CHAPTER IV
SCHOOL-DAYS
Up to eighteen we fight with fears, And deal with problems grave and weighty, And smile our smiles and weep our tears, Just as we do in after years From eighteen up to eighty.
When Elisabeth was sixteen her noonday was turned into night by thedeath of her beloved Cousin Anne. For some time the younger MissFarringdon had been in failing health; but it was her role to bedelicate, and so nobody felt anxious about her until it was too late foranxiety to be of any use. She glided out of life as gracefully as shehad glided through it, trusting that the sternness of her principleswould expiate the leniency of her practice; and was probably surprisedat the discovery that it was the leniency of her practice which finallyexpiated the sternness of her principles.
She left a blank, which was never quite filled up, in the lives of hersister Maria and her small cousin Elisabeth. The former bore her sorrowbetter, on the whole, than did the latter, because she had acquired thehabit of bearing sorrow; but Elisabeth mourned with all the hopelessmisery of youth.
"It is no use trying to make me interested in things," she sobbed inresponse to Christopher's clumsy though well-meant attempts to diverther. "I shall never be interested in anything again--never. Everythingis different now that Cousin Anne is gone away."
"Not quite everything," said Christopher gently.
"Yes; everything. Why, the very trees don't look the same as they usedto look, and the view isn't a bit what it used to be when she was here.All the ordinary things seem queer and altered, just as they do when yousee them in a dream."
"Poor little girl!"
"And now it doesn't seem worth while for anything to look pretty. I usedto love the sunsets, but now I hate them. What is the good of theirbeing so beautiful and filling the sky with red and gold, if _she_ isn'there to see them? And what is the good of trying to be good and cleverif she isn't here to be pleased with me? Oh dear! oh dear! Nothing willever be any good any more."
Christopher laid an awkward hand upon Elisabeth's dark hair, and beganstroking it the wrong way. "I say, I wish you wouldn't fret so; it'smore than I can stand to see you so wretched. Isn't there anything thatI can do to make it up to you, somehow?"
"No; nothing. Nothing will ever comfort me any more; and how could agreat, stupid boy like you make up to me for having lost her?" moanedpoor little Elisabeth, with the selfishness of absorbing grief.
"Well, anyway, I am as fond of you as she was, for nobody could befonder of anybody than I am of you."
"That doesn't help. I don't miss her so because she loved me, butbecause I loved her; and I shall never, never love any one else as muchas long as I live."
"Oh yes, you will, I expect," replied Christopher, who even then knewElisabeth better than she knew herself.
"No--I shan't; and I should hate myself if I did."
Elisabeth fretted so terribly after her Cousin Anne that she grew palerand thinner than ever; and Miss Farringdon was afraid that the girlwould make herself really ill, in spite of her wiry constitution. Aftermuch consultation with many friends, she decided to send Elisabeth toschool, for it was plain that she was losing her vitality through lackof an interest in life; and school--whatever it may or may notsupply--invariably affords an unfailing amount of new interests. SoElisabeth went to Fox How--a well-known girls' school not a hundredmiles from London--so called in memory of Dr. Arnold, according to whoseprinciples the school was founded and carried on.
It would be futile to attempt to relate the history of ElisabethFarringdon without telling in some measure what her school-days did forher; and it would be equally futile to endeavour to convey to theuninitiated any idea of what that particular school meant--and stillmeans--to all its daughters.
When Elisabeth had left her girlhood far behind her, the mere mention ofthe name, Fox How, never failed to send thrills all through her, as Godsave the Queen, and Home, sweet Home have a knack of doing; and for anyone to have ever been a pupil at Fox How, was always a sure and certainpassport to Elisabeth's interest and friendliness. The school was anold, square, white house, standing in a walled garden; and those wallsenclosed all the multifarious interests and pleasures and loves andrivalries and heart-searchings and soul-awakenings which go to make upthe feminine life from twelve to eighteen, and which are very much thesame in their essence, if not in their form, as those which go to makeup the feminine life from eighteen to eighty. In addition to these, thewalls enclosed two lawns and an archery-ground, a field and a pondovergrown with water-lilies, a high mound covered with grass and trees,and a kitchen-garden filled with all manner of herbs and pleasantfruits--in short, it was a wonderful and extensive garden, such as onesees now and then in some old-fashioned suburb, but which people haveneither the time nor the space to lay out nowadays. It also contained along, straight walk, running its whole length and shaded by impenetrablegreenery, where Elisabeth used to walk up and down, pretending that shewas a nun; and some delightful swings and see-saws, much patronized bythe said Elisabeth, which gave her a similar physical thrill to thatproduced in later years by the mention of her old school.
