account you know, and send me the rest."

"I cannot, Mr Piper.  I am not prepared," said Hazel, who felt ready to
sink with shame, and the degradation of being importuned at such a time.

"Can't you give me any of it on account--some of your own money, you
know, miss!"

"I really cannot sir; but I will endeavour to pay it over as soon as
possible."

"Within a week?"

"I--I think so," faltered Hazel.

Rap went the book open, and Mr Piper's pencil was going as if it was
taking down an order for "grosheries," making a note to the effect that
Miss Thorne could not pay the school pence upon the proper day, but
would pay it within a week.

Hazel stood and shivered, for it was horrible to see how business-like
Mr Piper could be; and though she could not see the words he wrote, she
mentally read them, and wondered how it would be possible to meet the
engagement.  Still, it was a respite, disgraceful as it seemed, and she
felt her spirits rise as the churchwarden wrote away as busily as a
commercial traveller who has just solicited what he calls a "line."

All this time the school-door was standing partly open, as if some one
was waiting to come in, but Hazel was too intent to see.

"That'll do, then, for that," said the churchwarden, shutting his book
on the pencil and then peering sidewise like a magpie into one of the
pockets, from which he extracted a carefully folded piece of blue paper,
at the top of which was written very neatly, "Miss Thorne."

"As I was coming down, miss, I thought it would be a good chance for
speaking to you about your account, miss, which keeps on getting too
much behindhand; so p'r'aps you'll give me something on account of that
and pay the rest off as quick as you can."

"Your account, Mr Piper?" said Hazel, taking the paper.

"Yes, miss.  Small profits and quick returns is my motter.  I don't
believe in giving credit--'tain't my way.  I should never get on if I
did."

"But you mistake, Mr Piper; everything we have had of you has been paid
for at the time, or at the end of the week."

"Don't look like it, miss.  When people won't have nothing but my finest
Hyson and Shoesong, and a bottle of the best port every week, bottles
regularly returned, of course a bill soon runs up."

"But surely--" cried Hazel.

"Oh, you'll find it all right there, miss; every figure's my own putting
down.  I always keep my own books myself, so it's all right."

"Have you nearly done, Mr Piper?" said Miss Lambent, speaking sweetly,
as she stood with Beatrice at the door.  "Pray don't hurry: we can wait.
Our time's not so valuable as yours."

"Just done, miss--just done, miss.  You'll find that quite right, Miss
Thorne--eleven pun fifteen nine and a half.  S'pose you give me six this
morning and let the other stand for a week or two?"

"Mr Piper, I must examine the bill," said Hazel hoarsely.  "I did not
know that I was indebted to you more than half-a-sovereign."

"Oh, you'll find that all right miss, all right.  Can you let me have a
little on account?"

"I cannot this morning!" cried Hazel desperately.

"May we come in now?" said Rebecca Lambent.

"Yes, miss, come in," said the churchwarden, closing his pocket-book as
Hazel crushed this last horror in her hand in a weak dread lest it
should be seen.

"So you've been collecting the school accounts as usual, Mr Piper,"
said Beatrice, smiling.  "How much do they amount to this time?  My
brother will be so anxious to know."

Out came Mr Piper's pocket-book again, the pencil was drawn from its
sheath, and the page found.

"Boys' pence for the year ending the blank day of blank eighteen
blank," read Mr Piper, "thirty-two pound seven shillings and
eightpence-ha'penny: though I can't quite make out that ha'penny."

"And the girls', Mr Piper--how much is that?"

"Well, you see, Miss Thorne ain't ready 'm yet so I can't tell.  It's no
use for me to put down the sum till I get the money.  Good morning,
miss.  Good morning, miss.  It's a busy time with me, so I must go."

The churchwarden left the schoolroom, his hat still upon his head, and
Hazel was left face to face with her friends from the Vicarage.

"Had you not better call Mr Piper back, Miss Thorne," said Rebecca.

"Shall I call him, Miss Thorne?" said Beatrice eagerly.

"No, ma'am, I thank you," replied Hazel.  "I explained to Mr Piper that
I was not ready for him this morning."

"But did he not send word that he was coming?" said Rebecca suavely.  "I
know he always used to send down the day before."

"Yes, Miss Lambent; Mr Piper did send down, but I have not the money by
me," said Hazel desperately.  "My--I mean we--had a pressing necessity
for some money, and it has been used.  I will pay Mr Piper, in the
course of a few days."

Rebecca Lambent appeared to freeze as she glanced at her sister, who
also became icy.

"It is very strange," said the former.

"Quite contrary to our rules, I think, sister," replied Beatrice, "Are
you ready?"

"Yes, dear.  Good morning, Miss Thorne."

"Yes; good morning, Miss Thorne," said Beatrice; and they swept out of
the school together, remaining silent for the first hundred yards or so
as they went homeward.  "This is very extraordinary, Rebecca," cried
Beatrice at last, speaking with an assumption of horror and
astonishment, but with joy in her heart.

"Not at all extraordinary," said Rebecca.  "I am not in the least
surprised.  Unable to pay over the school pence and deeply in debt to
the grocer!  I wonder what she owes to the butcher and baker?"

"And the draper!" said Beatrice malignantly.  "A schoolmistress
flaunting about with a silk parasol!  What does a schoolmistress want
with a parasol?"

"She is not wax," said Rebecca.  "I rarely use one.  And now look here,
Beattie; it is all true, then, about that boy."

"What!  Miss Thorne's brother?"

"Yes; Hazel Thorne's brother.  He was in trouble, then, in London, and
fled here, and it seems as if the vice is in the family.  Why, it is
sheer embezzlement to keep back and spend the school pence.  I wonder
what Henry will say to his favourite now?"

Meanwhile Hazel, whose head throbbed so heavily that she could hardly
bear the pain, had dismissed the girls, for it was noon, and then
hurried back to the cottage to seek her room, very rudely and sulkily,
Mrs Thorne said, for she had spoken to her child as she passed through,
but Hazel did not seem to hear.

"I sincerely hope, my dears, that when you grow up," said Mrs Thorne
didactically, "you will never behave so rudely to your poor mamma as
Hazel does."

"Hazel don't mean to be rude, ma," said Cissy in an old-fashioned way.
"She has got a bad headache, that's all.  I'm going up to talk to her."

"No, Cissy; you will stay with me," said Mrs Thorne authoritatively.

"I may go, mayn't I, ma?  I want to talk to Hazel," said Mab.

"You will stay where you are, my dears; and I sincerely hope to be able
to teach you both how to comport yourself towards your mamma.  Hazel, I
am sorry to say, has a good deal changed."

A good deal, truly; for she looked ghastly now, as she knelt by the bed,
holding her aching head, and praying for help and strength of mind to
get through her present difficulties and those which were to come.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

MOTHER AND SON.

"I thought you would have come in, George," said Mrs Canninge, entering
her son's library, where he was seated, looking very moody and
thoughtful.

"Come in?  Come in where?"

"To the drawing-room, dear.  Beatrice Lambent called.  I thought you
would have known."

"I saw some one come by," he said quietly.  "I did not know it was she."

"She is in great trouble, poor girl!" continued Mrs Canninge; "or, I
should say, they are all in great trouble at the Vicarage."

"Indeed!  I'm very sorry.  What is wrong!"

"Nothing serious, my dear; only you know what good people they are, and
when they make a _protegee_ of anybody, and that body doesn't turn out
well, of course they feel it deeply."

"Of course," said George Canninge absently; and his mother bit her lip,
for she had not excited his curiosity in the least and she had wanted
him to ask questions.

"It seems very sad, poor girl!" she said after a pause.

"My dear mother," said the young squire rather impatiently, "Is it not
rather foolish of you to speak of Beatrice Lambent as `poor girl'?  She
must be past thirty."

"I was not speaking of Beatrice Lambent, my dear," said Mrs Canninge;
"though, really, George, I do not think you ought to jump at conclusions
like that about dear Beatrice's age, which is, as she informed me
herself, twenty-five.  I was speaking of their _protegee_ at the
Vicarage."

"I beg your pardon," said George Canninge.  "I did not know, though,
that they had a _protegee_."

"Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her their
_protegee_; but they certainly have taken great interest in her, and it
seems very sad for her to have turned out so badly.  They took such
pains about getting the right sort of person, too."

"Whom do you mean?" said the young man carelessly; "their new cook?
Why, the parson was bragging about her tremendously the other day when
he dined here--a woman who could make soup fit for a prince out of next
to nothing."

"My dear boy, how you do run away, and how cynically and bitterly you
speak!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge, laying her hands upon her son's
shoulders.  "I was not speaking of Mr Lambent's cook; I meant the new
schoolmistress."

There was a pause.

"I felt his heart give a great throb," said Mrs Canninge to herself.
"Calm as he is striving to be, I can understand him, and read him as
easily as can be."

"Indeed!" said George Canninge at last, as soon as he could master his
emotion.  "I was not aware the Vicarage people thought so much of Miss--
of the new schoolmistress."

"Well, you see, dear, she is only a schoolmistress, but they have been
very kind and considerate to her.  They found her to be a young person
of prepossessing manners, and, like all country people, they took it for
granted that she would be worthy of trust; and, therefore this discovery
must have been a great shock to them."

It needed all George Canninge's self-command to keep him calmly seated
there while his mother, from what she considered to be a sense of duty,
went on poisoning his wound.  But he mastered himself, and bore it all
like a stoic, denying himself the luxury of asking questions, though the
suspense was maddening, and he burned to hear what his mother had to
say.

"I declare, George," she said at last; "it is quite disheartening.  You
seem to have given up taking an interest in anything.  I thought you
would have liked to hear the Vicarage troubles."

"My dear mother, why should I worry myself about the `Vicarage
troubles'?" said the young squire calmly.  "I have enough of my own."

"But you are the principal landholder here, my dear, and you must learn
to take an interest in parish matters for many reasons.  Now, this Miss
Thorne has been trusted to a great extent by Mr Lambent and it seems
shocking to find one so young behaving in an unprincipled manner."

George Canninge rose.

There is an end to most things; certainly there is to the forbearance of
a man, and Mrs Canninge's son could bear no more.

"Unprincipled is a very hard term to apply to a young lady, mother," he
said, with the blood flushing into his cheeks.

"It is, my dear boy, I grant it; and very sad it is to find one who
seemed to be well educated and to possess so much superficial
refinement, ready to yield to temptation."

The ruddy tint faded out of George Canninge's cheeks, leaving him very
pale; but he remained perfectly silent, while his mother went on--

"It is the old story, I suppose: that terrible love of finery that we
find in most young girls.  I must say I have noticed myself that Miss
Thorne dressed decidedly above her station."

George Canninge did not speak.  His eyelids drooped over his eyes, and
he stood listening, with every nerve upon the stretch; and very slowly
and deliberately Mrs Canninge went on--

"I am sure I am very sorry, my dear, for it seems so sad; though,
really, I do not see that I need trouble myself about it.  The foolish
girl, I suppose, wanted money for dress, and having these school funds
in her hand--children's pence and some club money--she made use of them.
So foolish, too, my dear, because she must have known that sooner or
later, she would be found out."

"Who has told you this, mother!" said George Canninge sternly.

"I heard it from Beatrice Lambent, my dear, just now.  She is in
terrible trouble about it."

"Miss Lambent has been misinformed," said George Canninge calmly; but it
cost him a tremendous effort to speak as he did.

"Oh, dear me, no, my dear George!" exclaimed Mrs Canninge eagerly.
"She was present when Mr Piper went to the school to receive the money,
and she confessed to having spent it; and it seems that these people are
terribly in debt as well."

"There is some mistake, mother," said George Canninge again, in the same
calm, judicial voice; "it cannot be true."

"But it is true, my dear boy," persisted Mrs Canninge, who, woman of
the world as she was, had not the prudence upon this occasion to leave
her words to rankle in her son's breast, but tried to drive them home
with others in her eagerness to excite disgust with an object upon which
George Canninge seemed to have set his mind.

"I say, mother, that it cannot be true," he said, speaking very sternly
now; and he crossed the room.

"You are not going out dear?" said Mrs Canninge.  "I want to talk to
you a little more."

"You have talked to me enough for one day, mother," said the young man
firmly; "and I must go."

"But where, dear?  You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I
have told you is true?  I had it from dear Beatrice's own lips, and she
is terribly cut up about it."

"I am not going to the Vicarage, mother," said the young man firmly.  "I
am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne."

"George, my dear son!"

Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard
steps upon the gravel-drive.

She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly
across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words
he had heard that he would not wait for his horse.

"It is monstrous!" cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily.  "It shall
never be!  It would be a disgrace!"

The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son's chair, and
sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow.  A minute later, and
she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they
wish.  Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some
bitter, mortified tears.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

SISTER AND BROTHER--VULGAR.

