placehalf-an-inch, and in another three inches thick; and I always had thethick mass upon my plate. Then, too, they used to be made of nasty,viciously acid apples, with horrible cores that never used to be halfcut out, and would get upon your palate and then would not come offagain. Oh, dear! would I not rather have been a hermit on bread andwater and sweet herbs than have lived upon Mrs Blunt's greasy mutton--always half done--and pasty wasters!
The living was quite enough to upset you, without anything else, and itused to make me quite angry, for one always knew what was for dinner,and it was always the same every week. It would have been very good ifit had been nicely cooked, no doubt, but then it was not; and I believeby having things nasty there used to be quite a saving in theexpenditure. "Unlimited," Mrs Blunt told mamma the supplies were forthe young ladies; but only let one of the juniors do what poor littleOliver Twist did--ask for more--and just see what a look the residentteacher at the head of the table would give her. It was a great chanceif she would ask again. But there, I must tell you about our living.Coffee for breakfast that always tasted like Patty Smith's Spanishliquorice wine that she used to keep in a bottle in her pocket--a nastytoad! Thick bread-and-butter--all crumby and dab, as if the servantwould not take the trouble to spread the butter properly. For tea therewas what papa used to tease mamma by calling "a mild infusion," thoughthere was no comparison between our tea and Allsham tea, for mammaalways bought hers at the Stores, and Allsham tea was from Miss Hicks'sfather's; and when we turned up our noses at it, and found fault, shesaid it was her pa's strong family Congou, only there was so little putin the pot; while if they used not to sweeten the horrible pinky-lookingstuff with a treacley-brown sugar; and as for the milk--we do hear ofcows kicking over the milking pail, and I'm sure if the bluey-lookingstuff poured into our tea had been shown to any decent cow, and she hadbeen told that it was milk, she would have kicked it over in an instant.
And, oh! those dinners at the Cedars! On Sundays we had beef--coldbeef--boiled one week, roast the next. On Mondays we had a preparationof brown slime with lumps of beef in it, and a spiky vandyke of toastround the dish, which was called "hash," with an afterpiece of "moshposh" pudding--Clara christened it so--and that was plain boiled rice,with a white paste to pour over it out of a butter boat, while the riceitself always tasted of soapsuds. Tuesday was roast shoulder of muttonday. Wednesday, stewed steak--such dreadful stuff!--which appeared intwo phases, one hard and leathery, the other rag and tattery. Thursday,cold roast beef always--when they might just as well have let us have ithot--and pasty wasters, made of those horrible apples, which seemed tolast all the year round, except midsummer vacation time, when the stockwould be exhausted; but by the time the holidays were over, the new onescame in off the trees--the new crops--and, of course, more sour, andvicious, and bitter than ever. We used to call them vinegar pippins;and I declare if that Patty Smith would not beg them of the cook, andlie in bed and crunch them, while my teeth would be quite set on edgewith only listening to her.
Heigho! I declare if it isn't almost as hard work to get through thisdescription of the eatables and drinkables at the Cedars as it was inreality. Let me see, where was I? Oh, at Thursday! Then on Fridays itwas shoulder of mutton again, with the gravy full of sixpences; and, asfor fat--oh! they used to be so horribly fat, that I'm sure the poorsheep must have lived in a state of bilious headache all their lives,until the butcher mercifully killed them; while--only fancy, at afinishing establishment!--if that odious Patty Smith did not give Claraand me the horrors one night by an account of how her father's man--Imust do her the credit of saying that she had no stuck-up pride in her,and never spoke of her "esteemed parent" as anything but father; foronly fancy a "papa," with a greasy red face, cutting steaks, or choppingat a great wooden block, and crying "What-d'yer-buy--buy--buy?" Let'ssee--oh! of how her father's man killed the sheep; and I declare it wasquite dreadful; and I said spitefully to Clara afterwards that I shouldwrite by the next post and tell mamma how nicely my finishing educationwas progressing, for I knew already how they killed sheep. Well, thereis only one more day's fare to describe--Saturday's, and that is soondone, for it was precisely the same as we had on the Wednesday, only theformer used mostly to be the tattery days and the latter the hard ones.
