CHAPTER XVI.

_ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS._

I DID not expect an answer to my letter for six weeks at the very least; but when eight, ten, twelve, passed, and nothing came, I began to feel very home-sick and uneasy, and Mrs. Angelica said it worried her to have the child always looking out for the postman and asking, "Is there no letter for me?"

"And really, Olivia, when we have done so much for you, and my brother is so liberal, and all, I think you might be contented and grateful, and not want to go back to that dreadful America, where there are bears and wolves, and where all the people are rebels."

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" Mrs. Deborah would say. "It is only natural the child should wish to hear from her parents."

"Oh, I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; but, after all, my brother 'has' been very liberal, and there 'are' bears in America, for Olivia's brother killed one—she told us so herself if you remember; and really, I do think she might be contented."

Mr. Wyndham came down and spent the Christmas holidays with us, bringing all sorts of beautiful presents for his sisters and myself; and forgetting nobody, from Mrs. Austin down to the old man who drove up the cows. Mrs. Austin provided a plum-pudding and a piece of beef for every one of the cottagers, and the duke sent down a sum of money to be divided among them, and new cloaks and gowns to all the old women. It was very kind in him to remember them all, and they were very grateful, but I could not help thinking that it would have been kinder if he had come down himself to look after things and build some decent places for the cottagers to live in. As it was, in several of the cottages a family of a dozen, great and small, would be crowded into two rooms, neither of them fit for a human being to sleep in. But when I hinted as much, Mrs. Austin was dreadfully scandalized, and told me I must never say such things, for it was just such notions which made the French rise and murder so many people. After that I kept my ideas to myself, but, like the parrot in the story, I thought the more.

The church was trimmed with evergreens, ivy, and holly, and looked beautifully, but it was dreadfully cold and damp even in our pew, which had a fire-place all to itself; and I used to pity the old cottagers and the men and women from the alms-houses, who had to sit on the hard benches with their poor rheumatic feet on the stone floor, which was always damp. Nobody had fires in churches then, but ours at home, cold as they were, were not so utterly uncomfortable as this very picturesque and ancient little building, where the air was all the time tainted with exhalations from the vaults below. These vaults were the burial-place of the ducal family and another noble family in the neighbourhood.

We had a Christmas service and sermon, and all the family from the rectory came to dinner, except Miss Talbot. She had been summoned home in haste to see her mother, who was very ill, and, to my great regret, I heard that the poor lady was dead and Miss Talbot was not coming back. I was very sorry for her as I thought how sad she must be, and I felt that for aught I knew my own dear mother might be dead also, so that I could not help crying.

Mrs. Deborah saw the traces of my tears, and called me to herself as she lay on the sofa.

"I see what you are thinking about, child, and it is only natural." (This was Mrs. Deborah's standing excuse for every one.) "I don't blame you for thinking of home and friends, but, Olivia, try to put yourself out of your mind for to-day. You have guests to entertain, and you owe it to them and to yourself not to over-cloud and spoil their holiday by selfishly giving way to your own feelings. I know your mamma would say the same, for from what you have told me, and from what I have seen of your bringing-up, I am sure she must be an excellent, sensible lady."

Mrs. Deborah had touched the right string, as, indeed, she usually did. I was grateful for her praise of my mother, and for her reference to her as a "lady," for Mrs. Deborah did not use that word promiscuously. With her it meant a great deal. So I went and bathed away all traces of my tears, and devoted myself, as Mrs. Deborah had advised, to the entertainment of my guests.

We all sat around the fire in the twilight before dinner, telling Christmas stories, and I contributed my share, with some tales of Indians and wolves which I had heard from my father and Rose. We had a grand dinner, at which I first saw a plum-pudding served in burning brandy, and famous games of blind-man's buff; hunt the slipper, and snap-dragon in the evening. This last is altogether an English game, I believe, and peculiar to Christmas. It is played by filling a large platter with raisins and pouring brandy over them. The brandy is then set on fire, and the players try to snatch the raisins from the flames, and most commonly end by burning both their fingers and their mouths; but nobody minds that.