The gracious personality which ruled over Fox How in the days ofElisabeth had mastered the rarely acquired fact that the word _educate_is derived from _educo_, to _draw out_, and not (as is generallysupposed) from _addo_, to _give to_; so the pupils there were trained totrain themselves, and learned how to learn--a far better equipment forlife and its lessons than any ready-made cloak of superficial knowledge,which covers all individualities and fits none. There was no cramming orforcing at Fox How; the object of the school was not to teach girls howto be scholars, but rather how to be themselves--that is to say, thebest selves which they were capable of becoming. High character ratherthan high scholarship was the end of education there; and good breedingcounted for more than correct knowledge. Not that learning wasneglected, for Elisabeth and her schoolfellows worked at their books foreight good hours every day; but it did not form the first item on theprogramme of life.
And who can deny that the system of Fox How was the correct system ofeducation, at any rate, as far as girls are concerned? Unless a womanhas to earn her living by teaching, what does it matter to her how muchhydrogen there is in a drop of rain-water, or in what year Hannibalcrossed the Alps? But it will matter to her infinitely, for theremainder of her mortal existence, whether she is one of those graceful,sympathetic beings, whose pathway is paved by the love of Man and thefriendship of Woman; or one of that much-to-be-blamed, ifsomewhat-to-be-pitied, sisterhood, who are unloved because they areunlovely, and unlovely because they are unloved.
It is not good for man, woman, or child to be alone; and thecompanionship of girls of her own age did much toward deepening andbroadening Elisabeth's character. The easy give-and-take of perfectequality was beneficial to her, as it is to everybody She did not forgether Cousin Anne--the art of forgetting was never properly acquired byElisabeth; but new friendships and new interests sprang up out of thegrave of the old one, and changed its resting-place from a cemetery intoa garden. Elisabeth Farringdon could not be happy--could not exist, infact--without some absorbing affection and interest in life. There arecertain women to whom "the trivial round" and "the common task" areall-sufficing who ask nothing more of life than that they shall alwayshave a dinner to order or a drawing-room to dust, and to whom thedelinquencies of the cook supply a drama of never-failing attraction anda subject of never-ending conversation; but Elisabeth was made of othermaterial; vital interests and strong attachments were indispensable toher well-being. The death of Anne Farringdon had left a cruel blank inthe young life which was none too full of human interest to begin with;but this blank was to a great measure filled up by Elisabeth's adorationfor the beloved personage who ruled over Fox How, and by her devotedfriendship for Felicia Herbert.
In after years she often smiled tenderly when she recalled the absoluteworship which the girls at Fox How offered to their "Dear Lady," as theycalled her, and of which the "Dear La
dy" herself was supremelyunconscious. It was a feeling of loyalty stronger than any ever excitedby crowned heads (unless, perhaps, by the Pope himself), as sherepresented to their girlish minds the embodiment of all that was right,as well as of all that was mighty--and represented it so perfectly thatthrough all their lives her pupils never dissociated herself from therighteousness which she taught and upheld and practised. And thisattitude was wholly good for girls born in a century when it was thefashion to sneer at hero-worship and to scoff at authority when the wordobedience in the Marriage Service was accused of redundancy, and thecustom of speaking evil of dignities was mistaken for self-respect.
As for Felicia Herbert, she became for a time the very mainspring ofElisabeth's life. She was a beautiful girl, with fair hair and clear-cutfeatures; and Elisabeth adored her with the adoration that is freelygiven, as a rule, to the girl who has beauty by the girl who has not.She was, moreover, gifted with a sweet and calm placidity, which wasvery restful to Elisabeth's volatile spirit; and the latter consequentlygreeted her with that passionate and thrilling friendship which is sosatisfying to the immature female soul, but which is never againexperienced by the woman who has once been taught by a man the nature ofreal love. Felicia was much more religious than Elisabeth, and much moreprone to take serious views of life. The training of Fox How made forseriousness, and in that respect Felicia entered into the spirit of theplace more profoundly than Elisabeth was capable of doing; for Elisabethwas always tender rather than serious, and broad rather than deep.
