The New Mistress: A Tale. George Manville Fenn
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.