Christmas trees had not yet been heard of out of Germany, but we children exchanged presents among ourselves,—thanks to Mr. Wyndham, I had plenty of pocket-money,—and when I went to bed after our friends left us, I was rather surprised to find that I had enjoyed the evening, after all. I am quite sure Mrs. Deborah was right in saying that the indulgence of grief is often as selfish as any other self-indulgence.

The next day Doctor Selden came over to dinner, and, to my great joy, he said I might resume my lessons in moderation. It turned out, however, that the Fullers were going to Plymouth to school, and after some consideration it was decided that I should go too. We were all to come home on Saturday and return to school Monday morning, and Mrs. Deborah was to take me out at once if I found my headaches returning.

The school was a fashionable one in the neighbourhood, and was called a very good one. It was kept by Mrs. Williams, a widow, in a handsome old house in one of the most retired and aristocratic streets of Plymouth. I cannot say that I think it was a good school. Mrs. Williams was a kind, well-meaning woman, but, she was a perfect Queen Log. She sat all day, nicely dressed, in the parlour, receiving calls and writing letters, and hardly ever came into the school-room at all. The real authority in the school rested with the French and English teachers, who were at swords' points, and who had their separate parties among the girls. If Miss Nicholas favoured a girl, Madame de Marin was sure to spite her, and no favourite with madame could have a good word with Miss Nicholas. Between the two authorities, there were naturally a good many places where an idle or mischievous girl could slip through restraint, and among the fourteen boarders there were several of each kind.

I had never learned French, but it was decided that I should make a beginning. I must say that it was no wonder I should side with madame, for she was very kind to me, and an excellent teacher of her own language. Moreover, she had a great admiration for America and Washington and the marquis La Fayette, whereas Miss Nicholas had offended me by sneering at "the Yankees" before I had been in her company twelve hours.

Madame was really a good soul in her way, but her party in the school was a very small one. When she found that I really enjoyed my French lessons and made great efforts to please her, she was very kind to me and bestowed much pains on me in return, so that I made famous progress. Mrs. Williams was always gracious when I came in her way, which was not often, but Miss Nicholas seemed to take a dislike to me from the first. She had made up her mind beforehand that I was a dunce, and I don't think she liked me any better for being, as I certainly was, though I say it myself one of the best scholars in school. The girls sometimes petted me and sometimes snubbed me, the snubbing rather predominating, but there was one of the older girls who for a while always took my part. Her name was Isabella Peckham, and she was the daughter of a baronet of very old family, and therefore a person of great consideration in the school. Isabella was a terrible dunce at her lessons, especially at her arithmetic. It seemed as if she could not understand the simplest rules, but, indeed, I don't think it was all her fault, for our writing-master, who also taught arithmetic, was anything but clear in his explanations even when he condescended to give any.

One day I found Isabella actually crying over a sum in compound division. (American children, by the way, don't know how much they have to be thankful for in being born to a decimal currency.)

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"It is this horrid sum," said she. (We did sums in those days, and not "examples.") "It comes out different every time, no matter how I try it."

"You don't do it right," said I. "Let me see it. I don't believe you understand the rule."

"Of course I don't; there's just the trouble. I can't make head or tail of anything that horrid old Mr. Emmons says."

"Well, he isn't very clear," I agreed; "but I guess I can explain it." And so I did; and when the answer at last came out right, Isabella was so grateful that she actually forgot to laugh at me for saying "guess."

"Well, now you understand the rule, you can go on and do the rest," said I when we had proved the sum.

"Oh dear! Olivia, if you will only do them for me this time! Just think! I cannot touch another thing or go out or anything till these are finished. Please, Olivia, do them for me this time."

I refused at first, saying that it would not be right, but Isabella coaxed and cried, and at last I consented. I did the sums, and Isabella copied them into her book and went away rejoicing. It was more than I