"I shall never go to balls when I leave school," said Felicia to herfriend one day of their last term at Fox How, as the two were sitting inthe arbour at the end of the long walk. "I don't think it is right to goto balls."
"Why not? There can be no harm in enjoying oneself, and I don't believethat God ever thinks there is."
"Not in enjoying oneself in a certain way; but the line betweenreligious people and worldly people ought to be clearly marked. I thinkthat dancing is a regular worldly amusement, and that good people shouldopenly show their disapproval of it by not joining in it."
"But God wants us to enjoy ourselves," Elisabeth persisted. "And Hewouldn't really love us if He didn't."
"God wants us to do what is right, and it doesn't matter whether weenjoy ourselves or not."
"But it does; it matters awfully. We can't really be good unless we arehappy."
Felicia shook her head. "We can't really be happy unless we are good;and if we are good we shall 'love not the world,' but shall stand apartfrom it."
"But I must love the world; I can't help loving the world, it is sogrand and beautiful and funny. I love the whole of it: all the trees andthe fields, and the towns and the cities, and the prim old people andthe dear little children. I love the places--the old places because Ihave known them so long, and the new places because I have never seenthem before; and I love the people best of all. I adore people, Felicia;don't you?"
"No; I don't think that I do. Of course I like the people that I like;but the others seem to me dreadfully uninteresting."
"But they are not; they are all frightfully interesting when once youget to know them, and see what they really are made of inside. Outsidesmay seem dull; but insides are always engrossing. That's why I alwayslove people when once I've seen them cry, because when they cry they arethemselves, and not any make-ups."
"How queer to like people because you have seen them cry!"
"Well, I do. I'd do anything for a person that I had seen cry; I wouldreally."
Felicia opened her large hazel eyes still wider. "What a strange idea!It seems to me that you think too much about feelings and not enoughabout principles."
"But thinking about feelings makes you think about principles; feelingsare the only things that ever make me think about principles at all."
After a few minutes' silence Elisabeth asked suddenly:
"What do you mean to do with your life when you leave here and take itup?"
"I don't know. I suppose I shall fall in love and get married. Mostgirls do. And I hope it will be with a clergyman, for I do so loveparish work."
"I don't think I want to get married," said Elisabeth slowly, "not evento a clergyman."
"How queer of you! Why not?"
"Because I want to paint pictures and to become a great artist. I feelthere is such a lot in me that I want to say, and that I must say; and Ican only say it by means of pictures. It would be dreadful to die beforeyou had delivered the message that you had been sent into the world todeliver, don't you think?"
"It would be more dreadful to die before you had found one man to whomyou would be everything, and who would be everything to you," repliedFelicia.
"Oh! I mean to fall in love, because everybody does, and I hate to bebehindhand with things; but I shall do it just as an experience, to makeme paint better pictures. I read in a book the other day that you mustfall in love before you can become a true artist; so I mean to do so.But it won't be as important to me as my art," said Elisabeth, who wasas yet young enough to be extremely wise.
"Still, it must be lovely to know there is one person in the world towhom you can tell all your thoughts, and who will understand them, andbe interested in them."
"It must be far lovelier to know that you have the power to tell allyour thoughts to the whole world, and that the world will understandthem and be interested in them," Elisabeth persisted.
"I don't think so. I should like to fall in love with a man who was somuch better than I, that I could lean on him and learn from him ineverything; and I should like to feel that whatever goodness orcleverness there was in me was all owing to him, and that I was nothingby myself, but everything with him."
"I shouldn't. I should like to feel that I was so good and clever that Iwas helping the man to be better and cleverer even than he was before."
"I should like all my happiness and all my interest to centre in thatone particular man," said Felicia; "and to feel that he was a fairyprince, and that I was a poor beggar-maid, who possessed nothing but hislove."
"Oh! I shouldn't. I would rather feel that I was a young princess, andthat he was a warrior, worn-out and wounded in the battle of life; butthat my love would comfort and cheer him after all the tiresome warsthat he'd gone through. And as for whether he'd lost or won in the wars,I shouldn't care a rap, as long as I was sure that he couldn't be happywithout me."
"You and I never think alike about things," said Felicia sadly.