"Oh, Bill!"

Then an interval of panting and wiping her perspiring face and then
again--

"Oh, Bill!"

Then a burst of piteous sobbing, for poor little Miss Burge was crying
as if her heart would break.

"Let it go, Betsey.  Don't try to stop it, dear.  Let it go," said Mr
William Forth Burge in the most sympathising of tones; and his sister
did let it go, crying vehemently for a time, while he waited patiently
to know what was the matter.

"That's better, my dear," he said, kissing her.  "Now then, tell us
what's the matter."

"Oh, Bill!  I've been down the town, and I almost ran back to tell you
the news."

"And you haven't told it to me yet," he said, smiling affectionately at
the troubled little woman, under the impression that he was doing the
right thing to comfort her.

"Don't laugh, Bill dear; for you'll be so upset when you know."

"Shall I, Betsey?" he said seriously.  "Then I won't laugh."

"You see, I went down to Piper's to order some fresh things for the
storeroom, as I'd been through this morning, when Mr Piper himself came
to wait upon me, and he told me he'd been down to the schools for the
children's pence for the year, and that Mr Chute had paid, and that
Miss Thorne didn't, but owned that she had spent all the money."

"What! the school pence?"

"Yes, dear; and after a time he said that the Thornes were a good deal
in debt with him besides."

"More shame for him.  I never went shouting it out to other folks if any
one was in my debt.  But, Betsey, did he say Miss Thorne had--had spent
the money!"

"Yes, dear; and it was so shocking."

Mr William Forth Burge stood rubbing and smoothing his fat round face
over with his hand for a few moments, his sister watching him eagerly
the while, like one who looks for help from the superior wisdom of
another.

"I don't believe it," said the great man at last.

"You don't believe it, Bill?"

"Not a bit of it."

"Oh, I am glad!" cried Miss Burge, clapping her hands.  "It would have
been shocking if it had been true."

"Did you go down and see Miss Thorne?"

"No, dear; I came to tell you directly."

"You ought to have gone down and asked her about it, Betsey," said her
brother stiffly.

"Ought I, Bill dear?  Oh, I am so sorry!  I'll go down at once."

"No, you won't: I'll go myself.  Perhaps, poor girl! she has spent the
money because it was wanted about her brother, and she's been afraid to
speak about it, when of course, if she'd just said a word to you,
Betsey, you'd have let her have fifty or a hundred pound in a minute."

"No, indeed, Bill dear, for I haven't got it," said Miss Burge
innocently.

"Yes, you have, dear," he said, screwing up his face, and opening and
shutting one eye a great deal.  "Of course she wouldn't take it from me,
but she would from you, you know.  Don't you see?"

"Oh, Bill dear, what a one you are!" cried little Miss Burge.  "I'll go
down to her at once."

"No," he said; "I must go.  It's too late now; but another time you just
mind, for you've got plenty of money for that I say, Betsey: I've got
it, my dear--it's her mother!"

"What's her mother, Bill dear?"

"Spent the money, and she's took the blame," he cried triumphantly.

"Oh!  I am glad, Bill.  But oh, how clever you are, dear!  How did you
find it out?"

"It's just knowing a thing or two; that's all, Betsey.  I've had jobs
like this in connection with business before now.  But I must be off."

"But won't you take me with you, Bill?"

He hesitated for a moment or two, and then said--

"Well, you may as well come, Betsey; but mind what you're about, and
don't get making an offer, for fear of giving offence."

"Would it give offence, Bill?"

"Yes, if you didn't mind your p's and q's.  You hold your tongue, and
leave everything to me; but if I give you a hint, you're to take Miss
Thorne aside and make her an offer."

"It's my belief that Bill will be making her an offer one of these
days," thought little Miss Burge; "but she don't seem to be quite the
sort of wife for him, if he is going to bring one home."

Mr William Forth Burge was not long in changing his coat and he met his
sister in the hall, twirling his orange silk handkerchief round and
round his already too glossy hat; after which they walked down
arm-in-arm to the school, to find the head pupil-teacher in charge, and
the girls unusually quiet, a fact due to the vicar being in the
class-room, in company with George Canninge, both having arrived
together, and then shaken hands warmly, and entered to have a look round
the school.

Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both shook hands with the other
visitors, and were then informed that Miss Thorne was suffering from a
terribly bad headache.  She had been very unwell, the pupil-teacher
said, all the morning, and had been obliged to go and lie down.

Hereupon the visitors all began to fence, the object of their call being
scrupulously kept in the background, and they one and all took a great
deal of interest in the girls, and ended by going away all together,
expressing their sorrow that poor Miss Thorne was so unwell.

The vicar and George Canninge walked up the town street together, after
shaking hands with Mr and Miss Burge, and discussed politics till they
parted; while Mr William Forth Burge, slowly followed with his sister,
also talking politics but of a smaller kind, for they were the politics
of the Plumton people, and the great man began to lay down the law
according to his own ideas.

"They were both down there about that school money, Betsey, as sure as a
gun.  But just you look here: people think I'm soft because I come out
with my money for charities and that sort of thing; but they never made
a bigger mistake in their lives, if they think they can do just what
they like with me; so there now."

"That they never did, Bill," assented his sister.

"I look upon them schools as good as mine, and if there's to be a row
about this money, I mean to have a word in it, for I'm not a-going to
have that poor young lady sat upon by no one.  I've hit the nail on the
head as sure as a gun, and if it isn't the old lady that's got her into
a scrape, you may call me a fool."

"Which I never would, Bill," said little Miss Burge emphatically; and
together they toddled back home.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

SOMETHING BY POST.

It was a most extraordinary thing, but, probably from uneasiness, Mrs
Thorne was the first down next morning.  Hazel had had a sleepless
night, and it was not till six o'clock that she dropped off to sleep
heavily, and did not awaken till past eight, when, hot, feverish, and
with her head thick and throbbing, she hurriedly dressed herself and
went down.

Fate plays some strange tricks with us at times; and on this, the first
morning for months that Hazel had not received the letters herself, Mrs
Thorne was there to take them.

"Three letters for Hazel," she said to herself.  "Dear me, how strange!
Three letters, and all bearing the Plumton postmark!"

She changed the envelopes from hand to hand, and shuffled them in a
fidgety way, as if they were cards.

"I feel very much displeased, for Hazel has no right to be receiving
letters from gentlemen; and I am sure if Edward Geringer were here he
would thoroughly approve of the course I take.  She shall not have these
letters at all.  It is my duty as Hazel's mamma to suppress such
correspondence.  Often and often have I said to her, `Hazel, my child,
under any circumstances never forget that you are a lady.'"

There was another close examination of the letters, and then Mrs Thorne
went on--

"No young lady in my time would have ventured upon a clandestine
correspondence with a gentleman; and now, to my horror as a mamma, I
wake to the fact that my daughter is corresponding with three gentlemen
at once.  Oh, Hazel, Hazel, Hazel! it is a bitter discovery for me to
make that a child of mine has been deceiving me.  I wonder who they can
be from."

Mrs Thorne laid the envelopes before her with the addresses uppermost.

"`Miss Thorne, The Schools, Plumton All Saints,' all addressed the same.
This, then, is the reason why poor Edward Geringer has been refused."

Here there was another examination of the postmarks.

"Three gentlemen, and all living at Plumton.  Now, really, Hazel, it is
not proper.  It is not ladylike.  One gentleman would have been bad
enough, in clandestine correspondence; though, perhaps, if there had
been two it would be because she had not quite made up her mind.  But
three gentlemen!  It is positively disgraceful, and I shall stop it at
once!"

This time, in changing the position of the letters, Mrs Thorne turned
them upside down.

"I remember at the time poor Thorne was paying me attentions how Mr
Deputy Cheaply and Mr Meriton, of the Common Council, both wished to
pay me attentions as well; but, no: I said it would not be correct.  And
I little thought, after all my efforts, that a child of mine would be so
utterly forgetful of her self-respect as to behave like this.  Ah,
Hazel!  Hazel!  It is no wonder that the silver threads begin to appear
fast in my poor hair."

Mrs Thorne placed the envelopes beneath her apron as the two children
came bustling in, one with the cloth, and the other with the
bread-trencher, to prepare the breakfast.

"Hazel's fast asleep, ma, and we're going to get breakfast ready
ourselves."

"I'm sure I don't know why your sister can't come down, my dears," said
Mrs Thorne pettishly.  "It is very thoughtless of her, knowing, as she
does, how poorly I am."

"Sis Hazy has got a very bad headache, mamma; and we dressed quietly and
came down and lit the fire quite early."

"Oh, it was you lit the fire, was it!" said Mrs Thorne.  "I thought it
was one of the schoolgirls."

"No; it was us, ma dear; and when we've made the tea we're going to take
poor Hazy a cup in bed."

"Whoever can these letters be from?" said Mrs Thorne to herself, as she
turned them over and over in her hands, growing quite flushed and
excited the while.  "I declare I don't know when I have felt so hurt and
troubled;" and going into the little parlour, leaving the children busy
over the preparations, she once more examined them carefully, and ended
by taking out her scissors.

"I don't care!" she exclaimed; "it is my duty as Hazel's mamma to watch
over her, and I should not be doing that duty if I did not see who are
the gentlemen who correspond with her."

Mrs Thorne hesitated a few minutes longer, and then the itching
sensation of curiosity proved to be too much for the poor woman, and
taking the pair of finely-pointed scissors, she slit open the three
envelopes, and then started guiltily, thrust them into her pocket, and
went into the kitchen.

"Did I hear Hazel coming down?" she said sharply.

"No, ma.  Mab just went up and found her fast asleep."

Mrs Thorne went back into the parlour, hesitated a few moments longer,
and then opened the first letter, to find that it contained five
ten-pound notes, all new and crisp, and with them a sheet of note-paper
bearing the words:--

"Will Miss Thorne accept the help of a very sincere friend?"

That was all.

"Well, I am sure!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, staring at the crisp notes,
re-reading the words upon the note-paper, and then hurriedly replacing
notes and paper in the envelope.  "Now, who can that be from?"

The second envelope was then opened, and, to Mrs Thorne's intense
astonishment, it contained ten five-pound notes, also crisp and new, and
with them the simple words:--

"With the hope that they may be useful.  From a friend."

"I never did in all my life!" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, now beginning to
perspire profusely, as she hurriedly replaced the second batch of notes,
and then with trembling fingers opened the last envelope, which
contained six five-pound notes, carefully enclosed in a second envelope,
but without a word.

"Only thirty pounds," said Mrs Thorne, "only thirty, and without a
word.  Well, all I can say is, that whoever sent it is rather mean.
Now, who can have sent these banknotes?  Well, of course, it is on
account of that paltry sum in school pence being required, and it is
very kind, but I don't think I ought to allow Hazel to receive money
like this.  Really, it is a very puzzling thing, and I wish Edward
Geringer was here."

The notes were returned to the third envelope, and Mrs Thorne sat there
very thoughtful, and looking extremely perplexed.

"No; I certainly shall not let Hazel have this money.  A girl at her
time of life might be tempted into a great many follies of dress if she
had it and I shall certainly keep it from her."

With a quiet self-satisfied smile, she placed the notes in her pocket
and was in the act of rising, when she turned and saw Cissy at the door.

"Well, what is it?" said Mrs Thorne sharply.

"Breakfast's ready, ma dear; and I can hear Hazy dressing in such a
hurry.  Come and sit down, and let's all be waiting for her.  It will be
such fun.  She will be so surprised when she comes down."

Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen
her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans.

"I'm sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear," said the lady
indignantly.  "I don't know how she expects the wretched children she
teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself."  And assuming an
aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the
children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either
side, and watched the door.

Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little
kitchen, where, reading the children's faces, she felt the tears rush
into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise,
and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up
her childish, injured air.

"Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might
study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children.  It
comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when
their sister might place us all in a state of opulence.  It seems very
hard--very hard indeed."

Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak.  There was that, however, in
her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak
woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it
slowly with an injured sigh.

"Were there any letters, mother!" said Hazel, when breakfast was half
over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for
the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of
voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the
scholars.

Mrs Thorne did not reply.

"Were there any letters, mother dear?" said Hazel again.

"Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child," said Mrs Thorne,
colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder.

"There were three letters for you, Hazy," cried Cissy sharply.

"Cissy!  How dare you say such a thing?" cried Mrs Thorne.

"Please, ma, I met the postman when I went for the milk, and the postman
told me so, and I saw him afterwards showing them to Mr Chute."

"You wicked--Oh, of course, yes.  I forgot," said Mrs Thorne hastily,
as she encountered her daughter's eye fixed upon her with such a look of
reproach that she shivered, and in her abject weakness coloured like a
detected schoolgirl.

