CHAPTER VIII.
THE YOUNG TEACHER.
Although Allan Lindsay had been fully aware of his own ignorance, he had little or no idea of the extent and ramifications of the knowledge which he desired so much to acquire; and if he had been left at sea with the books alone which poor Gerald Staunton had brought from England, and for which he put up shelves lovingly as if they had been living things, he might in his ambition to learn everything have missed his aim, and at all events have learned nothing thoroughly or methodically. But young and inexperienced as his little teacher was, she gave good advice and good assistance to her friend Allan, whose remarkable powers surprised Amy as much as his remarkable ignorance. It was not at first she perceived his genius, for it was not a brilliant one; it was not quick or ready like her father's; his verbal memory was deficient, and that in the outset of education is the first quality that strikes a teacher; but as Allan began to feel his way and get holding ground, when he had once seen why a rule was given, or a principle laid down, his clear logical mind led him further in its application than his teacher could follow him. There was of come for a long time, along with this comprehensive view of the bearings of a subject, great ignorance of its devils, but Amy felt that her education had not stopped abruptly as she had feared, for this constant reference to her opinion and authority of a mind older and more powerful than her own, carried her back to old lessons which she might have forgotten, and at the same time forward in a direction into which few school girls are ever led, and towards subjects to which her father might not have called her attention. Jessie Lindsay, too, was desirous of learning something, but a little would satisfy her; she knew she was too old to be made a scholar of, and besides she had not time to give to books.
It was a first only an hour or two in the evening, after the day's work was over, that Allan could devote to make up for lost time, and he was so necessary to his father that if he did try to snatch a little leisure during the day, the old man would call for him and make him leave off. The more he sounded the depths of his ignorance and the greater the heights which Allan had a glimpse of far above him, the sadder were his regrets at the lost years, and the poor scraps and edges of his days that he could now give. At first his progress was slow, and he felt depressed rather than exhilarated.
"Dear me! Allan, my man," said his mother to him one day, "I thought all this work wi' books was to make ye as happy as a king, but for a' the lot that ye've got, and a' the pains and patience Amy takes wi' ye, here seems to be mair gloom on your brow than I e'er saw wi' the hardest day's work ye ever did. It's no behaving weel to Amy, poor thing, that's doing the best she can for you, to be so dissatisfied. If the Almighty has na given you the capacity for books that he has for other things, it behoves you to be satisfied with your gifts, an no to try to gar water run up hill."
"But I can't be satisfied, mother," said Allan; "not till I try harder, at any rate. I ought to understand this."
"'Deed, Allan, I think ye are just trying to learn owre muckle, and what gangs in at ae lug just gangs out at the other. It was all very weel for Mr. Staunton, poor man, that had his bread to get by it, and poor bread I doubt it was, to learn this, that, and the other, but for you who'll have a bonnie bit of property, and ken weel how to make the best o't, I see no occasion for ye to fash your thumb with by-ordinar learning. If ye can read your Bible and the papers, and have a good hand o' write, and can cast accounts so as to keep you from either cheating or being cheated, it is just as much as can be expected o' you wi' your opportunities."
"But, Mrs. Lindsay," said Amy, who entered the room at the moment, "why should Allan be inferior in these things to his brothers who are now at school?"
"He'll never be inferior," said the mother. "No, Allan has the best headpiece of the lot of them, and is no to be left behind the hand; but I was just saying, that it does not need much book learning to farm the land and mind the stock and sheep, and there's a hantle things that were very befitting to a gentleman and real scholar like your father, that it would be mair fash than profit for Allan to learn, wi' his father needing him at every turn for his help and his counsel."
"But, mother, will not my help and my counsel be of more worth to my father the more I know?" said Allan.
"No doubt, no doubt," said the mother, but she said it doubtfully, "that would depend on whatna' kind of things they are, but there seems to me to be some things that further a man, and some things that hinder a man, and whether Jessie's in the right o' the matter or no, she looks blither and mair contented than you."
"Well, mother, I am no discontented either, but I cannot be quite contented to have the headpiece wihout he furniture inside, and I fancy that all sorts of knowledge would further me."
"May be you're right, Allan, but I would not have you educated above your station."
"But what is my station, and what may not my station be ten years hence, that you fear my knowing too much?" said Allan.
"That's very true, Allan, there's no saying what you may attain to. But all I was saying is, that you're no such good company in the evenings as you used to be, and your father was saying ye were no' sae helpful to him, which is a pity, and I thought that if ye aimed at less ye micht prosper better."
