I CORRESPOND WITH THE MAJOR—MY COLLECTION—OCCUPATIONS—MADAME AGAIN—FÊTE DE VILLAGE—THE BRITISH HOORAY.
I wrote to my old friends and relatives, with a full account of my new home. Rather a comically-expressed account too, I fancy, from the bits Uncle Buller used to quote in after years. I got charming letters from him, piquant with his dry humour, and full of affection. Matilda generally added a note also; and Aunt Theresa always sent love and kisses in abundance, to atone for being too busy to write by that post.
The fonder I grew of the Arkwrights, the better I seemed to love and understand Uncle Buller. Apart as we were, we had now a dozen interests in common—threads of those intellectual ties over which the changes and chances of this mortal life have so little power.
My sympathy was real, as well as ready, when the Major discovered a new insect, almost invisible by the naked eye, which thenceforward bore the terrible specific name of Bulleriana, suggesting a creature certainly not less than a rhinoceros, and surrounding the Major’s name with something of the halo of immortality. He was equally glad to hear of Jack’s beetles and of my fresh-water shells. I had taken to the latter as being “the only things not yet collected by somebody or other in the house;” and I became so infatuated in the pursuit that I used to get up at four o’clock in the morning to search the damp places and water-herbage by the river, it being emphatically “the early bird who catches” snails. After his great discovery, the Major constantly asked if I had found a specimen of Helix Vandaleuriana yet. It was a joke between us—that new shell that I was to discover!
I have an old letter open by me now, in which, writing of the Arkwrights, he says, “Your dear father’s daughter could have no better home.” And, as I read, my father’s last hours come back before me, and I hear the poor faint voice whispering, “You’ve got the papers, Buller? Arkwright will be kind about it, I’m sure.” And, “It’s all dark now.” And with tears I wonder if he—with whom it is all light now—knows how well his true friends have dealt by me, and how happy I am.
To be busy is certainly half-way to being happy. And yet it is not so with every kind of labour. Some occupations, however, do seem of themselves to be peace-bringing; I mean, to be so independent of the great good of being occupied at all. Gardening, sketching, and natural history pursuits, for instance. Is it partly because one follows them in the open air, in great measure?—fresh air, that mysteriously mighty power for good! Anodyne, as well as tonic; dispeller of fever when other remedies are powerless; and the best accredited recipe for long life. Only partly, I think.
One secret of the happiness of some occupations is, perhaps, that they lift one away from petty cares and petty spites, without trying the brain or strength unduly, as some other kinds of mental labour must do. And how delightful is fellowship in such interests! What rivalries without bitterness; what gossip without scandal; what gifts and exchanges; what common interests and mutual sympathy!
In such happy business the holidays went by. Then the question arose, Were we to go back to school? Very earnestly we hoped not; and I think the Arkwrights soon resolved not to send Eleanor away again. As to me, the case was different. Mr. Arkwright felt that he must do what was best for my education: and he wrote to consult with Major Buller.
Fortunately for Eleanor and me, the Major was now as much prejudiced against girls’ schools as he had been against governesses; and as masters were to be had at the nearest town, a home education was decided upon. It met with the approval of such of my relatives as were consulted—my great-grandmother especially—and it certainly met with mine.
Eleanor and I were very anxious to show that idleness was not our object in avoiding Bush House. The one of my diaries that escaped burning has, on the fly-leaf, one of the many “lesson plans” we made for ourselves.