Two Years Ago, Volume II. Charles Kingsley

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      Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

      Now 'tis the breath of summer night,

      Which, when the starry waters sleep

      Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright,

      Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight."

      At last it ceased: and all men drew their breaths once more; while a low murmur of admiration ran through the crowd, too well-bred to applaud openly, as they longed to do.

      "Did you ever hear the like of that, Gentleman Jan?"

      "Or see? I used to say no one could hold a candle to our Grace but she— she looked like a born queen all the time!"

      "Well, she belongs to us, too, so we've a right to be proud of her. Why, here's our Grace all the while!"

      True enough; Grace had been standing among the crowd all the while, rapt, like them, her eyes fixed on Valencia, and full, too, of tears. They had been called up first by the melody itself, and then, by a chain of thought peculiar to Grace, by the faces round her.

      "Ah! if Grace had been here!" cried one, "we'd have had her dra'ed off in the midst of the children."

      "Ah! that would ha' been as nat'ral as life!"

      "Silence, you!" says Gentleman Jan, who generally feels a mission to teach the rest of the quay good manners, "'Tis the gentleman's pleasure to settle who he'll dra' off, and not wer'n."

      To which abnormal possessive pronoun, Claude rejoined,—

      "Not a bit! whatever you like. I could not have a better figure for the centre. I'll begin again."

      "Oh, do come and sit among the children, Grace!" says Valencia.

      "No, thank your ladyship."

      Valencia began urging her; and many a voice round, old as well as young, backed the entreaty.

      "Excuse me, my lady," and she slipped into the crowd; but as she went she spoke low, but clear enough to be heard by all: "No: it will be time enough to flatter me, and ask for my picture, when you do what I tell you—what God tells you!"

      "What's that, then, Grace dear?"

      "You know! I've asked you to save your own lives from cholera, and you have not the common sense to do it. Let me go home and pray for you!"

      There was an awkward silence among the men, till some fellow said,—

      "She'm gone mad after that doctor, I think, with his muck-hunting notions."

      And Grace went home, to await the hour of afternoon school.

      "What a face!" said Mellot.

      "Is it not? Come and see her in her school, when the children go in at two o'clock. Ah! there are Scoutbush and St. Père."

      "We are going to the school, my lord. Don't you think that, as patron of things in general here, it would look well if you walked in, and signified your full approbation of what you know nothing about?"

      "So much so, that I was just on my way there with Campbell. But I must just speak to that lime-burning fellow. He wants a new lease of the kiln, and I suppose he must have it. At least, here he comes, running at me open-mouthed, and as dry as his own waistband. It makes one thirsty to look at him. I'll catch you up in five minutes!"

      So the three went off to the school.

      Grace was telling, in her own sweet way, that charming story of the Three Trouts, which, by the by, has been lately pirated (as many things are) by a religious author, whose book differs sufficiently from the liberal and wholesome morality of the true author of the tale.

      "What a beautiful story, Grace!" said Valencia. "You will surpass Hans Anderssen some day."

      Grace blushed, and was silent a moment.

      "It is not my own, my lady."

      "Not your own? I should have thought that no one but you and Anderssen could have made such an ending to it."

      Grace gave her one of those beseeching, half-reproachful looks, with which she always answered praise; and then,—"Would you like to hear the children repeat a hymn, my lady?"

      "No. I want to know where that story came from."

      Grace blushed, and stammered.

      "I know where," said Campbell. "You need not be ashamed of having read the book, Miss Harvey. I doubt not that you took all the good from it, and none of the harm, if harm there be."

      Grace looked at him; at once surprised and relieved.

      "It was a foolish romance-book, sir, as you seem to know. It was the only one which I ever read, except Hans Anderssen's,—which are not romances, after all. But the beginning was so full of God's truth, sir, —romance though it was,—and gave me such precious new light about educating children, that I was led on unawares. I hope I was not wrong."

      "This schoolroom proves that you were not," said Campbell. "'To the pure, all things are pure.'"

      "What is this mysterious book? I must know!" said Valencia.

      "A very noble romance, which I made Mellot read once, containing the ideal education of an English nobleman, in the middle of the last century."

      "The Fool of Quality?" said Mellot. "Of course! I thought I had heard the story before. What a well-written book it is, too, in spite of all extravagance and prolixity. And how wonderfully ahead of his generation the man who wrote it, in politics as well as in religion!"

      "I must read it," said Valencia. "You must lend it me, Saint Père."

      "Not yet, I think."

      "Why?" whispered she, pouting. "I suppose I am not as pure as Grace Harvey?"

      "She has the children to educate, who are in daily contact with coarse sins, of which you know nothing—of which she cannot help knowing. It was written in an age when the morals of our class (more shame to us) were on the same level with the morals of her class now. Let it alone. I often have fancied I should edit a corrected edition of it. When I do, you shall read that."

      "Now, Miss Harvey," said Mellot, who had never taken his eyes off her face, "I want to turn schoolmaster, and give your children a drawing lesson. Get your slates, all of you!"

      And taking possession of the black board and a piece of chalk, Claude began sketching them imps and angels, dogs and horses, till the school rang with shrieks of delight.

      "Now," said he, wiping the board, "I'll draw something, and you shall copy it."

      And, without taking off his hand, he drew a single line; and a profile head sprang up, as if by magic, under his firm, unerring touch.

      "Somebody?" "A lady!" "No, 'taint; 'tis schoolmistress!"

      "You can't copy that; I'll draw you another face." And he sketched a full face on the board.

      "That's my lady." "No, it's schoolmistress again!" "No it's not!"

      "Not quite sure, my dears?" said Claude, half to himself. "Then СКАЧАТЬ