"You old darling! What does it matter, as long as we agree in being fondof each other?"
At eighteen Elisabeth said farewell to Fox How with many tears, and cameback to live at the Willows with Miss Farringdon. While she had been atschool, Christopher had been first in Germany and then in America,learning how to make iron, so that they had never met during Elisabeth'sholidays; therefore, when he beheld her transformed from a little girlinto a full-blown young lady, he straightway fell in love with her. Hewas, however, sensible enough not to mention the circumstance, even toElisabeth herself, as he realized, as well as anybody, that the nephewof Richard Smallwood would not be considered a fitting mate for adaughter of the house of Farringdon; but the fact that he did notmention the circumstance in no way prevented him from dwelling upon itin his own mind, and deriving much pleasurable pain and much painfulpleasure therefrom. In short, he dwelt upon it so exclusively and sopersistently that it went near to breaking his heart; but that was notuntil his heart was older, and therefore more capable of being brokenpast mending again.
Miss Farringdon and the people of Sedgehill were alike delighted to haveElisabeth among them once more; she was a girl with a strongpersonality; and people with strong personalities have a knack of makingthemselves missed when they go away.
"It's nice, and so it is, to have Miss Elisabeth back again," remarkedMrs. Bateson to Mrs. Hankey; "and it makes it so much cheerfuller forMiss Farringdon, too."
"Maybe it'll only make it the harder for Miss Farringdon when the timecomes for Miss Eli
sabeth to be removed by death or by marriage; andwhich'll be the best for her--poor young lady!--the Lord must decide,for I'm sure I couldn't pass an opinion, only having tried one, and thatnothing to boast of."
"I wonder if Miss Farringdon will leave her her fortune," said Mrs.Bateson, who, in common with the rest of her class, was consumed with anabsorbing curiosity as to all testamentary dispositions.
"She may, and she may not; there's no prophesying about wills. I'mpleased to say I can generally foretell when folks is going to die,having done a good bit of sick-nursing in my time afore I marriedHankey; but as to foretelling how they're going to leave their money, Ican no more do it than the babe unborn; nor nobody can, as ever I heardtell on."
"That's so, Mrs. Hankey. Wills seem to me to have been invented by thedevil for the special upsetting of the corpse's memory. Why, some of thepeaceablest folks as I've ever known--folks as wouldn't have scared alady-cow in their lifetime--have left wills as have sent all theirrelations to the right-about, ready to bite one another's noses off.Bateson often says to me, 'Kezia,' he says, 'call no man honest till hiswill's read.' And I'll be bound he's in the right. Still, it would behard to see Miss Elisabeth begging her bread after the way she's beenbrought up, and Miss Farringdon would never have the conscience to lether do it."
"Folks leave their consciences behind with their bodies," said Mrs.Hankey; "and I've lived long enough to be surprised at nothing wherewills are concerned."
"That is quite true," replied Mrs. Bateson. "Now take Miss Anne, forinstance: she seemed so set on Miss Elisabeth that you'd have thoughtshe'd have left her a trifle; but not she! All she had went to hersister, Miss Maria, who'd got quite enough already. Miss Anne was assweet and gentle a lady as you'd wish to see; but her will was as hardas the nether millstone."
"There's nothing like a death for showing up what a family is made of."
"There isn't. Now Mr. William Farringdon's will was a very cruel one,according to my ideas, leaving everything to his niece and nothing tohis son. True, Mr. George was but a barber's block with no work in him,and I'm the last to defend that; and then he didn't want to marry hiscousin, Miss Maria, for which I shouldn't blame him so much; if a mancan't choose his own wife and his own newspaper, what can hechoose?--certainly not his own victuals, for he isn't fit. But if folksonly leave their money to them that have followed their advice ineverything, most wills would be nothing but a blank sheet of paper."
"And if they were, it wouldn't be a bad thing, Mrs. Bateson; there wouldbe less sorrow on some sides, and less crape on others, and far lessunpleasantness all round. For my part, I doubt if Miss Farringdon willleave her fortune to Miss Elisabeth, and her only a cousin's child; forwhen all is said and done, cousins are but elastic relations, as you maysay. The well-to-do ones are like sisters and brothers, and the poorones don't seem to be no connection at all."