"I thought your proverb was 'If ye mint [aim] at a gown o' gowd ye'll aye ge a sleeve o't,'" said Allan rather sadly, and he conversation dropped.
Although the old people were exceedingly anxious in theory that Allan should have a chance of making up his lee-way, he had been so long the most useful person at home, and his services in various ways were so indispensable, that practically he was hindered by them, and it was from trying to do too much in too little time that the disappointment arose. Amy felt sure that if her father had been the teacher, he could have succeeded better; and probably he would, for he would have had more authority with he parents, and would have perceived the difficulty. There was one in the household, however, who perceived it, and who endeavoured to remedy it to the best of his powers. This was George Copeland, who had not been much longer at Branxholm than Amy, but who was a man of a superior order to any about the place. At first he had been rather careless and indifferent as to whether he pleased Hugh Lindsay or not, but he was naturally good-natured and good-tempered, and had a pleasant manner. But after the arrival of little Amy Staunton, and the kindness shown to her by the family, George seemed, as Hugh Lindsay said, to take hold of his place, and to work with more than eye-service. He was clever too, and handy, and in a roving life of ten years over the colonies, the intelligent young Englishman had learned things which neither the versatile Pa nor the solid Donald were ever likely to learn in all their lives; and instead of sending him out with sheep or cattle, as had been the first intention, he was kept as the man on the farm, and was always within call. So that George got into the habit of helping the old man, and now, when he saw Allan so eager and yet so desponding, he often came when Allan had been wanted, and quietly offered his services. In casual talk, and not as if he was offering advice, he contrived to impress the master with the idea that he must give Allan his head, and neither fret nor curb him. The object for which Allan was working now was a good one, and he had sense enough to be trusted to view it in his own way.
Allan was grateful to George Copeland for his timely and judicious aid, and when light began to shine out of darkness, when he too began to take hold of the work now before him, and he felt the thread that would lead him through the labyrinth of words and phrases to the fects, and the ideas, and the principles beyond, his face grew cheerful and he was as social and pleasant as before.
It was at the time of the midwinter holidays; the girls and the boys at school had petitioned to spend them at home, for it was miserable being at school from Christmas to Christmas, and they were all eager to see the girl whom their father and mother had taken home; so they were allowed to come home, in spite of the bad roads and he broken weather. There was more to come than the young people, for he girls had persuaded their father to get a piano to set in the best parlour, and to commission their music teacher to choose it, because hey had gone so far back in their music last holiday that it had taken them all the first quarter to make it up; and besides, as Amy was fond of music, Allan had urged the purchase on her account. He was anxious to make her new life as pleasant for her as he could, and owed her something for her patience with him.
When Isabel and Phemie, fresh from boarding-school, questioned Amy as to what she had learned and what she could do, they were astonished to find that she was, as they said, "further on," than any girl at the school, and indeed might be further on than Miss Effingham herself. They looked at her books with wonder and awe, and listened to her performances on the new piano with delight. And as the time drew nearer for their return to school, a bright thought struck Isabel, that since Amy was so clever, why should they go to Adelaide at all? Could she not teach them at home? And they plied their mother to make their father agree to this delightful arrangement, which would leave them at liberty to ride about the country and enjoy all the pleasures of home while they were learning.
"Nae doot," said Mrs. Lindsay, "she's got the skill and the wit, and as for the piano, the way she makes the lifeless thing speak is just astonishing; but I misdoot ye'll no mind a wee body like her that Isabel could mak' twa o,' after the first novelty o' the thing is worn off."
"But Allan is bigger than we are, and he minds what she says, mother," said Isabel.
"Oh! but ye hae na Allan's sense or discretion," said Mrs. Lindsay, "and there's none of ye sae keen for learning as he is, an' it would be hard on Amy, poor lassie, to gie her sic a pair o' gilpies to manage."
"Oh! but we've asked her, and she said she would like it, and I am sure it costs father a lot of money to keep us at the school."
"That's true, but we didna tak' Amy to Branxholm to mak' a profit of her. Na, that might befit the like of Mrs. Hammond, but it's no our fashion."
"But we don't like the school, mother," said Phemie.
"I'm thinking that's the plain English of it," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I'm sure there's no need for us being kept so strict and never allowed to go out anywhere but for a walk with the governess, and then we know nobody in the town but uncle Robert and our cousins, and Miss Effingham won't allow us to go there half as often as we like, because she says we come home with more vulgar ways than before we went."
