THE SIXTH LETTER LEFT.
(Dated April the 9th.)
SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON A VERY IMPORTANT DAY, AND WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER MASTERS.
TO-DAY, dearest Nelly, is the 14th of February. Not a girl, I believe, in the whole school, slept a wink last night; ever since sunrise, there has been such a humming and buzzing, exactly as you hear at church when the service is just over. I believe all the girls are mad. No one seems to care for fines or forfeits. What is twopence or sixpence, or a hundred lines of the "History of England," so long as a dear sweet valentine is smuggled into the college? and it requires all the art which a woman has of smuggling, to pass a letter through the examination of this place. I declare it's worse than the custom-house, when you land from Boulogne. Every one who comes in has his pockets searched, and the Lady Principal stands on the staircase all day, watching for the postman. She little knows, however, that he has been bribed (with half a dozen SILVER THIMBLES) to slip all the letters under the door without that tell-tale "tat-tat;" or that Susan has earned in one day more ribbons and handkerchiefs than a year's wages would buy her, simply by having a little human feeling. Snapp and the Lady Principal were never fluttered with such hopes, I'll be bound, when they were young, although it is so long ago they may well be excused for forgetting it.
But it does not matter, Nelly, their locking us up in a state of siege. Rosy May has got a beauty sent round her bottle of strengthening mixture by the doctor's handsome young man; and Lucy Wilde found such a duck tucked in her stockings from the wash. And those impudent fellows next door have pelted us over the garden wall with half a dozen all tied on to a piece of string precisely as if it were the tail of a kite that had got entangled in the trees.
And then, Nelly (mind, this is a secret), there came a new Sunday dress for me (a beautiful shot silk, with all kinds of colors, just like mother-o'-pearl); and what do you think? There, inside it, hid up the sleeve, was such a love of a valentine for your dear, happy, happy Kitty! Oh gracious! when I opened it, I saw two sweet little doves, as white as bride-cake, caged in a net of beautiful silver paper, hovering over a large heart, smothered, dear, in the sweetest roses! It was so pretty, you can't tell; and I was so happy I could have gone to bed and have cried the rest of the afternoon. How kind of him to think of me on such a day! Bless him! How foolishly I love him to be sure, and I should be very wicked if I didn't; for it was only yesterday I flung the paring of an apple three times round my head, and when it had fallen on the ground, there it was in the form of the dear letter "S!" You understand, dearest; but not a word.
Snapp had one. It was inside an orange that was thrown at her from over the wall. Those impudent boys again! She tore it up most indignantly, and flung the bits away with a burst of eloquence about "the vulgar ribaldry of such ignorant, witless insults." We picked up the bits afterwards, and, putting them together, found they formed the ugliest picture that ever was seen, of an old witch riding on a birch-broom, with a big bottle in her hand. It was too bad, but we have pasted the pieces on a sheet of paper, and intend to keep it by us to spite her with some day, if she is unkind to us.
The fact is, the whole house is crazy. If it was breaking-up day, there couldn't be more fun and less discipline. Even that long piece of dryness, Miss Twigg, has been caught laughing several times, and the servants have been giggling up and down stairs, and all over the house, and running every minute to the door, until at last Mrs. Rodwell has put the chain up, and says she'll answer the door herself. She's in such a passion that I shouldn't like to be one of those poor girls who hav'n't paid for their last half year, and to be taken up before her!
Even that curious old Mr. Penn has become touched with the infection. He has been setting us the drollest copies, about "Faint Heart ne'er won Fair Lady," and "Though Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear," and such like; exceeding even his usual eccentricities.
He is the funniest little specimen you ever saw, Nelly, and ought to sit to have his portrait taken in China. He would make a capital Dresden ornament, for he is a very great curiosity; but in his present shape he is much more curious than ornamental. He is our writing-master; but his accomplishments go far beyond pot-hooks and hangers; for he teaches us, also, arithmetic, mathematics (much we understand about them!), and Latin (we all like "Amo, I love"—I think of Sidney as I conjugate it), and elocution; besides drawing to the juniors. Poor Penn! His is a sad life, Nell. He was brought up with expectations of having a large fortune. Those expectations are all gone now; for you cannot read the slightest hope in his care-worn face. His whole appearance implies a struggle to live. Every article of his dress speaks of a long fight with poverty. His coat looks so thin that you imagine, if it were brushed, it would be swept clean away like so much dust. It is buttoned close up to his throat, and what you see of his linen is clean, though rough and jagged at the edges, like the leaves of a book that's been badly cut. His boots are patched to that extent that, when it has been raining very hard, he doesn't like drying them at the fire, for fear of our laughing at the numerous patches about them. His hat—but never mind about his dress, Nelly; for I feel a sort of shame in counting the darns and stitches about this poor fellow's appearance. Suffice it to say, he always looks the gentleman in the midst of his shabbiness, and that he wins the respect of us giddy little girls, even in spite of his bad clothes. The latter, I can tell you, is no small recommendation in a girl's school.
He is clever, and I would sooner learn of him than of that ponderous Professor Drudge, whose explanations are so high-flown that we never can see what they mean, even by standing on tip-toe. At first, all manner of tricks were played upon old Penn. He never could find his spectacles—his knife was always mislaid—his quills were always stolen—but he never grumbled or made the slightest complaint. Last winter he used repeatedly to leave the room. We could not fancy why or where he went, until one day he dropped his pocket-handkerchief. It was nothing but holes and rags—almost as bad as the handkerchief I have seen the clown in a pantomime wipe his eyes with when he has pretended to be crying. He had been ashamed to withdraw it in our presence; and well he might, for on my word, without meaning any harm, we should all have burst out laughing, if he had. We could not have helped it, Nelly. You never saw such a thing, dear! "It was not a pocket-handkerchief," said that great stupid Meggy Sharpe, "so much as a Penn-wiper!"