"Will you give me the letters, mamma?" said Hazel, holding out her hand.

"Don't call me mamma like that, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne, with a weak
attempt at holding her position; but her daughter's outstretched hand
was sufficient to make her tremblingly take the letters from her pocket
and pass them across the table.

"You have opened them, mamma!" said Hazel.

"Once more, Hazel, I must beg of you not to call me _mamma_ like that!"
exclaimed Mrs Thorne.  "I have always noticed that it is done when you
are angry."

"I said you have opened them, mamma!"

"Of course I have, my dear.  I should not be doing my duty as your
mother if I did not see for myself who are the class of people with whom
you hold clandestine correspondence."

"You know, mother," said Hazel firmly, "that I should never think of
corresponding with any one without your approval."

"Then, pray, what do those letters mean?"

"I do not know," said Hazel quietly; and she opened them one by one, saw
their contents, read the notes that accompanied two, and then, letting
her face go down upon her hands she uttered a loud sob.

"Now, that is being foolish, Hazel," cried her mother.  "Children, leave
the table!  Or, no, it will be better that your sister and I should
retire.  No; take your breakfasts into the other room, children, and I
will talk to your sister here."

"Don't cry, Hazy," whispered Cissy, clinging to her sister
affectionately.

"Don't speak cross to Hazel, please ma," whispered Mab.

"Silence, disobedient children!" cried the poor woman in tragic tones.
"Leave the room, I desire."

Hazel felt cut to the heart with sorrow, misery, and despair.  The
increasing mental weakness of her mother, and her growing lack of moral
appreciation of right and wrong, were agonising to her; and at that
moment she felt as if this new trouble about the letters was a judgment
upon her for opening those addressed to her mother, though it was done
to save her from pain.  To some people the airs and assumptions of Mrs
Thorne would have been food for mirth; but to Hazel the mental pain was
intense.  Knowing what the poor woman had been previous to her troubles,
this childishness was another pang; and often and often, when ready to
utter words of reproach, she changed them to those of tenderness and
consideration.

"Now, Hazel," said Mrs Thorne with dignity, "I am waiting for an
explanation."

"An explanation, dear?" said Hazel, leaving her seat to place her arm
affectionately round her mother's neck.

"Not yet, Hazel," said the poor woman, shrinking away.  "I cannot accept
your caresses till I have had a proper explanation about those letters."

"My dear mother, I can give you no explanation."

"What! do you deny that you are corresponding with three different
gentlemen at once?"

"Yes, mother dear.  Is it likely?" said Hazel, smiling.

"Don't treat the matter with levity, Hazel.  I cannot bear it!  Who are
those letters from?"

"I do not know, dear; though I think I could guess."

"Then I insist upon knowing."

"My dear mother, I can only think they are from people who know of my
trouble about the school."

"You did not write and ask for help, Hazel?"

"No, mother.  No; I should not have done such a thing."

"Then tell me at once who would send to you like that."

"Mother dear, can you not spare me this?"

"I never did see such a strange girl in my life as you are, Hazel.
Well, never mind; I dare say I can bear another slight or two if you
will not tell me.  There, I suppose you must pay that wretched school
money out of those notes."

"Out of these, mother?"

"Of course, child.  Why, what are you thinking now?"

"Mother dear, it is impossible."

"Impossible, child!  Why, what romantic notion have you taken into your
head now?"

"It is no romance, mother; it is reality," sighed Hazel.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Return the money to the givers as soon as I can be certain where to
send."

"Return it?  What! that money, when you know how urgently it is needed
at home?"

"Yes, dear."

"And how is that school money to be paid?"

Hazel was silent.

"I declare, Hazel," cried Mrs Thorne, "your behaviour is quite
preposterous, and the absurdity of your ideas beyond belief.  Do, pray,
leave off these foolish ways and try to behave like a sensible--There
now, I declare her conduct is quite shocking: running off like that
without saying `Good morning,' or `May I leave the room, mamma?'  Dear,
dear me, I have come down in the world indeed."

For Hazel had suddenly left the room--nine o'clock striking--and the
idea strongly impressing itself upon her mind that so sure as she
happened to be late some one or another would kindly inform Miss Lambent
if she did not realise it for herself.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

HAZEL THORNE SEEKS HELP.

As soon as Hazel Thorne had fairly started the school that morning, she
took out the envelopes and studied each handwriting fairly to see if she
could make out who were the senders of the letters.

That she found she could not do, but in her own mind she set down the
writers aright, and a bitter feeling of shame and humiliation came upon
her as she felt that those who sent would never have dreamed of making
such a present to any one they respected.  It looked to her like
charity, and her face burned as she indignantly longed to return the
envelopes and notes to their senders.

She knew that there had been the three gentlemen visitors to the school
while she was absent upon the previous afternoon, and though it was
possible that they might have been down to speak to her respecting her
failure of trust, her heart told her that it was not; and now her
mother's strong desire to leave the place seemed to have come upon her
in turn, and she felt that she would give anything to be a hundred miles
away from Plumton and at peace.

She tried to win forgetfulness by devoting herself to the various
classes, but in vain; every step she heard seemed to be a visitor coming
to ask her about the money not paid, and every subject she took up
suggested the notes now lying in her pocket.

Twice over she went to her desk and there wrote a brief letter of thanks
to Mr William Forth Burge, but she tore it up directly; and she dared
not write one to George Canninge, nor yet to the vicar, from whom she
was sure the other amounts had come.

Just in the middle of one of her greatest fits of depression there was a
knock at the door, and she dreaded that it might be the vicar, while if
it had been George Canninge she felt that she dared not have faced him.

Her heart gave a throb of relief as she heard the familiar tones of Mr
William Forth Burge, and the next throb was one of gratitude as she knew
that he had had the delicacy to bring his sister with him.  Then there
was a depressing feeling as she felt that they would show by their
manner how displeased and disappointed they were at her breach of trust.

Here she was wrong again, for her visitors' greeting was warm in the
extreme, and with the reaction a sensation of oppression robbed her of
the power of speech; while had she not tried hard she would have burst
into a passionate flood of tears.

"We were so sorry to hear of your bad headache, my dear," said little
Miss Burge affectionately, "and really I don't think you ought to be
here now.  Your poor eyes look as red as red, and you are quite pale and
feverish."

"So she is," said Mr William Forth Burge.  "Why, Betsey, there ought to
be a holiday, so that Miss Thorne could take a day or two's rest."

"No, no, Mr Burge; I am better," said Hazel, speaking excitedly; for
the kindly consideration of these people had taken away all resentment,
all pride, and she felt that she was with friends.  "Mr William Forth
Burge--"

"No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne.  I don't
want a long name from you."

"Mr Burge--Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon
this subject, but your kindness--"

"There, there, there; don't say a word about it," he replied quickly.
"I know all, and it was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes, my dear," broke in little Miss Burge.  "Bill talked it over to me
last night, and--Now, you won't be offended, my dear?"

"Nothing you could say would offend me," cried Hazel eagerly.

"No, of course not, my dear.  Well, my brother said to me, `depend upon
it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something,
and just used it.  That's all.'"

"And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post."

"Don't call it humiliation, my dear," cried Miss Burge; "it was only
sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and
that's what it means."

Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and
isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her.

"Mr Burge--Miss Burge, I am so lonely and helpless here.  You have
heard about the school pence, but I cannot tell you why the amount was
wanting.  Give me your help and counsel."

"Then will you let me help you?"

"I shall be most grateful if you will," cried Hazel.

"Hullo!" shouted Burge, staring up at the partition.  "What are you
a-doing there?"

"The shutter slipped down a little, sir," said Mr Chute loudly.
"Trying to close it, sir.  That's it!" and the shutter closed with a
snap.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mr William Forth Burge angrily.  "I don't
know as that is it, Mr Chute."  But Mr Chute had by this time fastened
the shutter, and had descended from his coign of vantage, looking very
red and feeling terribly mortified at having been detected.  "He was
listening; that's about what he was doing."

There was a buzz of excitement amongst the children, but it subsided
directly, and Hazel placed at a venture the envelope which she believed
to have come from her visitor in his hands.

"You sent that to me, Mr Burge," said Hazel firmly.

"Well, it was me, as you know, Miss Thorne; and you won't hurt our
feelings by refusing it, will you?"

"I could not take it, sir; but I do appreciate your goodness all the
same.  Now help me to decide who sent me these letters."

Hazel's visitors looked at each other, then at the envelopes, and then
back at Hazel.

"Do you want me to say who sent those two letters?" said Mr William
Forth Burge gloomily.

"I should be very grateful if you could, sir."

"This one's from Mr Canninge, at Ardley, I should say; and the other's
the parson's writing, I feel sure.  If they've sent you money, Miss
Thorne, of course you won't want mine--ours."

It was an endorsement of her own opinion, and for the moment Hazel did
not notice the dull, heavy look on her visitor's face as she exclaimed--

"I have no doubt these gentlemen had kindly intentions, but I cannot
take their help, and I want to see whether I might risk a mistake in
returning the notes."

"Oh, I think I'd return 'em," said Mr William Forth Burge eagerly.
"I'd risk its being a mistake.  Even if it _was_, your conduct would be
right."

Hazel looked at him intently, and then bowed her head in acquiescence.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I will risk its being a mistake.  Or no:
Mr Burge, will you be my friend in my present helpless state?  I ask
you to return the notes on my behalf."

"That's just what I will do," he cried excitedly, for it seemed to him
that he had won the day.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

MR WILLIAM FORTH BURGE IS INDIGNANT.

You may make money, and you may turn philanthropist giving right and
left, letting not either hand know what the other doeth; but if you
think you are going to make innumerable friends by so doing, you are
mistaken, for you will most likely make enemies.

You will excite jealousy amongst your equals, because you have passed
them in the race; your superiors, as they call themselves, will condemn
you, and hold you in contempt for trying, as they say, to climb to their
level; and even the recipients of your bounty will be offended.

Mrs Dilly will think that Miss Bolly's half-pound of tea was better
than hers, and old Tom Dibley will be sure to consider the piece of beef
his neighbour, Joe Stocks, received "a better cut" than his own.

It was so with Mr William Forth Burge, who gave a great deal of beef to
the poor--it was in his way--and who was constantly giving offence by
presenting one poor family with better "cuts" than others; and he knew
it, too.

"I tell you what, Betsey," he said, rubbing his ear with vexation, one
day, "it's my full belief that nature made a regular mistake in
bullocks.  There ought to be no legs and shins, or clods or stickings,
my dear, but every beast ought to be all sirloin; though it's my belief,
old girl, that if it was, and you let 'em have it full of gravy, and
sprinkled with nice white scraped horse-radish on the top, they wouldn't
be satisfied, but would say the quality was bad."

"There, never mind, Bill dear," said his comforter; "some people always
would be ungrateful.  Old Granny Jinkins is just as bad.  She said
yesterday that the nice, warm, soft, new flannel jacket I made for her
myself was not half so nice and warm as one I gave to Nancy Dean."

"Yes, that's just the way," said Mr William Forth Burge.  "The more you
help people, the more they turns again' you.  I often wish I'd never
made a penny; for what's the good of it all but to help other people,
and be grumbled at afterwards for not helping 'em more?"

"Oh, but all people ain't the same, dear."

"There ain't much difference, Betsey.  Here's old Mrs Thorne quite
hates me; that boy thinks I'm a reg'lar cad; and Miss Thorne's turning
the same way."

"That I'm sure she's not!" cried little Miss Burge, starting up and
speaking angrily, with her face flushed, "Miss Hazel Thorne's as good as
gold, and she thinks you the best of men; and I declare, Bill, that you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I don't know what you don't
deserve.  It's too bad.  There!"

"Thanky, Betsey, my dear.  That seems to do me good.  I like to hear you
speak out like that.  But do you really think she likes me?"

"I'm sure she does, Bill, and there ain't no think in the matter; and
there, for goodness' sake, don't you settle down into a grumbler, Bill,
because you've got no cause to be, I'm sure."

"Well, I don't know, Betsey," he said, stirring his tea slowly.  "Things
don't seem to go right.  I thought, seeing what I'd done for the
schools, I ought to have a pretty good voice in everything, but because
I've spent hundreds and hundreds over 'em it seems just why I'm to be
opposed.  Here's Chute: I showed the committee that he was a miserable
spy of a fellow, not content with watching Miss Thorne, but putting it
about that she was carrying on with different people in the place and
gentlemen from town, just out of spite like, as Lambent agrees with me,
because the poor gal wouldn't notice him.  Well, I want him dismissed or
made to resign."

"Well, and isn't he to go?"

"Go!  Lor' bless you!  Why, the committee's up in arms to keep him; and
just on account of that school-pence job, as the poor gal couldn't help
at all, they'd have dismissed her if she hadn't said she'd resign."