"Vulgar indeed!" said Mrs. Lindsay. "It doesna do to try to make gentlefolks of the like of you, if you're to be taught to look down on them as ought you. He's no more vulgar than your father, and that Miss Effingham kent richt weel when she took the both of you."
"Oh! but Uncle Robert lives in Adelaide, and you live out in the country ever so far, and that makes a difference. Oh! yes, we are bush girls, and of course we are set among the little ones in the classes, and we are sneered at if we speak about our father and mother, for it's papa and mamma with all the others. Oh, mother!" continued Isabel with a sigh, "it is hard work trying to be a lady. You're no to do this, and you're no to say that, and you're no to sit in this fashion, and no to walk that gait. Phemie and me have a constant 'Don't do that, Miss Lindsay,' 'Don't express yourself thus, Miss Euphemia,' and so on from morning to night."
"And what the better will we be of it all?" remonstrated Phemie, "not a bit. I'd like to speak better nor I do, and to know the meaning of words and how to spell them, and to have some notion about places, and to play on the piano; but as for the airs, and graces, and carriage that Miss Effingham is always dinning into our ears, I see no good in them."
"Airs and graces for you to ride in a carriage in!" exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay. "Indeed its sma' thanks Miss Effingham will get from me if that is what she airts at. I'll speak to your father about it this very day, and if he thinks weel o' your notion, and Amy is willing to try, we might have you learnt something without the airs and graces. But I'll see what Allan says first, before I break it to the good man," said Mrs. Lindsay, with her instinctive respect for the judgment of her eldest son, who, besides, was most likely to know Amy's real feelings on the subject.
Allan hesitated; he thought, like his mother, that it was taking advantage of Amy to give her so many pupils. But he now saw his way and hoped to be less troublesome to her, and there was no doubt she could teach them, as well as they had hitherto been taught, and he knew she wished to make the attempt.
Hugh Lindsay was willing to do what his wife and Allan thought feasible, and it was settled that Amy was to be asked to undertake the duties.
"I am so young," said she; "I wonder you can trust me; but as I want to learn to teach so that I may be independent, I am very glad you will try me."
"And it will be a great saving to me if you succeed wi' the lassies," said Hugh Lindsay, "an' a pleasure to them besides. And if ye can give them your skill at the piano or the half o't, its more than we ever expected of the schoolmistress in the town."
"There's mony things that it seems to behove young folk to learn now-a-days, that was never thocht of when their father and me were at the schule. There was the reading and the writing, and a sma' matter o' counting, and the questions we learned;—but what wi' the piano, and the geography, and the grammar, and a wheen things they call roots, that are a sair fash to the brains to learn a' on the top o' the plain branches, I'm thinking ye'll have your hands full, Amy, my woman. They're no to call downright stupid, but they are no sae quick in the uptake as Allan," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I should really like to try," said Amy. "I will be a beginning for that work my poor father thought I might in time be able to do."
"And if they're fashious and dinna mind ye, you maun jus call in Allan, for they'll aye mind him," said Mrs. Lindsay. "And as for what ye say about learning to teach and being independent, you're not to think that when we took you, we didna tak' you for good an a'. As I said to Mrs. Hammond, the pot that boils for eight may weel boil for nine, and if it boils owre, as our pot does, for as the Psalmist says, our cup of prosperity overflows, it will be for your behoof as weel as for Jessie's, and Isabel's, and Phemie's. Ye shall have your dwelling with us and your providing just as if you were ane of our ain, when ye see fit to leave us for a house of your ain, but let there be nae seeking o' service among fremmet folk. When your aunt—Mrs. Evans do they call her?—wrote that she was glad you had met wi' sick kindness in a foreign country, and never made the offer to tak' you hame, the goodman and me felt that you were given up fairly to us, and we will deal fairly by you. So if you find the lassies owre troublesome a'thegither, just say so, an' ye'll no be burdened wi' them ony longer, and they'll go back to the schule."
This threat had its effect; the girls knew their mother would act on it, and they worked very fairly under their young teacher.
