The New Mistress: A Tale

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 protégée 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 protégée at the Vicarage.”

“I beg your pardon,” said George Canninge. “I did not know, though, that they had a protégée.”

“Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her their protégée; 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.”