"Oh, Bill, it's much too bad!"

"Bad ain't nothing to it, my dear.  I've been fighting hard for her
stopping, and sending her resignation back; but neither Lambent nor
Squire George Canninge won't interfere, and I'm left to fight it all
out, and they're beating me."

"And why didn't you tell me all this before, Bill?" said Miss Burge.

"Oh, I hadn't the heart to talk about it, my dear," replied her brother.
"It's all worry and vexation, that it is, and I wish I'd never done
nothing for the schools at all."

"Don't say that, Bill, when you've done so much good."

"But I do say it," he cried angrily.  "Here is everybody setting
themselves again' me, and it's all jealousy because I've got on.  I
never asked no favours of 'em before; it's all been give, give; and now
they show what they're all made of.  It's all horse-leeches' daughters
with 'em, that's what it is, and I wish Plumton All Saints was burnt.
All Saints indeed!" he cried indignantly; "it's all devils, and no
saints in it at all."

"But can't Mr Lambent settle it?"

"No, he couldn't if he'd moved; and those two cats--there, I can't call
'em anything else--who are always going about preaching charity and love
to the poor people, and giving 'em `Dairyman's Daughters' instead of
beef or tea, have been setting every one again' the poor gal, and
they're at the bottom of it all I know.  They hate her like poison."

"Well, I don't know about as bad as poison," said little Miss Burge
thoughtfully; "but they don't like her, and I don't think that Mrs
Canninge likes her either."

"No, I'm sure she don't; but I don't care," said Mr William Forth Burge
furiously.  "I'm not beaten, and if that poor girl will stand by us,
I'll stand by her, to the last shilling I've got."

"That's right, Bill!" cried little Miss Burge enthusiastically, "for I
do like her ever so; and the good, patient way in which she puts up with
the fine airs and silly ways of her ma makes me like her more and more.
I haven't got a very bad temper, have I, Bill?"

"I think you've got a regular downright good 'un, Betsey," said her
brother, looking at her admiringly.

"Well, Bill, do you know if I was to go there much, Mrs Thorne would
make me a regular spitfire.  She gives me the hot creeps with her
condescending, high-and-mighty ways.  She's come down in the world.
Well, suppose she has.  So's thousands more, but they don't--they
don't--"

"Howl," said Mr William Forth Burge, "that's it; they don't howl.  Lor
a mussy me, what difference do it make?  Do you know, Betsey, I believe
I was just as happy when I first started business on my own account; and
I'm sure I thought a deal more of my first new cart, with brass boxes
and patent axles, painted chocklit--it was picked out with yallar--than
I did of our new carriage, here, and pair.  Ah! and my first mare, as I
only give fifteen pun for, could get over the ground better than either
of these for which I give two hundred because they was such a match."

"There, now, you're beginning to grumble again, Bill, and I won't have
it.  You've grown to be a rich man, all out of your own cleverness, and
you ought to be very proud of of it; and if you're not, I am."

"But, you see, Betsey, I ain't so happy as I thought I should be."

"Then you ought to be, seeing how happy you can make other folks; and
oh, Bill, by-the-way, them Potts's are in trouble."

"Well, that ain't nothing new.  Potts always is in trouble.  He ought to
have been christened Beer Potts or Pewter Potts, though they don't know
what a pewter pot is down in this part of the world."

"That's better, Bill; now you're beginning to joke," said little Miss
Burge, smiling, "But you'll do something for the Potts's?"

"I'll never do nothing for anybody else again in the place," said Mr
William Forth Burge; "a set of ungrateful beggars.  What's the matter
with Potts?  Been tipsy again?"

"I'm afraid he has, Bill; but that isn't it.  They've got the fever
there; that big, saucy girl, Feelier, is down with it and the poor
mother wants money badly."

"Why don't she work for it, then?"

"Oh, she do, Bill; she's the most hard-working woman in the place."

Mr William Forth Burge's hand went into his pocket, and he brought out
five pounds, to place them in his sister's hand.

"I wouldn't give it her all at once, dear," he said; "but a pound at a
time like.  It makes it do more good."

Little Miss Burge had the tears in her eyes as she gave her brother a
sounding smack on either cheek.

"Now, don't you pretend again, Bill, that you ain't happy here," she
said, "for ain't it nice to be able to do a bit of good like this now
and then?"

"Of course it is," he replied, "but they only jumps on you afterwards.
Here we're going to do this, and p'r'aps save that child's life; and as
soon as she gets well the first thing she'll do will be to make faces at
your back in the school, as I've seen her do on Sundays over and over
again."

"Oh, I don't mind, Bill."

"But you're not going to the house where that gal's ill?"

"Oh no, Bill dear; I won't go down.  Don't you be afraid about that.
And look here; you make a big fight of it, and beat 'em about Miss
Thorne."

"I'm going to," he replied.  "But I say, Betsey," he continued, half
turning away his face.

"Yes, Bill."

"Should--should--"

Mr William Forth Burge's collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust,
one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing
hoarsely--

"I never keep anything from you, Betsey?"

"No, Bill, you don't.  You always was a good brother."

"Should--should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to--to--get married?"

Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and
then she said softly--

"No, Bill; I don't think I should.  Not if it was some one nice, who
would make you very happy."

"She is very nice, and she would make me very happy," he said slowly.
"But, Betsey--my--dear--do--you--think--she'd--have me?"

Mr William Forth Burge's words came very slowly indeed at last, and he
rested his arms upon his knees and sat in a bent position, looking down
at the carpet as if waiting to hear what was a sentence of great moment
to his life.

"Bill dear, I know who you mean, of course," said the little woman at
last, tearfully.  "I don't know.  She likes you, for she told me she
did; but I shouldn't be your own true sister if I didn't say that
p'r'aps it's only as a friend; and that ain't love, you know, Bill, is
it?"

"No," he said softly; "no, Betsey; you're quite right, dear.  But I'm
going to try, and--and I'm only a common sort of a chap, dear--if she
says no, I'm going to try and bear it like a man."

"That's my own dear--dear--O Bill, look; if there she isn't coming up to
the house!"

And little Miss Burge ran off to hide her tears.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

WILLIAM FORTH BURGE MAKES LOVE.

Mr William Forth Burge's heart gave a big throb, and his red face
assumed a mottled aspect as he went out to the front to welcome Hazel
Thorne, who shook hands warmly; and her pale face lit up with a pleasant
smile as he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the handsome
breakfast-room, his heart big with what he wished to say, while he asked
himself how he was to say it, and shrank trembling from the task.

"Yes, my sister's quite well," he said, in answer to a question.
"She'll be here directly; and I hope the little girls are quite well.
When may they come and spend the day?"

"It is very kind of you, Mr Burge," said Hazel, giving him a grateful
look; "but I think they had better not come."

"Oh!  I say, don't talk like that," he cried.  "My dear Miss Thorne--"

He could get no farther.  He had made up his mind to declare his love,
but his heart failed as he mentally told himself it would be madness to
ask such a thing of one so different to himself.

"She'll go away again, and I shall have said nothing," he thought.  "It
can't never be, for she's too young and nice for me."  And then, as is
often the case, the opportunity came, and, to his own astonishment,
William Forth Burge said, simply and honestly, all that was in his heart
leaving him wondering, in spite of his pain, that he had spoken so
truthfully and well.

"You have always been so kind, Mr Burge," began Hazel, "that I shrink
from letting you think I impose upon your good nature; but one of my
girls is down with a very serious illness, and I have come to ask you to
help her poor mother in her time of trial."

"Help her?  Why, of course," he cried, leaving his chair and crossing to
take Hazel's hands.  "Is there anything I wouldn't do if you asked me,
Miss Thorne?  My dear, don't think I'm purse-proud--because I tell you
I'm a rich man; for I only say it so as you may know there's plenty to
do good with; and if you'll come to me, my dear, and let it be yours or
ours, or whatever you like to call it--there it is.  You shall do as you
like, and I'll try, and I know Betsey will, to make you as happy as we
can."

"Mr Burge!" cried Hazel piteously as she rose to her feet.

"Just a minute," he pleaded.  "It isn't nothing new.  It's been growing
ever since you come down here.  Don't be offended with me.  I know I'm
twice as old as you, and more, and I'm very ordinary; but that don't
keep me from loving you very, very dear."

"Don't--pray don't say any more, Mr Burge," cried Hazel appealingly.
"I--I cannot bear it."

"No, no; don't go yet, my dear," he cried.  "If you only knew what a job
it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn't be so hard as to
stop me."

"Hard!  Pray don't call it hard, Mr Burge.  I grieve to stop you, for
you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came."

"Well, that isn't saying much; my dear.  Betsey and me was kind--I say
that ain't right, is it?  I know now--Betsey and I was kind because we
always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other
you could think me good enough to be your husband."

"Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so
ungrateful to you after all that you have done."

"Oh, no!" he said quickly; "you're not ungrateful.  You're too pretty
and good to do anything unkind."

"Mr Burge!"

"You see, it is like this, my dear.  I'm not much of a fellow; I never
was."

"You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I
esteem you very much."

"No!  Do you, though?" he cried, brightening up and smiling.  "Well,
that does me good.  I like to hear you say that, because I know you
wouldn't say anything that was not true."

"Indeed, I would not Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hand upon his
arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his.

"All the same, though," he went on dolefully, "I am not much of a
fellow, though I've been a very lucky one.  I never used to think
anything about the gals--the ladies, and they never took no notice of
me, and I went on making money quite fast.  I used to think of how prime
it would be to have a grand house and gardeners down here at Plumton,
and how Betsey would enjoy it; and then what a happy time I should have;
but somehow it hasn't turned out so well as I thought it would.  You
see, I've been a butcher--not a killing butcher, you know, but a selling
butcher; and though the gentry's very kind and patronising, and make
speeches and no end of fuss about everything I do or say, I know all the
time that they think I'm a tradesman, and always will be, no matter how
rich I am."

"But I'm sure people esteem you very much, Mr Burge."

"No," he said, shaking his head sadly, "they don't.  It's the money they
think of.  You esteem me, my dear, because you've just told me so, and
nothing but the truth never came out of those pretty little lips.  They
don't think much of me.  Why should they, seeing what a common-looking
sort of fellow I am?  No: don't shake your head, because you know it as
well as I do.  I ain't a gentleman, and if I'd twenty million times as
much money it wouldn't make a gentleman of me."

"And I say you are a gentleman, Mr Burge--a true, honest, nature's
gentleman, such as no birth, position, or appearance could make."

"No, no, no, my dear," he said sadly; "I'm only a common man, who has
been lucky and grown rich--that's all."

"I say that you are a true gentleman, Mr Burge," she cried again, "and
that you are showing it by your tender respect and consideration for a
poor, helpless, friendless girl."

"No: that you ain't, my dear," he cried with spirit; "not friendless;
for as long as God lets William Forth Burge breathe on this earth, with
money or without money, you've got a friend as'll never forsake you, or
say an unkind--lor', just as if one could say an unkind word to you; I
couldn't even give you an unkind look.  Why, I don't, even now, when
what you've said has cut me to the heart."

"I couldn't--I couldn't help it, Mr Burge," she cried.

"I suppose you couldn't, my dear; but if you could have said _yes_ to
me, and been my little wife--it isn't money as I care to talk about to
you--but the way in which I'd reglar downright worship you, and care for
them as belongs to you, and the way in which you should do everything
you liked, and have what you liked--There, I get lost with trying to
think about it," he said dolefully, "and I go all awkward over my
grammar, as you, being a schoolmistress, must see, and make myself worse
and worse in your eyes, and ten times more common than ever."

"No, no, no!" she cried excitedly; "I never, never thought half so much
of you before, Mr Burge, as I do now.  I never realised how true a
gentleman you were, and how painful it would be to say to you what I now
say.  I do appreciate it--I do know how kind and generous you are to
wish to make me your wife--now, in this time of bitter disgrace."

"Tchah!" he cried contemptuously; "who cares for the disgrace?  I'd just
as soon believe that the sun and moon had run up again' one another in
the night as that you had taken the beggarly school pence.  Don't say
another word about it, my dear: it makes me mad, as I told Miss Rebecca
and Miss Beatrice yesterday.  I said it was a pack of humbugging lies,
and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for believing it.  I know who
had--"

"Hush! oh, pray hush!" cried Hazel piteously.

"All right, my dear, mum's the word; but don't you never say no word to
me again about you having taken the money.  It's insulting William Forth
Burge, that's what it is."

Hazel looked up sadly in his face, which was now scarlet with
excitement.

"I thank you, Mr Burge," she said simply; and then, smiling, "Am I not
right in saying that you are a true gentleman?"