It was easier, however, for Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay to do large and generous things than to change family arrangements or old habits out of consideration for their young guest. It was many months before Allan could prevail on them to have their meals in the second parlour, which was certainly the proper dining-room, but which was made the sitting-parlour in order that the best room might be always kept in order. He suggested that Amy had not been used to associate with such people as themselves, and still less with such as their servants, and the girls from town seconded his request that there should be a separation; but as Mrs. Lindsay and Jessie said, they did not take any of the trouble, and it was a convenience to have all the confusion of the meals in the kitchen—Jessie in particular objected to any innovation; she felt like the ladies of old Saxon time, and liked to be the dispenser of food to the establishment; and though her father did not make so much objection to the change, she was sure that he would miss the opportunity of talking over what had been done and planning what was to be done next, with both Allan and George.
It was on one occasion when Amy had observed George's thoughtfulness and consideration for Allan that he asked her if she would mind including Copeland with the family, for certainly he was superior in every way to the other servants and chance travellers, and it might remove some of the difficulties. Amy liked George and agreed to that modification of the plan, so Allan brought forward his proposal again with this difference, and found that there was no objection raised by any one. George took his place naturally where he could be most useful, and in little things he was more attentive than Allan, and had more of the forms of politeness.
The Hammonds heard a good deal from various sources about the guest they had rejected. Their friend, Mr. Lufton, who lived about thirty miles beyond Aralewin, used sometimes call at the Lindsays', and was enthusiastic about the prettiness and the cleverness of the young stranger. Mr. Troubridge, whose wife was a great reader, and who, knowing something of the name and reputation of Gerald Staunton, was very sorry indeed that she had not had the chance of befriending his orphan, used to prose in Mrs. Hammond's own drawing-room about the mistake she had made, and wonder why she did not try to retrieve it by going to the girl and offering her home now, for no doubt she would be very glad to escape from those rough, unpolished people, to a more refined society. What was worse, Mrs. Hammond's own boys, who had always liked to go to Branxholm when they had a chance, were still fonder of going now, and her eldest, Louis, was constantly regretting the untimely death of Mr. Staunton, the more especially as Amy was such a dear little creature, and it would have been so delightful to have had her at home.
Mrs. Hammond knew that Amy had written to her father's sister, and she buoyed herself up with the conviction that Mrs. Evans must send for her, and then there would be an end of all this; so as soon as there was the needful time allowed for the receipt of an answer, she reminded Mr. Hammond that it was probable the child would be written for, and he very willingly rode across to enquire. He, too, was desirous that Amy should be removed from the immediate neighbourhood, and felt convinced by his wife's strong impression, that, whatever Amy's mother might have been, her father's sister, whom he knew to be the wife of an English rector in the country, would see it to be her duty to take care of his orphan.
But the letter was as unsatisfactory as possible. Even though the family of Lindsays were pleased to think that Amy was not going away, they were very indignant at the spirit and tone of the letter. After expressing her sorrow at her brother's sudden death, and her cautious hopes that he was prepared for the momentous change, Mrs. Evans glanced at the unfeeling conduct of the family, on whom her brother had some claim, and then praised in the most glowing terms the generous conduct of the Lindsays. She had never in her life heard of such goodness to an absolute stranger; she hoped Amy would be grateful to those who had thus made a home for her and spread a table for her in the wilderness, and would also thank a Higher Power which had inspired such kindness, for without Him there is no good thing done or even thought. Mrs. Evans was also glad to hear that these excellent people were in easy circumstances, and hoped and prayed that their kindness might be returned to them fourfold; she trusted that Amy would accommodate herself to her new circumstances, and not give way to selfish sorrow for those who were beyond her aid or her prayers, but would diligently try to do her duty in this world, and to prepare her heart for he next. She then went into some family details with regard to her husband and her children, mentioned them all by name, and told their ages, as if to show that she felt like an aunt; and to make up for all omissions of interest in Amy's affairs by trying to interest Amy in her own; sent kindest regards to the Lindsays, and especially to that dear Mrs. Lindsay, who had been so like a mother to her orphan niece, and ended her letter with a sort of prayer.
Amy had hoped for something from her aunt, after she had written to her. She recollected that her father was Mrs. Evans's only brother, and that it was with her mother that there was the quarrel, if any; that she had seemed grieved at parting from her father, and had cried a good deal; but this letter, so cold and pharisaical, was a disappointment to her. Allan, who had brought it, had looked earnestly at her while she read. He feared some evil, and held his breath.
