To Stickenham—yes, I would go there immediately. But the resolve gave no exulting throb to my bosom.
I went to that spot so consecrated to my memory by bright skies and brighter faces; the spot where I had so often urged the flying ball and marshalled the mimic army—it was there that I stood; and I asked of a miserable half-starved woman, “where was the play-ground of my youth?” and she showed me a “brick-field.”
I walked a few steps further, and asked for the school-house of my happiest days—and one pointed out to me a brawling ale-house. It was a bitter change. I asked of another where was now my old light-hearted, deep-learned, French schoolmaster, Monsieur Cherfeuil. He had gone back to France. The emigrés had been recalled by Napoleon.
There was one other question that I dreaded, yet burned to ask—I need not state how fearful it was to me, since it was to learn the fate of her whom I had honoured, and loved, and hailed, as my mother—the beautiful and the kind Mrs Cherfeuil. I conjectured that she, too, had gone to France with her husband, and the idea was painful to me.
“There have been great alterations here, my good girl,” said I to a young person whom I afterwards met.
“Very great, indeed, sir,—they have ruined father and mother.”
“Your name, my dear, is Susan Archer.”
“Bless me, so it is, sir!”
“And you seem a very intelligent little girl, indeed.”
“Yes, I have had a good deal of book-learning, but all that is past and gone now. When Mrs Cherfeuil lived in that house, she took care that we should always have a home of our own, fire in the grate, and a loaf in the cupboard—she had me sent to school—but now she is gone!”