"No, no no, my dear; you are not right," he replied sorrowfully.

"But I am!" she cried.

"No, my dear, no; but I know you think you are; and if--if you could go
on thinking that I was just a little like a gentleman, you'd make me
very happy indeed, for I do think a deal of you."

"It is no thought--no fancy, Mr Burge; but the truth."

"And if some day--say some day ever so far off--though it would be a
pity to put it off long, for a fellow at my age don't improve by
keeping--I say if by-and-by--"

"Mr Burge--dear Mr Burge--"

"I say--say that again."

"Mr Burge," said Hazel, laying her hands in his; "you have told me you
loved me, and asked me to be your wife."

"Yes," he said, kissing her hand reverently, "and it's been like going
out of my sphere."

"It would be cruel of me not to speak plainly to you."

"Yes," he said dejectedly, "it would; though it's very hard when a man's
been filling himself full of hope to find it all go--right off at once."

"It is my fate to bring misery and trouble amongst people," she sobbed,
"and I would have given anything to have spared you this.  I respect and
esteem you, Mr Burge, more than I can find words to say; but I could
never love you as your wife."

He dropped the hand he held, and turned slowly away that she might not
see the workings of his face; and then, laying his arms upon the
mantelpiece, he let his head go down, and for the next few minutes he
stood there, with his chest heaving, crying softly like a broken-hearted
child.

"I cannot bear it," muttered Hazel, as she wrung her hands and gazed
wildly about the sumptuously furnished room, as if in search of help;
for the troubles of the past had told upon her nerves.  She felt
hysterical, and could not keep back her own tears, which at last burst
forth in a wild fit of passionate sobbing, as she sank into the nearest
chair and covered her face with her hands.

This roused her suitor, who took out his flaming orange handkerchief,
and used it freely and simply, finishing off, after he had wiped his
eyes, with a loud and sonorous blow of his nose.

"'Tain't being a man!" he said, in a low tone.  "I'm 'bout ashamed of
myself.  It's weak and stoopid, and what will she think?"

His face was very red now, but a bright, honest glow came into his eyes,
and his next act showed how truly Hazel had judged his character and
seen beneath the surface of the man.  For, giving himself a sounding
blow upon the chest, he pulled himself together, and the odd appearance,
the vulgarity, all passed away as he crossed to where Hazel sat, weeping
and sobbing bitterly.

"Don't you cry, my dear," he said softly, as he stretched out one heavy
hand and touched her gently and reverently upon the arm.  "I beg your
pardon for what I've said, though I'm not sorry; for it's made us
understand one another, and wakened me up from a foolish dream."

There was something in his voice that soothed Hazel, and the sobs grew
less violent.

"It wasn't natural or right, and I ought to have known better than to
have expected it; but they say every man gets his foolish fit some time
or other in his life, and though mine was a long time coming, it came
very strong at last.  It's all quite over, my dear, and I know better
now, and I'm going to ask you to say once more that common, vulgar sort
of fellow as I am, you are going to look upon me as your friend."

"Common!" cried Hazel hysterically, for the bonds that she had
maintained for weeks had given way at last, and her woman's weakness had
resulted in tears and sobs.  "Common!--vulgar!  No, no!"

She caught his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips.  Then she
would have sunk upon her knees and asked his pardon for the pain she had
unwittingly caused, but he caught her in his arms and held her
helplessly sobbing to his breast.

They neither of them were aware that the drawing-room door was opened,
and that Miss Burge and Rebecca Lambent had entered, the former to look
tearfully on, the latter indignant as she muttered, "Shameless
creature!" between her teeth.

"What! have you made matters up, then, Bill?" cried Miss Burge excitedly
as she ran forward.  "Oh, my dear, my dear!"

Her tears were flowing fast as she paused before them, trying to
extricate her handkerchief from an awkward pocket and arrested by her
brother's words.

"Yes, Betsey, we've made it up all right," he said.

"I--I didn't think it," sobbed Miss Burge.

"No," he said; "and it isn't as you think, for this is our very, very
dear young friend, Betsey, and--and as I'm plenty old enough to be her
father, Hazel Thorne's going to let me act by her like one, and stand by
her through thick and thin, in spite of all that the world may say,
including you, Miss Lambent."  He spoke proudly, as he drew Hazel closer
to his breast, and stood there softly stroking her hair, with so frank
and honest a light shining out of his eyes that it brightened the whole
man.

"Sir!" exclaimed Rebecca.

"Madam!" he cried, "I don't want to be rude; but, as your company can't
be pleasant to Miss Hazel Thorne, I'd take it kindly if you'd go."

"And I was ready to forget my position and marry a man like this,"
muttered Rebecca as she walked down to the gate.  "Oh, that creature!
She came upon Plumton like a curse."

"Betsey, my dear," said Mr William Forth Burge, speaking to his sister,
but speaking at Hazel, "you and me never had anything kept from one
another, and please God we never will, so I'll tell you.  I've been
asking Miss Hazel Thorne here to be my wife."

"Yes, Bill dear, I know--I know," sobbed little Miss Burge.

"And while I've been asking her, it came over me like that I was wrong
to ask her, and that it wouldn't be natural and right."

"Oh, Bill dear!"

"She's been so good and tender, and kind and sensible, that it's been
like taking the scales from before my eyes, and been a sort of lesson to
me; and somehow, my dear, I feel as if I was a different sort of man to
what I was before.  I'm not a speaker, and I can't express myself as I
should like to; but what I want to say is, that I feel as if I was more
of a man and a bit wiser than I was."

"Oh, Bill dear!"

"I'm getting on fast for fifty, Betsey dear, and Miss Thorne here--I
should like to say Hazel Thorne here--is only two-and-twenty or
thereabouts, and she's going to be like our own child from now, if she
will, and we're going to try and keep away troubles for the future till
she wants to go away.  And now we won't say any more about it, but let
things settle down.  Stop a minute, though, Hazel Thorne, my dear;
you've made me a gentleman, and we shall be friends."

For answer Hazel left Miss Burge, who had been sitting by her with her
arm round her waist, and, placing her hand in his, she looked him full
in the eyes, seeing no longer the homeliness of the man, hearing no more
his illiterate speech, but gazing as it were straight into his simple
honest kindly heart.  She hesitated for a moment, and then, reaching up
she kissed, him as a child would kiss one she loved.



CHAPTER FORTY.

"I WANT TEACHER."

One low, weary, incessant cry in the shabby, sloping-roofed, whitewashed
room.

The place was scrupulously clean; there was not so much as a speck upon
the windows; but the chamber was miserably bare.  One well-worn, damaged
rush-chair was beside the worm-eaten, stump bedstead, a box supported a
chipped white jug and basin, and an old sack unsewn and opened out
formed the carpet.  The only other article of furniture was a thin, very
old, white scrap of dimity curtain half drawn across the lead
lattice-paned window upon a piece of tape.

And from the bed arose that one weary, constant cry from between the
fevered, cracked lips, night and day--

"I want teacher to come!"

For there was no mischief dancing in her unnaturally bright eyes; the
restless hands were not raised to play some trick; the face was not
drawn up in some mocking grimace: all was pitiful, and pinched, and sad;
for poor Feelier Potts lay sick unto death, and it seemed as if at any
moment the dark shadow would float forth from the open window, bearing
one more sleeping spirit away.

"I want teacher!--I want teacher!"--night and day that weary, weary
burden, ever in the same unreasoning strain; and it was in vain that the
poor rough mother, softened now in face of this terrible trouble, sought
to give comfort.

"But she can't come now, my bairn--she can't come.  Oh, do be quiet--
do!"

"I want teacher--I want teacher to come."

Unreasoning ever--for poor Feelier was almost beyond reasoning--there
was one great want in her shadowed mind, and it found vent between her
lips for the first days loudly, then painfully low, and at last in a
hoarse murmur, but always the same--

"I want teacher to come."

"I won't come anigh you to speak, miss, for it wouldn't be right,"
sobbed poor, broken-down Mrs Potts, weak now and worn out, as she stood
at the cottage gate, after making signs for Hazel to come to the door.
For nights past she had been watching by her child's couch, while her
husband had kept watch at the public-house till it was shut, and then he
had slept in a barn.  For he had only one body, and he was terribly
afraid lest it should be stricken by the sore disease.

"I am not afraid of the infection, Mrs Potts," said Hazel kindly.  "You
look worn out; let me give you a cup of tea."

"My dear Hazel," said Mrs Thorne from the kitchen, where she was seated
at the evening meal, "what are you going to do?"

"Good, if I can, mother," said Hazel simply, and she filled a cup and
took it out to the half-fainting woman, who looked her thanks, for she
could not speak for some minutes.

"There, miss, and God bless you for it," she said, handing back the cup.
"I felt I must come and tell you, miss, for--for it seems as if she
couldn't die till you had been."

"Does she ask for me so?" said Hazel.

"She asks for nothing else, miss.  It's always `I want teacher,' and--
and I thought miss--if you'd come to the house--if it was only to stand
on the other side of the road--the window's open, miss, and she could
hear you, and if you was just to say, `I'm here, Feelier!' or, `go to
sleep, there's a good girl!' it would quiet her like, and then she'd be
able to die."

"Oh, pray don't speak like that!" cried Hazel.  "Let us hope that she
will live."

"I don't know what for, miss," said the wretched woman despondently.
"Only to live to have a master who'd beat and ill-use her, and make her
slave to keep his bairns.  I did think I'd like her to live, but the
Lord knows best and He's going to take her away."

"I'll come on and see her," said Hazel quietly.  "Poor child!  I was in
hopes that she was going to amend.  Wait for me here till I get my hat,
and I will come."

"What are you going to do, my dear?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne as Hazel
passed through the room.

"I am going to see one of my children, mother," she replied quietly.

"Not that dreadful Feelier Potts, Hazel?"

"Hush, dear!  The child is dangerously ill, and her mother can hear your
words."

"But it would be madness to go.  It is an infectious disease."

"I feel, dear, as if it is my duty to go," replied Hazel, with a
curious, far-off look in her eyes; and without another word she followed
to the little low cottage by the side of the road.

"There, miss, if you'd stand there I think you could hear her.  You see
the window's open.  I'll go upstairs and stir her up like, and then you
speak, and--"

"I want teacher!  When will she come?"

The words came in a low, harsh tone plainly to Hazel's ears, and with a
sigh she walked straight up to the door.  "But you hadn't better go
anigh her.  The doctor said--"

"It will not hurt me," said Hazel quietly.

"Well, miss, if you wouldn't mind, it would do her a power of good, I'm
sure.  This way, miss," and she led her visitor through the room where
she had been washing, to the awkward, well-worn staircase, and up this
to poor Feelier's blank-looking room.

"I want teacher!--I want teacher!" came the weary burden as Hazel walked
up to the bedside, shocked at the way in which the poor girl had
changed.

"I want teacher!  When will she come?" came again from the cracked lips
as Hazel sank upon her knees by the bedside.

"I am here, my child," she said softly, as the burning head was tossed
wearily from side to side.

The effect was electrical.  The thin arms that had been lying upon the
coverlet were raised, and with one ejaculation they were flung round the
visitor's neck, the poor child nestling to her with a cry of joy.

"My poor child!" cried Hazel tenderly.  And the weary iteration was
heard no more.

"She never made that ado over me," said the mother discontentedly; but
no one seemed to heed her, and she stole downstairs to her work, but
came up from time to time to find poor Feelier sleeping softly in
Hazel's arms, her head upon her breast.  And when Mrs Potts attempted
to unloose the clinging hands that were about "teacher's neck," the girl
uttered a passionate, impatient cry, and clung the tighter to one who
seemed to have come to bring her hope of life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It was very imprudent of you to come, Miss Thorne," said the doctor.
"I heard you were here from Mr William Forth Burge.  He is waiting
below.  Suppose you try to lay her down; she seems to be asleep."

Asleep or awake, poor Feelier would not be separated from her friend,
and the doctor unwillingly owned at last that it would be undoing a
great deal of good to force her away.

"You have given her a calm sense of rest, for which in her delirium she
has been so long striving.  I must confess that you have done her more
good than I."

"She will go to sleep soon, perhaps," said Hazel, "and then leave me of
her own accord."

"And then?" said the doctor.

"I can return home, and come again when she asks for me."

"I'm afraid, Miss Thorne, that you have not thought of the probable
consequences of returning home," said the doctor.  "You have young
sisters there, and your mother.  My dear young lady, it would be
exceedingly imprudent to go."

For the first time the consequences of her step occurred to Hazel, and
she looked aghast at the speaker.

"Then there is the school, Miss Thorne.  I think, as a medical man, it
is my duty to forbid your going there again for some time to come.  Yes,
I see you look at me, but I am only a hardened medical man.  I go
everywhere, and somehow one escapes a great portion of the ills one goes
to cure."

