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“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