"Well, let's hope that Miss Elisabeth will marry, and have a husband towork for her when Miss Farringdon is dead and gone."
"Husbands are as uncertain as wills, Mrs. Bateson, and more sure to giveoffence to them that trust in them; besides, I doubt if Miss Elisabethis handsome enough to get a husband. The gentry think a powerful lot oflooks in choosing a wife."
Mrs. Bateson took up the cudgels on Elisabeth's behalf. "She mayn't beexactly handsome--I don't pretend as she is; but she has a wonderful wayof dressing herself, and looking for all the world like a fashion-plate;and some men have a keen eye for clothes."
"I think nothing of fine clothes myself. Saint Peter warns us againstbraiding of hair and putting on of apparel; and when all's said and doneit don't go as far as a good complexion, and we don't need any apostleto tell us that--we can see it for ourselves."
"And as for cleverness, there ain't her like in all Mershire," continuedMrs. Bateson.
"Bless you! cleverness never yet helped a woman in getting a husband,and never will; though if she's got enough of it, it may keep her fromever having one. I don't hold with cleverness in a woman myself; it hasalways ended in mischief, from the time when the woman ate a bit of theTree of Knowledge, and there was such a to-do about it."
"I wish she'd marry Mr. Christopher; he worships the very ground shewalks on, and she couldn't find a better man if she swept out all thecorners of the earth looking for one."
"Well, at any rate, she knows all about him; that is something. I alwayssay that men are the same as kittens--you should take 'em straight fromtheir mothers, or else not take 'em at all; for, if you don't, you neverknow what bad habits they may have formed or what queer tricks they willbe up to."
"Maybe the manager's nephew ain't altogether the sort of husband you'dexpect for a Farringdon," said Mrs. Bateson thoughtfully; "I don't denythat. But he's wonderful fond of her, Mr. Christopher is; and there'snothing like love for smoothing things over when the oven ain't properlyheated, and the meat is done to a cinder on one side and all raw on theother. You find that out when you're married."
"You find a good many things out when you're married, Mrs. Bateson, andone is that this world is a wilderness of care. But as for love, Idon't rightly know much about it, since Hankey would always rather havehad my sister Sarah than me, and only put up with me when she gave himthe pass-by, being set on marrying one of the family. I'm sure, for mypart, I wish Sarah had had him; though I've no call to say so, heralways having been a good sister to me."
"Well, love's a fine thing; take my word for it. It keeps the men fromgrumbling when nothing else will; except, of course, the grace of God,"added Mrs. Bateson piously, "though even that don't always seem to havemuch effect, when things go wrong with their dinners."
"That's because they haven't enough of it; they haven't much grace intheir hearts, as a rule, haven't men, even the best of them; and thebest of them don't often come my way. But as for Miss Elisabeth, sheisn't a regular Farringdon, as you may say--not the real daughter of theworks; and so she shouldn't take too much upon herself, expecting dukesand ironmasters and the like to come begging to her on their bendedknees. She is only Miss Farringdon's adopted daughter, at best; and Idon't hold with adopted children, I don't; I think it is better and morenatural to be born of your own parents, like most folk are."
"So do I," agreed Mrs. Bateson; "I'd never have adopted a child myself.I should always have been expecting to see its parents' faults comingout in it--so different from the peace you have with your own flesh andblood."
Mrs. Hankey groaned. "Your own flesh and blood may take after theirfather; you never can tell."
"So they may, Mrs. Hankey--so they may; but, as the Scripture says, itis our duty to whip the old man out of them."
"Just so. And that's another thing against adopted children--you'dhesitate about punishing them enough; I don't fancy as you'd ever feelthe same pleasure in whipping 'em as you do in whipping your own. You'dfeel you ought to be polite-like, as if they was sort of visitors."
"My children always took after my side of the house, I'm thankful tosay," said Mrs. Bateson; "so I hadn't much trouble with them."
"I wish I could say as much; I do, indeed. But the Lord saw fit to tryme by making my son Peter the very moral of his father; as like as twopeas they are. And when you find one poor woman with such a doubleportion, you are tempted to doubt the workings of Providence."
Mrs. Bateson looked sympathetic. "That's bad for you, Mrs. Hankey!"