There was no help for it, and after coming as an act of kindness to see
the poor girl who had cried for her so incessantly, Hazel found herself
literally a prisoner, and duly installed in the bedroom as her sick
scholar's nurse.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

BROTHER AND SISTERS--REFINED.

There was a good deal of conversation about it at the Vicarage, where it
became known through a visit paid by Rebecca and Beatrice to the school,
and their coming back scandalised at finding it in charge only of the
pupil-teachers, who explained the reason of Hazel's absence, and that
she had sent a message to Mr Chute, asking him if he would raise one of
the shutters, and give an eye occasionally to the girls' school, which
was, however, in so high a state of discipline now that the
pupil-teachers were able to carry it on passably well.

"And of course Mr Chute has done so?" said Miss Lambent.

"No, please 'm; he said he had plenty to do with his own school,"
replied one pupil-teacher.

"And he wouldn't do anything of the sort," said the other.

"What a disgraceful state of affairs, Beatrice!" exclaimed Miss Lambent;
and the sisters hurried away to acquaint their brother with the last
piece of news.

"I suppose, with a person of her class, one can only expect the same
conduct that one would receive from a servant," said Beatrice acidly.

"I do not understand you, Beatrice," said her brother.

"I mean, Henry, that now she has resigned or received her dismissal, we
shall only get the same amount of inattention that one would from a
discharged servant."

"For my part," said the vicar, "I think that Miss Thorne is being hardly
dealt with."

"Absurd, Henry!" said Miss Lambent.  "We cannot say a word to you but
you take Miss Thorne's part."

"Why not, when I see her treated with injustice!"

"Injustice, Henry!" cried Beatrice.  "Is it injustice to speak against a
young person who behaves like an unjust steward?"

The vicar was silent.

"For my part," said Rebecca, "I think she should have been dismissed at
once; and she would have been, but for the opposition offered by you,
Henry, and Mr Burge."

"For my part," continued the vicar, ignoring the past speeches, "I can
see nothing more touching, more beautiful, and Christian-like than Miss
Thorne's behaviour to this child--one of the sick lambs of her fold."

"We are sorry, of course, for Ophelia Potts," said Rebecca; "but she is
a dreadful child."

"A fact, I grant," said the vicar; "and one that makes Miss Thorne's
conduct shine out the more."

"Henry!" exclaimed his sisters in a breath.

"We are not doing wrong in staying here, Rebecca," said Beatrice
haughtily.  "I do not believe in witchcraft or such follies, but it is
as though this woman had bewitched our brother, and as if he were
shaping himself in accordance with her plans."

"I do not understand you, Beatrice," said the vicar sternly.

"I will be plainer, then, Henry.  It seems to me that you are offering
yourself a willing victim to the wiles of an artful woman; and the next
thing will be, I suppose, that you intend bringing her here as mistress
of the Vicarage."

"I quite agree with Beatrice," cried Rebecca.  "It is time we left you,
Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart."

The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot
words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked
from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none.

He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the
dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his
wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope.
His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith;
neither could he be one for his unrequited love.  He loved Hazel Thorne;
but she did not care for him--he could see it plainly enough; and even
had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public
opinion for her sake.  For the trouble connected with that money was
always in his mind.  Then there was the society to which he belonged.
What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts,
and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter
into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt
stockbroker--one who was only the new mistress!

Then there were his sisters.  If he married Hazel, always supposing she
would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too
weak to do.  In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All
Saints' Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish.  But it was a
mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and
Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant.  The vicar had
only been a private in the ranks.

"Now we are upon this theme," Beatrice went on, "it would be better,
Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an
end."

"Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us," said the
vicar.

"I quite agree with Beatrice--unpleasant feeling," said Rebecca.

"We are sisters and brother," continued Beatrice, "and we must remain
so."

"Most assuredly," said the vicar, smiling.

"I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I
tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy
relations can be continued will be by separating."

"Parting?" said the vicar, in dismay.

"Yes, Henry; by parting.  Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing
together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content.
A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for
we shall have to leave our poor behind.  But that we must be resigned to
lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were--"

"No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your
inclinations," said Rebecca.

"But surely--you do not mean--you would not leave the Vicarage?"

"We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry," said Rebecca, "and I
do not see how, under the circumstances, you could wish us to do
otherwise."

"No, no, it is impossible!" cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved.
"Beatrice--Rebecca, of what are you thinking?"

"Of our duty and your happiness," said Beatrice firmly.

"At the expense of your own," exclaimed the vicar.

"We must do our duty," said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose
and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression
they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely
riveted their old mastery.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

BAD NEWS.

The news of Hazel Thorne's imprisonment, for it could be called little
else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her
son's countenance to see what effect it had.  There had been an
increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were
rapidly approaching estrangement.  Their old affectionate intercourse
had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time,
in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask
her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of
mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but
waited her time.

"He shall never marry her," she said over and over again; and in spite
of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to
her wounded spirit.  Now, then, the tidings of Hazel's visit to the sick
child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation
akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard
to her son.

It was a flimsy one, she knew--a broken reed upon which to lean; but it
was something, and every trifle that appeared likely to keep George
Canninge and Hazel apart, if it were only for a few days longer, was
like a reprieve, and might result in something better to her mind.

The matter was not discussed, but Mrs Canninge noted that her son rode
over to the town every morning, and found afterwards that he called at
the Burges' day after day, where he incidentally learned that Hazel was
still nursing the fever-stricken child.

It was pleasant to him at this juncture to talk to little Miss Burge,
and to listen to her simple prattle about Hazel, and what trouble she
and her brother took in sending down everything that was necessary for
the invalid and her nurse, so that Hazel might be comfortable.

"It is very kind of you and Mr Burge," said Canninge one day.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr Canninge," she replied; "we want to do all the
good we can, and one can't help loving Miss Thorne."

"No," said George Canninge quietly; and as he rode home he repeated
little Miss Burge's words to himself over and over again--"One can't
help loving Miss Thorne."

But he made no further advances--he did not go to the schoolhouse to
make inquiries, nor yet ask at the cottage where Hazel was a prisoner;
he contented himself with visiting the Burges day by day, to start back
almost in alarm one morning as he saw a look of trouble in little Miss
Burge's face, and before he could ask what was wrong the little woman
burst out with--

"Oh, Mr Canninge, that poor, dear girl!"

"What?" he said excitedly.  "She has not--"

"Yes, sir, and badly.  My brother has been down there this morning, and
she is delirious.  And oh, poor girl! poor girl!  I cannot let her lie
there alone.  I'm dreadfully afraid of the fever, Mr Canninge; but I
shall have to go."

"You?  What! to nurse her?" said George Canninge, with a face now
ghastly.

"Yes, sir; I must go.  My brother has been down every day, and I've
never been once!" she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing.  "It's
dreadful cowardly, I know; but I could not help it then."

"And she may die!" said George Canninge as he rode slowly home; "and I
have never told her I loved her.  Dare I go to see her now?"

He asked himself that question many times, and again many times on the
succeeding days; but he did not go near the place where Hazel Thorne lay
now, in the shabby room, upon the bed roughly made up for her by Mrs
Potts; while Feelier, the very shadow of herself, lay watching
"teacher," and the tears stole down her wasted cheeks as she listened to
Hazel Thorne's excited talking, for the most part incoherent; but here
and there a word came to Feelier's ears, and she wept again, because she
was too weak to get up and wait upon "teacher," whose attack was rapidly
assuming a serious form.

By special arrangement with the doctor, the news as to Hazel's state was
sent to the Burges' after every visit.  Not that this was held to
suffice, for little Miss Burge was constantly calling at the doctor's
house, and asking for fresh information when there was none to give.

"I can't bear this no longer, Bill dear," said Miss Burge one morning.
"There's that poor girl lying there in that wretched place, and no one
but strangers to tend her; and it seems as if all her friends had left
her now she is in distress."

"Not all," said Burge, raising his drooping head.  "I'm down there every
day; only I can't be admitted to her room, poor dear!  I wish I might
be."

"And I've been holding back," sobbed little Miss Burge, "because I felt
afraid of catching the complaint, and the doctor said it would be
madness for me to go; but I'm going down this morning, Bill dear, and if
I die for it I won't mind--at least not very much--for I'm sure I
shouldn't be any good to live if I couldn't help at a time like this.
Hasn't her poor ma been to her yet?"

"No; she isn't fit to go," said Burge.  "She is ill, and weak, and
foolish, and the doctor told her that if she went she would only take
the disease home to the little girls.  She would only have worried her
poor child and been in the way."

"I'm glad I've never been a mother, Bill, to turn out no more use than
that in trouble," sobbed the little woman.  "Now, do drink your tea,
dear; it will do you good."

"Nothing won't do me no good, Betsey," said the poor fellow dejectedly.

"But it looks so bad, dear, to see you like this.  I declare you haven't
washed and shaved this mornings and your hair ain't been brushed."

"No," he said drearily; "I forgot Betsey--I forgot."

"Why, Bill!" she exclaimed, looking at him scrutinisingly.

"Yes, dear."

"Why, you haven't been to bed all night!"

"No, dear."

"Why, if you haven't been watching down there by that cottage!" she
cried.

"Yes, dear," he said quietly.  "It seemed to do me good like."

"Oh, Bill!"

"And then I went to the post-office, and I've telegraphed for Sir Henry
Venner to come down by special train."

"You have, Bill dear!  Why, that's the Queen's doctor, ain't it."

"Yes, dear."

"But won't it cost a heap of money?"

"I'd give every penny I've got and sell myself too," he said, with a
ring of simple pathos in his voice, "if it would bring that poor darling
back to herself."

He laid his arms upon the table, and his forehead went down upon them,
as he said softly, as if to himself--

"I don't want any return--I'm not selfish--and I'd ask nothing back.  I
could go on loving her always, and be glad to see her happy, only please
God to let her live--please God let her live!"

Little Miss Burge, with the tears streaming down her honest round face,
rose from her seat at the breakfast-table, and went down upon her knees
beside her brother, to lay her cheek against one of his hands.

"I'm going down to her now, Bill dear," she said softly; "and I'll watch
by her night and day; for I think I love her, poor dear! as much as
you."

"God bless you, Betsey dear!" he said, drawing her to his breast, and
speaking now with energy.  "I couldn't ask you to go, for it seemed like
sending you where I daren't go myself; but if you could go, dear, I
should be a happier man!"

"And go I will, Bill; and I will do my best."

"And look here, dear!" he cried, quite excitedly now, "you don't know
how you're helping me, for now I can do what I want."

"What's that, dear?"

"Why, I thought, dear, if the big doctor would give leave, we might
bring the poor girl on here; but I daren't even think of it before, on
account of you.  You, see, dear, I could send away the servants, and get
a nurse to come."

"Oh yes; do, Bill dear!" cried the little body eagerly.  "We'd put her
in the west room, which would be so bright and cheerful, and--There, I'm
standing talking when I ought to go."

In fact, within five minutes little Miss Burge was ready, with her
luggage on her arm; the said luggage consisting of a clean night-dress,
"ditto" cap, a cake of soap, and a brush and comb; with which easily
portable impedimenta she was soon after settled in Mrs Potts's dreary
low-roofed room.

"No, miss," whispered the rough woman, "never slep' a wink all night;
but kep' on talk, talk, talk, talking about her mother and father, and
Squire Canninge, and the school pence, and that she was in disgrace."

"And teacher kep' saying Mr William Forth Burge was her dearest
friend," put in Feelier, in a shrill, weak voice.

"Hush!" whispered little Miss Burge, for their voices had disturbed
Hazel, who, till then, had been lying in a kind of stupor.

She opened her eyes widely, and stared straight before her.

"Are you there, Mr Burge?--are you there?" she said in a quick, excited
whisper.

"No, my dear; it's me, Betsey Burge.  I've come to stop with you."

"I didn't know how good and kind you were then--when I spoke as I did.
I was very blind then--I was very blind then," sighed Hazel wearily.

"And you'll soon be better now," said little Miss Burge in a soft,
cheery way.  "There--let me turn your pillow; it's all so hot, and--Mrs
Potts, send up for two pillows out of our best room directly."

"Yes, mum; I'll go myself;" and Mrs Potts hurried away.

"There, my dear, you'll be nicer and cooler now, and--Oh, dear me, what
a lot of things I do want!  Mrs Potts, call at the druggist's for some
eau-de-cologne--a big bottle mind."

"Yes, mum," came from below.

"Her poor head's like fire.  There, dear--there, my poor dear, let me
lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head."

"Please, Miss Burge, don't let them cut off all teacher's hair,"
whispered Feelier from the other bed.

