Part 6 (1/2)

”Ce que j'aime dans la tartine, c'est la simplicite prime-sautiere da sa nature,” answered Miss s.h.i.+elds.

It was one of the charms of the ”matinal meal” (as the author of ”Guy Livingstone” calls breakfast) that the young ladies were all compelled to talk French (and such French!) during this period of refreshment.

”Toutes choses, la cuisine exceptee, sont Francaises, dans cet etabliss.e.m.e.nt peu recreatif,” went on Janey, speaking low and fast.

”Je deteste le Francais,” Margaret answered, ”mais je le prefere infiniment a l'Allemand.”

”Comment accentuez, vous le mot prefere, Marguerite?” asked Miss Marlett, who had heard the word, and who neglected no chance of conveying instruction.

”Oh, two accents--one this way, and the other that,” answered Margaret, caught unawares. She certainly did not reply in the most correct terminology.

”Vous allez perdre dix marks,” remarked the schoolmistress, if incorrectly, perhaps not too severely. But perhaps it is not easy to say, off-hand, what word Miss Marlett ought to have employed for ”marks.”

”Voici les lettres qui arrivent,” whispered Janey to Margaret, as the post-bag was brought in and deposited before Miss Marlett, who opened it with a key and withdrew the contents.

This was a trying moment for the young ladies. Miss Marlett first sorted out all the letters for the girls, which came, indubitably and unmistakably, from fathers and mothers. Then she picked out the other letters, those directed to young ladies whom she thought she could trust, and handed them over in honorable silence. These maidens were regarded with envy by the others. Among them was not Miss Harman, whose letters Miss Marlett always deliberately opened and read before delivering them.

”Il y a une lettre pour moi, et elle va la lire,” said poor Janey to her friend, who, for her part, never received any letters, save a few, at stated intervals, from Maitland. These Miss s.h.i.+elds used to carry about in her pocket without opening them till they were all crumply at the edges. Then she hastily mastered their contents, and made answer in the briefest and most decorous manner.

”Qui est votre correspondent?” Margaret asked. We are not defending her French.

”C'est le pauvre Harry Wyville,” answered Janey. ”Il est sous-lieutenant dans les Berks.h.i.+res a Aldershot Pourquoi ne doit il pas ecrire a moi, il est comme on diroit, mon frere.”

”Est il votre parent?”

”Non, pas du tout, mais je l'ai connu pour des ans. Oh, pour des ans!

Voici, elle a deux depeches telegraphiques,” Janey added, observing two orange colored envelopes which had come in the mail-bag with the letters.

As this moment Miss Marlett finished the fraternal epistle of Lieutenant Wyville, which she folded up with a frown and returned to the envelope.

”Jeanne je veux vous parler a part, apres, dans mon boudoir,” remarked Miss Marlett severely; and Miss Herman, becoming a little blanched, displayed no further appet.i.te for tartines, nor for French conversation.

Indeed, to see another, and a much older lady, read letters written to one by a lieutenant at Aldershot, whom one has known for years, and who is just like one's brother, is a trial to any girl.

Then Miss Marlett betook herself to her own correspondence, which, as Janey had noticed, included _two_ telegraphic despatches in orange-colored envelopes.

That she had not rushed at these, and opened them first, proves the admirable rigidity of her discipline. Any other woman would have done so, but it was Miss Marietta rule to dispose of the pupils'

correspondence before attending to her own. ”Business first, pleasure afterward,” was the motto of this admirable woman.

Breakfast ended, as the girls were leaving the room for the tasks of the day, Miss Marlett beckoned Margaret aside.

”Come to me, dear, in the boudoir, after Janey Harman,” said the schoolmistress in English, and in a tone to which Margaret was so unaccustomed that she felt painfully uneasy and anxious--unwonted moods for this careless maiden.

”Janey, something must have happened,” she whispered to her friend, who was hardening her own heart for the dreadful interview.

”Something's _going_ to happen, I'm sure,” said poor Janey, apprehensively, and then she entered the august presence, alone.

Margaret remained at the further end of the pa.s.sage, leading to what Miss Marlett, when she spoke French, called her ”boudoir.” The girl felt colder than even the weather warranted. She looked alternately at Miss Marietta door and out of the window, across the dead blank flats to the low white hills far away. Just under the window one of the little girls was standing, throwing crumbs, remains of the tartines, to robins and sparrows, which chattered and fought over the spoil. One or two blackbirds, with their yellow bills, fluttered shyly on the outside of the ring of more familiar birds. Up from the south a miserable blue-gray haze was drifting and shuddering, ominous of a thaw. From the eaves and the branches of the trees heavy drops kept falling, making round black holes in the snow, and mixing and melting here and there in a yellowish plash.

Margaret s.h.i.+vered. Then she heard the boudoir door open, and Janey came out, making a plucky attempt not to cry.