"Read it, Allan," said she, when she had come to the end of it, "and give your mother Mrs. Evans's message." All that she had lost came up before her. The old wound of the death of the best loved one was ripped up afresh, after months, by this cold letter of condolence; the half-hopes she had formed that she might be taken back to English civilization, to the society of those who were allied to her in blood, and probably also of congenial tastes and manners, were rudely snapped; there was really no life for her but this; she must bend her nature to it, and be very grateful, as Mrs. Evans said.
"Amy," said Allan, indignantly, "if she is such a woman, how thankful you should be that you are here! Don't distress yourself about such empty rubbish, such contemptible hypocritical twaddle as this. Will you let me read it to my mother? She will not appreciate the message unless she understands something of the kind of woman that sends it. You will let me read it to her."
Feelings of kinship were strong with the Lindsays, and there had been a rather uneasy fear in Allan's mind that his little teacher would leave him; for her father's sister—a minister's wife—would be bound to send for her.
When Allan went into the garden (where mother was giving George some directions about the vegetable beds that he was laying out) with Amy's open letter in his hand, she stopped short in a most important sentence, and turned to meet him.
"She's no to gang, I hope," said she, eagerly.
"No, it's good news for us, mother, but' Amy's a little downcast. She says I may read you the letter. It's a good plain hand, and that's the best that can be said of it. Now don't say a word till I come to the end, for there's a message for you," and Allan read it right through.
"Dear Mrs. Lindsay!—that dear Mrs. Lindsay. Well, that beats a' I ever heard in my life. I think Amy, poor thing, has been the means of showing us the hollowness of things we are used to hold in high esteem, for if Mrs. Hammond made me sick of gentility, this is like to make one ashamed of a profession o' religion. No a word o' kindness o the bit desolate orphan; no an offer that if she was na comfortable wi' the like o' us, that she would do a kinswoman's part by her; no a question aboot what sor o' life she led, or if she saw her way to anything better; but exhortations to her to be grateful, and a lang story aboot her ain bairns and her ain goodman. Grateful to us for what? 'Deed it's us that should be grateful, and so I would like to tell baith her and Mrs. Hammond. But ye say that Amy's downcast aboot it. Nae wonder; sic professions and sic self-seeking are nae cheerful subjects to consider. But I'll tell her ha we canna but rejoice that there's nane to take her away, for I'm sure it's nae empty words I mak use o' when I say she is like a bairn o' my ain, and your father is o' the same mind, though he says less aboot it."
Amy had other letters by the mail; one from the proprietor of the Palladium, regretting the untimely death of her father, his good friend Gerald Staunton, praising his talents, and saying that the journal had missed him, and could see no one to supply his place satisfactorily. From him Amy had expected nothing, and the well-turned phrases of regret and sympathy soothed her and comforted her. There was a longer letter from an old friend, an artist, into whose sudio Amy had been often taken by her father—full of surprise, full of grief, full of wishes that he could do anything for her; but he was poor, often in difficulties, and generally imprudent. If the bereavement had happened in England, Amy might have been asked to share his scrambling life, and divide his crust with him, but the distance was an insuperable bar, and he could only express regretful pleasure that others were so much more able than himself help her. She had not written to Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Loder of the Palladium had told him of the sad catastrophe, and though the artist hated writing, he could not help expressing his feelings and his sympathy with his dear friend Staunton's orphan. To the Derricks Amy had made no communication; there was a short postscript to her aunt's letter, which Amy had kept back, saying that perhaps it was as well she had not applied to them, as she had no claim on the old gentleman whatever, and it was likely that her brother and sister did not know of her existence.
Mr. Hammond, therefore, was doomed to disappointment; here had been no offer from England to give Amy a home. She was sill to remain within five miles of them, a thorn in his wife's side, and a mortification to himself. Mrs. Hammond was sorry, and she said so, but yet she did not wish she had acted otherwise. She could not have offered Amy a home when she felt such intense dislike and suspicion of her; when the tones of her voice, the changes of her countenance, the air and manners, all reminded her of one whom she had good reason to dislike and despise. She could not have done her duty by her. Amy Staunton was better situated with the Lindsays, and since her aunt would not take her, let her stay at Branxholm, whatever it might cost Mrs. Hammond, for the time could not be long now that the family would be kept in South Australia. Mr. Hammond was seeing his way now to returning to England himself for some years at least, and, as Mrs. Hammond fondly hoped, for life.
She disliked the colony more now that she had lost prestige in the neighbourhood, and she directed all her influence with her husband towards such arrangements of his affairs as would enable him to leave the colony.