"No, my dear; not if I can help it."

"I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did,
Mr Burge," said Hazel in her low excited whisper.

"No, no, my darling, not ungrateful," said little Miss Burge, in the
soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.--"Poor dear, she don't
know what she's saying."

"I have lain here and thought of what you have done," continued Hazel,
"and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful
for it all.  I know now I was ungrateful."

"She is wandering, poor girl!" said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as
she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had
smoothed Hazel's pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air.
After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her
pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering
a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool
pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.

"There, now you feel more comfortable, don't you, my dear?" whispered
the busy little woman.

"Oh, yes, and--and--and--please--please I'll never do so no more."

Poor Feelier burst into a passionate fit of tearful remorse, sobbing
wildly in spite of little Miss Burge's efforts to calm her.

"Oh! hush, hush, my dear; pray be still."

"I--I--I used to make faces at you in school," sobbed Feelier.

"Yes, yes, yes; but hush my dear.  You only did it in fun."

"N-no, I didn't," sobbed Feelier; "I did it to make--make the other
girls laugh."

"But hush, pray hush, or you'll hurt poor Miss Thorne."

Feelier's sobs ended in one large gulp, as if by magic, and she lay
perfectly still, staring at the other bed.

"Please, Miss Burge," she whispered, "will you bring some of your roses
and put in water by teacher's pillow?"

"Yes, my dear, that I will," said the little lady, patting Feelier's
hand.  "And now lie still, and don't talk; let's keep the room quiet,
and try to make her better."

"Yes, Miss Burge; but please will teacher get well?"

"Why, surely, my dear; and very soon."

"Because mother said I was a little wretch and gave teacher the fever,
and I wish I may die instead."

"But you shall both get well, my dear, very soon; and then you shall
both go down to the sea, and you shall be Miss Thorne's little maid."

"Shall I?" cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling and a flush coming
into her thin, sunken cheeks.

"Yes, that you shall, my dear; only lie very still, and don't talk."

"Please, Miss Burge," whispered Feelier, "let me tell you this."

"Well, only this one thing, and then you must be very quiet, my dear."

"Yes, I will," whispered Feelier, in a quiet, old-fashioned way; "but
that's how teacher keeps on all night and all day; she keeps on wanting
Mr William Forth Burge to come to her, and mother says I kep' on just
the same, asking for teacher to come, and I was quiet when she did, and
then"--sob--"she caught the fever too."

"Yes, yes, my dear; but you'll soon do better now."

"But you'd better let old Billy Burge--"

Feelier stopped short, conscious of the slip of her guilty tongue, and
looked up at her gentle attendant as if she expected a blow.

"I won't call him that name agen," she said demurely, "but if he come
he'd do teacher good; only if he did come, he'd ketch the fever too, and
I don't know what's best, only we mustn't let teacher die."

"No, no, my dear; of course not," whispered little Miss Burge hastily.

"But if she did die I know what I should do," said Feelier dreamily, and
with a drowsy look in her eyes, the effect of being washed and the
cooler atmosphere of the room inducing sleep.

"What should you do, my dear?" said Miss Burge, pressing down the pillow
to let the cool air blow upon her cheek.

"I should set violets and primroses all over her grave; and if any of
the other girls was to pick any of 'em, oh, I would give 'em such a
banging!  And then--then--then--"

And then poor, weak Ophelia Potts sank into a profound sleep, and little
Miss Burge wiped her eyes and sat and watched Hazel's weary, restless
head; listening to her broken sentences and the incoherent mutterings,
all of which were to the same tune--that she had been weak and cruel and
ungrateful to one who had been all devotion to her, and that she would
never rest till she had tried to make him some amends.

"Poor Bill, if he could only hear her now, how glad he'd be!" sighed the
watcher; "but this will all pass away, and when she gets well she'll
never know she said a word.  Poor Bill; it won't never--it couldn't ever
be!"

"I want Mr Burge," cried Hazel suddenly, and her voice sounded hard and
strange.  "Tell him to come to me--tell him to come."

"Yes, yes, yes, my darling; he shall come soon."

"He would catch the fever, do you say?  No no; I could not give it to
him; he is so kind and good.  Tell Mr Geringer, mother, it is
impossible; I could not be his wife."

"Oh, my poor dear!" whispered Miss Burge, bathing Hazel's burning
forehead with the eau-de-cologne that Mrs Potts had now brought; "that
poor, poor, burning, wandering brain.  Why don't the doctor come?"



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE QUEEN'S PHYSICIAN.

It was many hours yet before the doctor came, for the life of one
patient is no more to a medical man than that of another, and the great
physician had several urgent cases to see before he could use the
special train placed at his disposal by Hazel's elderly lover, who had
never left the station all the morning, and had given instructions that
the starting of the train should be telegraphed to him from the terminus
in town.

In addition, he had a messenger, in the shape of Feelier's brother, who
came to and fro every hour to where Mr William Forth Burge was walking
up and down the platform, to deliver a report from Miss Burge on the
patient's state.

One of these messages was to the effect that the local doctor had been,
and said that there was no change; and that he was stopping at home on
purpose to meet the great physician when he came.

So was Mr William Forth Burge's carriage, and so was a group of the
tradespeople and others, for in the easy-going life of a little country
town the loss of a day was as nothing compared to the chance of seeing
the Queen's own physician when he came down.

At last, but not till far in the afternoon, came the lightning message
speeding along the wires, "Special left King's Cross 3:30;" and then how
slow seemed the rapid special, and by comparison how it lagged upon its
way, for it would be quite an hour and a half, the station-master said,
perhaps two hours, even at express speed.

And all this time William Forth Burge waited, and would have taken
nothing but for the thoughtfulness of the station-master's wife, who
brought him some tea.

"No, six, not yet; that's the fast down."  Or, "No sir, not yet; that's
only the afternoon goods."  Or again, "No sir; that's only the slow
local.  They'll wire me from Marshton when she passes."

This from the chief official; and at last the wired message came, and
after what seemed to be an interminable time, a fast engine, tender, one
saloon carriage, and brake steamed into the station, and a little, quiet
dark man stepped out as the door was held open by the station-master,
waiting ready to do honour to the man greater in his power than the
magician kings of old, but very weak even then.

"Mr William Forth Burge?  Thanks.  Carriage waiting.  Thanks.  Now tell
me a little of the case."

This was mastered principally by questions as they drove to the cottage.

"Yes," said the great man.  "I see.  The old thing, my dear sir.  What
can you expect with sanitary arrangements such as these?"

He pointed right and left as they drove along, Mr William Forth Burge
suddenly checking the driver, as they were about halfway, to pick up
Doctor Bartlett, the resident medical man.

Next followed a consultation in the wretched keeping-room of the
cottage, the great doctor treating his humble brother with the most
profound respect, and then they went up to the bedroom, and little Miss
Burge came down to her brother with her handkerchief to her eyes.

A dreary half-hour followed before the doctors came down, the two
occupants of the room gazing up at them with appeal in their eyes as
they vacated their chairs in the great man's favour.

"I can only say, Mr William Forth Burge, that we must hope," said the
great baronet.  "It is the most ordinary form of typhoid fever, and must
have its course.  I may add that I almost regret that you should have
called me down, unless my opinion is any comfort to you; for I can
neither add to nor detract from the skilful treatment adopted by my
_confrere_, Doctor Bartlett, who is carefully watching the case.  What
we want is the best of nursing; and, at any cost, let the poor girl be
taken to some light, wholesome, airy room."

"Might we risk moving her?" panted Mr Burge.

"It is a grave risk; but it must be ventured, with the greatest care,
under Doctor Bartlett's instructions; for I have no hesitation in saying
that if our patient stays here she will die."

"God bless you, Sir Henry; I'd have given all I possess for that!"
gasped Burge, as he placed a slip of paper in the doctor's hands.

There was the drive back to the station, the little train steamed out,
and that evening, while poor Feelier Potts slept, Hazel Thorne was
carried down to the Burges' carriage, and lay that night in the west
room, to keep on talking incessantly of her cruelty to one who had been
so noble, so true, and good, and to make appeals to him for his
forgiveness, as she now knew how to value his honest love.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

MRS THORNE RECEIVES.

Hazel Thorne's illness came like a shock to Plumton All Saints, and the
opposing members of the committee, who had been instrumental in gaining
her dismissal, looked angrily one at the other, as if that other one was
specially to blame.  The Reverend Henry Lambent sent down messengers to
know how Miss Thorne was progressing, and later on sent the same
messengers to the Burges' for news.

"Will you not go down and see Mrs Thorne, Rebecca--Beatrice?" he said,
one day, appealingly.  "This is a troublous time."

"We had already felt it to be a duty, Henry, and we will run all risks
in such a cause."

There was not the slightest risk in going to the schoolmistress's
cottage, and the sisters went down, to find Mrs Thorne weak and almost
prostrate with illness and anxiety, but ready to draw herself up stiffly
to receive her visitors.

"Cissy, Mabel, place chairs for these ladies," she said.  "Miss Lambent
will perhaps excuse my rising.  I am an invalid."

Rebecca bowed and glanced at her sister, who made her a sign to proceed.

"We have called, Mrs Thorne, knowing you to be in so sad a state of
affliction--"

"To offer a few words of condolence," said Mrs Thorne, interrupting
her.  "It is very neighbourly and kind, I am sure I am sorry poor Hazel
is too unwell to be here to receive you as well."

"What insolence!" muttered Beatrice.

"Condolence is hardly the word," said Rebecca stiffly.  "We are very
much grieved about Miss Thorne, especially as her illness has come
almost like a chastisement for her weakness in her discharge of her
scholastic trust."

"Oh!  You are alluding to the school trifle she did not pay over to the
collector at the time," said Mrs Thorne haughtily.  "It is a pity that
so much should have been made of so trivial a matter."

"Trivial, Mrs Thorne!  Your daughter's conduct--"

"Has always been that of a lady, Miss Lambent.  Ah! you single ladies
don't know, and of course never will know, the necessities of
housekeeping."

Beatrice winced.

"I used that money as I would small change, and I must say I am
surprised at Mr Lambent or his sisters, or the school committee, or
whoever it is, being so absurdly particular."

"Particular, Mrs Thorne!" cried Rebecca, aghast.

"Yes; it is very absurd.  By-the-way, I may as well observe that I have
this morning received a letter from my late husband's solicitor, telling
me that fifteen hundred pounds, the result of some business arrangement
of his, are now lying at my disposal at the bank; and if you will send
the properly authorised person down I will give him a cheque."

"Mrs Thorne!" exclaimed Rebecca, whom this assumption of perfect
equality--at times even of superiority--galled terribly, "we came down
here to give you a little good advice--to say a few words of sympathy,
and to bring you two or three books to read, and ponder over their
contents.  I am surprised and grieved that you should have taken such a
tone."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lambent," retorted Mrs Thorne, who was very
pale and much excited; "allow me to tell you that you are making a
mistake.  I am not in the habit of receiving parochial visits.  They may
be very acceptable to the poor of your district, but, as a lady, when
another lady calls upon me, I look upon it as a visit of ceremony.  You
will excuse me, but I am not well.  My daughter's illness--my own--
rather tells upon me.  You will excuse my rising.  I beg your pardon,
you are forgetting your little books."

She picked them up from the table, and held them out; the top one was
"The Dairyman's Daughter," in paper cover.

The Lambent sisters had risen, and were darting indignant looks at
Hazel's mother before she drew their attention to the books they were
leaving upon the table; now their anger was hot indeed.

"We brought them for you to read," cried Rebecca indignantly.  "They
were for your good.  Mrs Thorne, your conduct is insolent in the
extreme."

"Insolent in the extreme," assented Beatrice.

"I am too unwell to argue with you, ladies," said Mrs Thorne loftily.
"Cissy, my child, take those into the kitchen, and give them to one of
the school children as they come by.  Mabel, my dear, bring mamma a
glass of water."

She took not the slightest further notice of her visitors, who looked at
one another for a few moments, and then left the house, marching by the
window with stately stride, while Mrs Thorne leant back in her chair,
saying to herself--

"Next time they call I hope they will remember that I am a lady."

That same evening, as she sat alone, she drew the letter of which she
had spoken from her pocket, and read it through again, the second
perusal giving her fresh strength and increasing dignity.

"I shall certainly insist now," she said musingly, as she refolded the
letter and tapped her left forefinger with the edge, "upon Hazel
entering into a matrimonial alliance with Edward Geringer.  He is older,
certainly; but what of that?  He is rich and loves her, and will make
her an admirable husband; and when, by-and-by he leaves her, she will
still be young and handsome, and, what is better, rich, and not left, as
I have been, at the mercy of the world--Lambents and people of that
class.  Yes, I am in a position now to insist, and I shall write to
Edward Geringer at once.  Perhaps his coming would have a favourable
effect upon Hazel's illness--a foolish, weak girl, to persist in going
to that house when I so strongly advised her not."