"It is so; but I take up my cross and don't complain. You know what afeeble creature Hankey is--never doing the right thing; and, when hedoes, doing it at the wrong time; well, Peter is just such another. Onlythe other day he was travelling by rail, and what must he do but get anattack of the toothache? Those helpless sort of folks are always havingthe toothache, if you notice."
"So they are."
"Peter's toothache was so bad that he must needs take a dose of somesleeping-stuff or other--I forget the name--and fell so sound asleepthat he never woke at the station, but was put away with the carriageinto a siding. Fast asleep he was, with his handkerchief over his fac
eto keep the sun off, and never heard the train shunted, nor nothing."
"Well, to be sure! Them sleeping-draughts are wonderful soothing, asI've heard tell, but I never took one on 'em. The Lord giveth Hisbeloved sleep, and His givings are enough for them as are in health; butthem as are in pain want something a bit stronger, doubtless."
"So it appears," agreed Mrs. Hankey. "Well, there lay Peter fast asleepin the siding, with his handkerchief over his face. And one of theporters happens to come by, and sees him, and jumps to the conclusionthat there's been a murder in the train, and that our Peter is thecorpse. So off he goes to the station-master and tells him as there's amurdered body in one of the carriages in the siding; and thestation-master's as put out as never was."
Mrs. Bateson's eyes and mouth opened wide in amazement and interest."What a tale, to be sure!"
"And then," added Peter's mother, growing more dramatic as the storyproceeded, "the station-master sends for the police, and the policesends for the crowner, so as everything shall be decent and in order;and they walks in a solemn procession--with two porters carrying ashutter--to the carriage where Peter lies, all as grand and nice as ifit was a funeral."
"I never heard tell of such a thing in my life--never!"
"Then the station-master opens the door with one of them state keyswhich always take such a long time to open a door which you could openwith your own hands in a trice--you know 'em by sight."
Mrs. Bateson nodded. Of course she knew them by sight; who does not?
"And then the crowner steps forward to take the handkerchief off theface of the body, it being the perquisite of a crowner so to do," Mrs.Hankey continued, with the maternal regret of a mother whose son hasbeen within an inch of fame, and missed it; "and just picture toyourself the vexation of them all, when it was no murdered corpse theyfound, but only our Peter with an attack of the toothache!"
"Well, I never! They must have been put about; as you would have beenyourself, Mrs. Hankey, if you'd found so little after expecting somuch."
"In course I should; it wasn't in flesh and blood not to be, andstation-master and crowner are but mortal, like the rest of us. I assureyou, when I first heard the story, I pitied them from the bottom of myheart."
"And what became of Peter in the midst of it all, Mrs. Hankey?"
"Oh! it woke him up with a vengeance; and, of course, it flustered him agood deal, when he rightly saw how matters stood, to have to make hisexcuses to all them grand gentlemen for not being a murdered corpse. Butas I says to him afterward, he'd no one but himself to blame; first forbeing so troublesome as to have the toothache, and then for being sopresumptuous as to try and cure it. And his father is just the same; ifyou take your eye off him for a minute he is bound to be in somemischief or another."
"There's no denying that husbands is troublesome, Mrs. Hankey, and sonsis worse; but all the same I stand up for 'em both, and I wish MissElisabeth had got one of the one and half a dozen of the other. Mark mywords, she'll never do better, taking him all round, than MasterChristopher."
Mrs. Hankey sighed. "I only hope she'll find it out before it is toolate, and he is either laid in an early grave or else married to ahandsomer woman, as the case may be, and both ways out of her reach. ButI doubt it. She was a dark baby, if you remember, was Miss Elisabeth;and I never trust them as has been dark babies, and never shall."
"And how is Peter's toothache now?" inquired Mrs. Bateson, who was amore tender-hearted matron than Peter's mother.
"Oh! it's no better; and I know no one more aggravating than folks whokeep sayin' they are no better when you ask 'em how they are. It alwaysseems so ungrateful. Only this morning I asked our Peter how his toothwas, and he says, 'No better, mother; it was so bad in the night that Ifairly wished I was dead.' 'Don't go wishing that,' says I; 'for if youwas dead you'd have far worse pain, and it 'ud last for ever and ever.'I really spoke quite sharp to him, I was that sick of his grumbling; butit didn't seem to do him no good."
"Speaking sharp seldom does do much good," Mrs. Bateson remarkedsapiently, "except to them as speaks."
The Farringdons Page 4