but in the face of great opposition from the old-fashioned party arrayed against the Rev. Eli Mallow and his friends – the party who reiterated the cry that Humphrey Bone was such a clever man, wrote such a copperplate-like hand, when his fingers were not palsied, and measured land so well – it was decided that Humphrey Bone should be called upon to resign at Christmas, and Luke Ross, the son of the Lawford tanner, then training at Saint Chrysostom’s College, London, should take his place.
It was only natural that Sage Portlock, as she advanced to meet Humphrey Bone, should think of the coming days after the holidays, when Mr Ross, whom she had known so well from childhood, should be master of the adjoining school, and that very unpleasant personage now present should cease to trouble her with visits that were becoming more and more distasteful and annoying.
“Mornin’! Ink!” said Mr Bone, shortly. “Ours like mud. How are you?”
“Ink, Mr Bone?” said the young mistress, ignoring the husky inquiry after her health. “Yes; one of the girls shall bring some in.”
This and the young mistress’s manner should have made Mr Humphrey Bone retire, but he stood still in the middle of the room, chuckling softly; and then, to the open-eyed delight of the whole school, drew a goose-quill from his breast, stripped off the plume from one side of the shaft, and, with a very keen knife, proceeded to cut, nick, and shape one of the pens for which he bore a great reputation, holding it out afterwards for the young mistress to see.
“That beats training, eh? Didn’t teach you to make a pen like that at Westminster, did they, eh?”
“No,” said Sage, quietly; “we always used steel pens.”
“Hah – yes?” ejaculated the old schoolmaster, with a laugh of derision. “Steel pens – steel teaching – steel brains – they’ll have steel machine teachers soon, who can draw a goose like that on a black board with a bit of chalk. Faugh!”
He pointed to one of a series of woodcuts mounted on millboard and hung against the whitewashed wall, stumped away three or four yards, and then returned.
“New ways – new theories – new machines! Wear the old ones out and chuck ’em away – eh?”
“I do not understand you, Mr Bone,” said the young mistress, longing for the interview to come to an end; but he went on, speaking angrily, and ignoring her words —
“When old Widow Marley died, I said to Mallow and the rest of ’em, ‘Knock a hole through the brick wall,’ I said; ‘make one school of it; mix ’em all up together, boys and gals. Give me another ten a year, and I’ll teach the lot;’ but they wouldn’t do it. Said they must have a trained mistress; and here you are.”
“Yes, I am here,” said Sage Portlock, rather feebly, for she had nothing else to say.
“Only the other day you were a thin strip of a girl. Deny it if you can!”
“I do not deny it, Mr Bone,” said Sage, determining to be firm, and speaking a little more boldly.
“No,” he continued, in his husky tones, “you can’t deny it. Then you leave Miss Quittenton’s school, and your people send you to town for two years to be trained; and now here you are again.”
Sage Portlock bowed, and looked longingly at the door, hoping for some interruption, but none came.
“And now – ” began the old master.
“Mary Smith, take the large ink-bottle into the boys’ school,” said the young mistress, quickly; and the girl went to the school cupboard, took out the great wicker-covered bottle, and was moving toward the door, when the old master caught her by the shoulder, and held her back.
“Stop!” he said sharply. “Take it myself. Ha! ha!”
Sage started and coloured, for the children were amused.
“Ha, ha! – Ha – ha – ha – ha – ha!”
The old man continued his hoarse cachinnation, ending by wiping his eyes on a washed-out ragged old print cotton handkerchief.
“It makes me laugh,” he said. “Young Ross – him I taught to write – evening lessons up at his father’s house. Young Luke Ross! warmed him up like a viper in my breast to turn and sting me. Ha, ha, ha! Master here!”
“For shame, Mr Bone,” exclaimed the young mistress, indignantly. “Mr Ross never sought for the engagement. It was only after Mr Mallow’s invitation that he accepted the post.”
“Mr Mallow’s invitation, eh? The Rev. Eli Mallow, eh? Better look after his sons. Nice wild sons! Nice old prophet he is. Better look after his boys.”
“And only the other day when he was down, young Mr Ross said that he was doubtful about taking the post, and thought of declining it after all.”
“Told you so, eh? Ha – ha – ha! Not he. Sweet-hearting, eh? Ha – ha – ha! Very well, when he comes, knock a hole through the wall, and make one school of it, eh? Get married. Fine thing for the school. Faugh!” Sage Portlock’s face was now scarlet, and she was about to utter some indignant remonstrance against the old man’s words, when, to her intense relief, he took the ink-bottle roughly from the girl’s hand, and stumped with it to the door.
Before he reached it, however, there was a sharp rap. It was opened, the latch rattling viciously, and a common-looking woman, whose face told its own tale that its owner had been working herself up ready for the task in hand, entered, dragging behind her a freshly-washed girl of eleven or twelve, whose face bore the marks of recent tears.
“Youkem here,” exclaimed the woman, dragging in the unwilling child, and finishing by giving her a rough shake. “Youkem here, and I’ll see as you’re reighted, Miss.”
To Sage Portlock’s great disgust, instead of the old schoolmaster passing through the open door, he carefully closed it behind the woman, set the ink-bottle down upon a form, and, taking out his knife, began to remake the pen, well attent the while to what went on.
“Now, Miss, if you please,” said the woman, “I want to know why my girl was kep’ in yesterday and punished. I told my master last night I’d come on wi’ her this morning, and see her reighted; and, if you please, I want to know what she’s done.”
“I am sorry to say, Mrs Searby – ” began the young mistress.
“Oh, you needn’t be sorry, Miss. Strite up and down’s my motto. I want to know what my ’Lizabeth’s done. There’s no getting her to school nowadays. When Mrs Marley was alive all the gals loved to come to school, but now they hates it, and all the noo-fangled ways.”
As the woman spoke, she darted a glance at the old schoolmaster, who chuckled softly, and shook his head.
“If you will allow me to speak – ” began the young mistress.
“Oh, lor’, yes, Miss, I’ll allow yer to speak. I don’t forget my position. I’m only a humble woman, I am; but I says to my master only last night, the trouble there is to get them gals to school now is orful. When Mrs Marley was alive – ”
“Your daughter, Mrs Searby – ” began the young mistress, again.
“Yes, Miss, my daughter went to Mrs Marley, she did, and there was never no trouble with the gal then. As I said to Mrs Marley, I said, all she