Well! as we were all laughing at its poverty and comical appearance—you must have laughed yourself, Nelly—who should come in but Blight? In a few strong words she made us ashamed of our unfeeling mirth, and brought the color still more to our tingling cheeks by running up stairs and bringing down one of her own pocket-handkerchiefs, which she bade us slip unperceived into poor old Penn's coat pocket. We watched him from the window. The old gentleman pulled out his handkerchief as soon as he left the house, but, perceiving the substitution, his head dropped, poor fellow, and we saw him with the handkerchief held up to his eyes until he turned the corner.
Ever since then, no more tricks have been played with our writing-master. His poverty, unlike with most men, has been his friend—and a very good friend, too. Contributions have been dropped in the same poor-box for his relief, until the old gentleman has grown comparatively quite a dandy; one of Noble's black satin aprons has found him in stocks for months, and Blight is always knitting comfortable muffetees, slippers, and chest-protectors for him in the winter. We picture to ourselves the old man emptying his pockets when he gets home, and his surprise at finding the little gifts (and cake sometimes) they contain. We are happy in the pleasure we know we give him. He never says a word, but merely looks his thanks. We feel his gratitude in the increased kindness we receive from him. He calls us his "angels," and we know directly what he means; if he said more, O Lord! how we should all cry, and he, perhaps, more than any of us.
He is here, Nelly, mostly all day long; but doesn't dine with us. The Lady Principal sends him out a plateful, heaped up with almost insulting profusion, as if she were sending it out to a beggar. Perhaps she isn't wrong, however, for it is all eaten. He carries down the tray himself, that none may see how clean his plate has been polished.
I need not tell you, Nell, dear, that we all are fond of poor Penn. He is so kind, so gentlemanly, so patient, acting to us more like a parent than a teacher. Besides, he sets us the strangest copies, the oddest problems—things never heard of in a school before—but reconciling us to our tasks by making us laugh, and interesting the dullest pupil. You won't credit it; but that conceited thing Twigg fancies him in love with her. She dresses out her ringlets as long as spaniel's ears, and puts on cherry neck-ribbons when he comes. All day long is she pestering him to mend her pen, and to explain away difficulties about x in algebra; just as if a man could be bothered into love! Penn takes it all very good-temperedly; but I imagine it would bring his wig prematurely to the grave, if he was told that he was going to marry Twigg.
None of us can tell what pittance the Princesses' College gives for the life-service of such a man. Not a tenth, I dare say, of what they give to Herr Hullabullützer. Such fuss, dear, as is made for the Herr's reception! The room is heated to a certain degree of nicety, the light is subdued, sherry and biscuits are ready for his refreshment, tea and cake (our cake) brought in afterwards, and the young ladies kept waiting in succession every quarter of an hour, so as not to lose a moment of his valuable time. And you should only see him lounging in the arm-chair; his little fourpenny-piece of a watch placed before him, as if the object of his visit was to follow its hands, and not our fingers. Why, he looks, dear, the handsomest personification of contentment, hair-oil, and conceit, that a foreigner ever bamboozled people with in this country. His shirt is light pink, and perforated like an open-work jam tart. His wristbands are turned back nearly as much as the sheet on the pillow of a bed. His head would make a beautiful block for a French hair-dresser's window; and he has sufficient chains and miniature pistols, donkeys, cannons, and dogs dangling round his neck to start in business a Jew peddler. He dozes one-half the time; but then it is a reverie—the meditation of genius. The other half he plays with his glossy curls or his whitey-brown moustache, so he may well be excused if he doesn't know exactly to a minute what air his pupil is playing. It's true, he scarcely gives himself the trouble to correct us when we are wrong; but then he teaches the young princesses! and so we should not expect him to be over patient with little chits of school-girls. He is an artist: poor Penn is only a man of intellect. He goes to the palace three times a week; poor Penn has only been to college; so the two are not to be compared.
Once, however, when your dearest Kitty was making more noise over the "Battle of Prague" than has ever been made over the battle of Waterloo, the ringleted Herr caught up her hand, and said, in a voice that melted with the sweetness of barley sugar, "I can-not perr-mit such soft litt-tle fin-gerrs to murr-derr har-mo-nie;" and—and, dearest, I think Kitty's hand felt the smallest possible baby's-touch of a squeeze.
I had on your pretty turquoise ring at the time, and since then every girl has wished me to lend it her for her music lesson. Just as if it was the ring that!!!——
Fraulein Pinchinhertz is quite sentimental over the handsome Herr. She sits in the room during the lessons, looking and listening with all her soul in her eyes, and talking German in the softest manner. But the Herr admires his boots infinitely more than he does her.
But, bother take it, there's the bell for tea. Good-bye, my darling Nelly, and do not forget the toffee you promised to send to—
Your fondest KITTY CLOVER.
P. S. I will show you the valentine when I come home. Tell me, have you had any? Pray, how many?
P. S. It is very strange—some one sang under our windows last night, "Wilt thou love me then as now?" I wonder if it was him?
P. S. I have had this more than three weeks in my pocket, waiting for an opportunity to post it.