Mrs Thorne sat musing and building her _chateaux en Espagne_, while the
children amused themselves in the garden.

"Yes," she continued, "I am once more, I am thankful to say, no longer
dependent upon charity, nor yet upon poor Hazel--weak, foolish child!
It is a pity she should have grown so conceited and arbitrary on finding
herself at the head of affairs.  Ah, these young people--these young
people!  But I will not blame her, for a great deal was due to the
teachings of that training institution.  I noticed the change in her
directly.  It did so put me in mind of young Penton, when he received
his commission of ensign in the 200th Foot.  He had just the same short,
sharp, haughty way that my Hazel assumed, poor child!  Ah, well! we have
nearly got to the end of the school teaching, and it will be a lesson
for us all.  It was against my wishes that she took it up--that I will
say; and it has been very hard upon me to bring me down to the
companionship of such a woman as Mrs Chute.  I wish I had never seen
her, for I should never have thought of using those school pence if it
had not been for her."

Mrs Thorne smoothed down her black silk apron, and sat thinking for
some time before exclaiming--

"Yes, I will write a cheque for the amount and send it in a note, with
my compliments, to Mr Lambent.  It will be the most ladylike way of
proceeding.  The children shall put on their best hats and take it up.
It will be better than trusting the money to the school children or the
post.  I will do it at once."

The poor, weak woman smiled with satisfaction as she took out the thin
oblong book that had been sent to her that morning, and wrote out a
cheque for the amount due for the children's school pence, carefully
blotting and folding it, and placing it in a sheet of note-paper
inscribed, "With Mrs Thorne's compliments."

"Of course it ought to go to Mr Piper; but I shall send it to the
vicar, and he must pay it himself.  Good gracious!"

She had just directed the envelope to the Reverend Henry Lambent, when
she saw him pass the window; and as she sat listening, her heart beating
heavily the while, there was a gentle tap at the door, which was
standing open, and the vicar's voice said softly--"May I come in?"

"Yes; I--that is--Yes, pray come--in, Mr Lambent; but if you have
called on account of your sisters' visit to me this morning, I--"

"My visit was to you alone, Mrs Thorne," said the vicar gravely.

"But I must protest against any such visits as your sisters'!"

"My dear Mrs Thorne," said the vicar sadly, "I have come to you, a lady
who has known great trouble, as a friend.  My dear madam, I have a very
painful communication to make.  Your daughter--"

"Not worse, Mr Lambent?" cried Mrs Thorne piteously.  "Don't say she's
worse!"

There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he
said--

"Her state is very dangerous indeed."



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.

Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his
satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters;
but the days had gone on without change.  Night and day there had been
the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain--the same
constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge
sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of
Hazel's breast.

"Poor dear!" she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and
ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible
inroads the fever made in her care-worn face.

"She's getting that thin, doctor, it's quite pitiful," she said; but
only to receive the same answer.

"Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will
soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every
hour."

But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel's
state grew critical indeed.

"If I might only see her, dear," said Mr William Forth Burge; "if I
might only speak to her once.  I wouldn't want to come in."

"No, Bill dear," said the little woman firmly; "not yet.  The doctor
says it is best not, and you must wait."

"Does--does she ever in her wanderings--a--a--does she ever speak about
me, Betsey?"

"Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind."

"She has said that?"

"Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear.  She's quite off her
head.  I wouldn't build up any hopes upon that."

"No, I won't," he said hastily.  "I don't expect anything--I don't want
anything, only to see her well again.  But it does me good to think she
can think of me ever so little while she is ill."

"You see, dear, it's her wandering," said his sister; "that's all."

"But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?"
he said imploringly.

She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did
not answer.

"He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, `She's no
worse--she's no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;' but I can't trust
him, Betsey, like I can you.  There," he cried, "see: I'm quite calm,
and I'll bear it like a man.  Tell me, do you think she'll get over it?"

"Bill dear, I can't tell you a lie, but I don't think there's any
present danger.  I do think, though, you ought to send for the poor
girl's brother, and let him be down."

William Forth Burge uttered a low groan, for he read the worst in his
sister's eyes.

"I'll send for him directly, dear," he said; and he rose and staggered
from the room.

It was in the morning, and the message for Percy to come down at once
was sent; after which, in a dull, heavy way, Burge stood staring before
him, trying to get his brain to act clearly, as he asked himself what he
ought to do next.

"I think I ought to go down to her mother," he said softly; "and I
will."

In this intent he went softly out into the hall, when little Miss Burge
came hastily down the stairs, and her brother gasped as he placed one
hand upon his side.

"Bill--Bill," she whispered excitedly, "she is talking sensibly, and she
wants to see you."

"Wants to see me?" he panted.  "No, no; she is wandering, poor girl!"

"No, no, dear," cried little Miss Burge, clinging to his arm; "she has
asked for you hundreds of times when she was wandering, and I wouldn't
tell you--I thought it wouldn't be right.  But now she's quite herself,
and she's asking for you to come."

"But ought I," he said, "in my own house?"

"Yes--now," whispered back his sister.  "But Bill dear, she's wasted
away to a shadow, she's weak as weak, and you must not say a word more
to her than if she was a friend or you were her brother."

"No, no," he said hoarsely.

"Come, then.  She wants to speak to you, and it may do her good."

Trembling with excitement, William Forth Burge softly followed his
sister up the stairs, trying to smile and look composed, so as to
present an encouraging aspect to the invalid, telling himself, heartsore
though he was, that it was his duty, and that it would have a good
effect; but as he entered the room and saw the change that had taken
place, he uttered a low groan, and stood as if nailed to the floor.

For Hazel was changed indeed.  Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes
looked unnaturally large, but the restless, pained expression had passed
away, and the light of recognition was in her eyes, as she tried to
raise one hand, which fell back upon the coverlet.

He saw her lips part, and she smiled at him as he stood there by the
door.  This brought him back to himself, and he went hurriedly towards
the bedside.

"It was selfish of me to ask you to come," she said softly; "but you
have both shown that you do not fear the fever."

"Fear it, my dear?  No!" he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing
it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but
the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his
breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him.

"How am I ever to thank you enough?" she said, in a faint whisper.  "Why
have you brought me here?  It troubles me.  I feel as if I should make
you suffer."

"But you mustn't talk now, my darling," whispered little Miss Burge.
"Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your
poor self."

"Yes--rest," she said feebly--"rest.  I feel so easy now.  All that
dreadful pain has gone."

"Thank God!"

She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled
faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside.

"Don't leave me," she whispered.  "Yes; keep hold of my hand.  You have
been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly."

"But my darling, you must not talk.  There, just say a word or two to
him, and then he must go.  I'm going to ask the doctor to come and see
you now."

"No: let him wait.  I must talk now.  Perhaps to-night my senses will go
again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once
more."

"Then you will be very still, dear."

"Yes; I only want to lie and rest.  Don't leave me, Mr Burge.  Hold my
hand."

There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding
feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed
as if in sleep.

From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister,
but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat
there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely
happy.

An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a
dreamy, thoughtful whisper.

"I've been thinking about the past," she said, "and recalling all that
has been done for me.  I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it
all.  Don't--don't think me ungrateful."

"No, no," he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; "I never
could."

"I was thinking about--about when you asked me--to be your wife."

"Yes, yes, my dear!" he said eagerly; "but I was mad then.  It was only
an old fellow's fancy.  I could not help it.  It was foolish, and I
ought to have known better.  But we know one another now, and all you've
got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that
William Burge is man enough to do what's right."

She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble
effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding
it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew
his hand to her cheek and held it there.

"I was very blind then," she said in a whisper; "but I am not blind
now."

She spoke with her eyes closed, the restful look intensifying as the
time glided on.

After a while the woman who had acted as nurse announced the coming of
the doctor, who brightened and looked pleased as he saw the change.

"Yes," he said; "the fever has left her.  Now we must build her up
again."

And after satisfying himself about his patient's state, he beckoned Miss
Burge from the room, and gave the fullest instructions as to the course
to be pursued, promised to come in again that evening, and went away.

The day glided on, and William Forth Burge kept his place by the
bedside, feeling that it was his by right; and then, at times, suffering
from a terrible depression, as he told himself that he ought to go, and
not presume upon the weakness of one who was in his charge.  Hazel lay
with her eyes half-closed, apparently in a restful, dreamy state,
rousing herself a little when her tender nurse administered to her food
or medicine, and then turning her eyes for a few moments to the occupant
of the chair by the bedside, smiling at him sadly, afterwards, with a
restful sigh, letting her cheek lie against his hand.

"I should like to have seen my little sisters," she said once softly,
"and my poor mother; but it would be cruel to bring them here.  I should
like to kiss poor Ophelia too."  She laughed faintly here, as if amused.
"Poor child!--so good at heart.  Poor child!"

There was another long interval of genuine sleep now, which lasted until
evening, when Hazel awoke with a frightened start crying out painfully.

"What is it, my pet?" whispered little Miss Burge, bending over the bed,
and parting the hair from Hazel's hot wet brow.  "There--there; you're
better now."

The light of recognition came, and she darted a swift, clear look at the
speaker, then turned excitedly to the bedside where William Forth Burge
still sat holding her hand.

The peaceful smile came back as she saw him there, and she began
speaking in a quick, excited way:--

"I have been dreaming--I thought I had told him it was impossible
again--that I could not; for I loved some one else.  But I do not.  It
was a weak girl's fancy.  Miss Burge, I should like to kiss you, dear;
but it would be unkind.  Touch my face--my lips with your fingers."

"My darling, I have no fear," sobbed the little woman; and she bent down
and kissed the poor girl passionately, but only to rise in alarm, and
make a sign to her brother, which he interpreted aright, and was about
to rise and seek for help; but Hazel clung to his hand in alarm.

"No, no! don't go!" she said hoarsely.  "I could not bear it now."

"I'll run, Bill!" panted Miss Burge; but a word from Hazel stayed her.

"No; stop!" she whispered.  "God knows best, Miss Burge.  Lift me a
little more.  Let my head rest on your shoulder--so!"

William Forth Burge raised the thin, slight form tenderly and
reverently, till Hazel's head rested upon his broad shoulder, and he
held her there; but she was not satisfied till he had placed her arm so
that it half embraced his neck, and there she lay, gazing with her
unnaturally bright, wistful eyes in his, while the great tears slowly
welled over their bounds and trickled down his heavy face.

"Miss Burge," she said again, and there was something very strange and
wild in her voice, "I was weak and foolish once; but now it is too late,
I have grown wiser--just at last.  This is going to be my husband.  In
his dear memory I shall be his wife, for I love him now--with all my
heart!"

She closed her eyes for a few moments, and without a sound little Miss
Burge stretched out one hand to the bell, making a sign to the nurse who
answered, and then glided away.

There was a long, deep silence then, broken only by a sob from Miss
Burge, who now sank upon her knees by the bedside.

Hazel's eyes opened again, and she gazed about her wildly, and as if in
fear; but the restful smile came back, and she sighed as if relieved;
and again there was a long silence, during which the watchers waited
impatiently for the doctor's step.

And so the minutes glided by, and the night came on apace--a night they
felt would be black and deep, for all hope was gone.

Then Hazel spoke again, and her voice sounded clearer and more
distinct--

"I shall not hurt you now," she said softly, and her thin, wasted hand
rose from the counterpane, seemed to tremble in the air for a moment,
and then nestled in William Forth Burge's breast.  "Kiss me," she said
softly; "think that--at last--I loved you.  So tired--let me sleep!"

Is there truth in the old superstitious stories that we hear?  True in
their spiritual sense or no, just then a black pigeon that had hovered
about the house for days alighted upon the window-sill, and the rustle
of its wings sounded loud and painful in the oppressive stillness of
that evening.

From the fields the soft lowing of the kine came mellowed and sweet, and
from the wood behind the house a thrush sang its evening hymn to the
passing day, while, as the west grew less ruddy, the soft dawn-like
light intensified in the north.

It needed but one sound to add to the solemnity of the time, and that
was the heavy knoll of the church bell, which rang out the curfew, as it
had announced the hour from the far-back days when it was cast and
blessed, and holy hands first hung it there.

Just then little Miss Burge uttered a faint ejaculation of relief, for
there was a quick step upon the gravel; but ere it reached the door
there was a deep sigh in the shadowed room, Hazel's large, soft eyes
grew dilate, and their light was for ever gone; another bridegroom had
snatched her from her simple-hearted lover's arms--and that bridegroom
was Death!

The End.






End of Project Gutenberg's The New Mistress, by George Manville Fenn