Now, of course, I am aware that I am writing this is a very desultorymanner; but after Mrs Blunt's rules and regulations, what can youexpect? I am writing to ease my mind, and therefore I must write justas I think; and as this is entirely my own, I intend so to do, and thosemay find fault who like. I did mean to go through the differentadventures and impressions of every day; but I have given up that idea,because the days have managed to run one into the other, and gotthemselves confused into a light and shady sad-coloured web, like MissFurness's scrimpy silk dress that she wore on Sundays--a dreadfulantique thing, like rhubarb shot with magnesia; for the nasty old pussalways seemed to buy her things to give her the aspect of having beenwashed out, though with her dreadfully sharp features andcheesey-looking hair--which she called auburn--I believe it would havebeen impossible to make her look nice.
Whenever there was a lecture, or a missionary meeting, or any publicaffair that Mrs Blunt thought suitable, we used all to be marched off,two and two; while the teachers used to sit behind us and Mrs Bluntbefore, when she would always begin conversing in a strident voice, thatevery one could hear in the room, before the business of the eveningbegan--talking upon some French or German author, a translation of whoseworks she had read, quite aloud, for every one to hear--and hers was oneof those voices that will penetrate--when people would, of course, takenotice, and attention be drawn to the school. Of course there were somewho could see through the artificial old thing; but for the most partthey were ready to believe in her, and think her clever.
Then the Misses Bellperret's young ladies would be there too, if it wasa lecture, ranged on the other side of the Town Hall. Theirs was thedissenting school--one which Mrs Blunt would not condescend to mention.It used to be such fun when the lecture was over, and we had waited forthe principal part of the people to leave, so that the school could goout in a compact body. Mrs Blunt used to want us to go first, and theMisses Bellperret used to want their young ladies to go first. Neitherwould give way; so we were mixed up altogether, greatly to Mrs Blunt'sdisgust and our delight in both schools; for really, you know, I thinkit comes natural for young ladies to like to see their teachers put outof temper.
But always after one of these entertainments, as Mrs Blunt calledthem--when, as a rule, the only entertainment was the fun afterwards--there used to be a lecture in Mrs B.'s study for some one who wascharged with unladylike behaviour in turning her head to look on theother side, or at the young gentlemen of the grammar-school--fancy, youknow, thin boys in jackets, and with big feet and hands, and a bit offluff under their noses--big boys with squeaky, gruff, half-brokenvoices, who were caned and looked sheepish; and, I declare, at lastthere would be so many of these lectures for looking about, that it usedto make the young ladies worse, putting things into their heads thatthey would never have thought of before. Not that I mean to say thatwas the case with me, for I must confess to having been dreadfullywicked out of real spite and annoyance.
CHAPTER FOUR.
MEMORY THE FOURTH--A TERRIBLE SURPRISE.
I don't know what I should have done if it had not fallen to my lot tomeet with a girl like Clara Fitzacre, who displayed quite a friendlyfeeling towards me, making me her confidante to such an extent that Isoon found out that she was most desperately--there, I cannot say what,but that a sympathy existed between her and the Italian master, SignorPazzoletto.
"Such a divinely handsome man, dear," said Clara one night, as we laytalking in bed, with the moon streaming her rays like a silver cascadethrough the window; while Patty Smith played an accompaniment upon herdreadful pug-nose. And then, of course, I wanted to hear all; but Ifancy Clara thought Patty was only pretending to be asleep, for she saidno more that night, but the next day during
lessons she asked me to walkwith her in the garden directly they were over, and of course I did,when she began again,--
"Such a divinely handsome man, dear! Dark complexion and aquilinefeatures. He is a count by rights, only he has exiled himself fromItaly on account of internal troubles."
I did not believe it a bit, for I thought it more likely that he wassome poor foreigner whom Mrs Blunt had managed to engage cheaply; sowhen Clara spoke of internal troubles, I said, spitefully,--"Ah, that'swhat mamma talks about when she has the spasms and wants papa to get herthe brandy. Was the Signor a smuggler, and had the troubles anything todo with brandy?"
"Oh, no, dear," said Clara, innocently, "it was something aboutpolitics; but you should hear him sing `_Il balen_' and `_Ah, che
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