CHAPTER X.

_SYSTEM._

THE oatmeal was procured and duly prepared for breakfast. Now, to people who like oatmeal, and with whom it agrees, it is an agreeable and wholesome diet; but it does not agree with every one, and to those who dislike it, it is usually downright odious. So it was to Isa.

"I can't bear it," she said to Rhoda, passionately. "It gives me the heartburn, and the very smell is disgusting. I can hardly bear to see you eat it."

"I wish I could eat your share and mine too," said Rhoda. "I like it very well if I can have plenty of milk."

"I'm sure I wish you could. Do give me a piece of bread, Rhoda. I am ready to faint away."

Rhoda cut the bread, while Isa put it into her pocket.

At that moment Mr. Ferrand came into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Isabella?" he asked, in evident though calm displeasure. "May I ask what brings you into the kitchen at this time?"

"I came for some hot water," said poor Isa, seizing on the first pretext which presented itself.

"I'll get you a pail, Miss Isa," said Rhoda, rising, but Mr. Ferrand checked her.

"Miss Ferrand has her own vessels for hot and cold water," said he, "or should have them. If your room is not properly furnished, Isabella, you should speak to your mother or me, and have the deficiency rectified. It is time you were preparing for school."

"That's just what I want the water for," said Isa, breaking out in rebellion, as she did now and then. "Do let me get some hot water, pa. What is the use of making such a fuss for every little thing?" And snatching a cup from the shelf, she dipped out some hot water and ran up the back stairs to her own room.

Mr. Ferrand looked after her with a glance which boded her no good, and then began a minute investigation of the state of the kitchen. Cupboards, dishes, towels, were all passed in review and commented on, and glad was Rhoda when the survey was finished.

"You seem to have things in tolerable order, though there is not that degree of system which—But what is this?" he exclaimed, if anything so calm could be called an exclamation, and laying hold of Rhoda's slate and algebra, which lay in the kitchen window. "Does Miss Ferrand leave her books in the kitchen?"

"Those are mine," answered Rhoda, briefly.

"Yours! And may I inquire how you came by them and what use you make of them?"

"My father bought them, and I use them to study," said Rhoda, rather crisply, for her patience began to wax threadbare.

"Indeed! I should suppose that you might find studies more suitable to your position than algebra," said Mr. Ferrand. "I should say your time might be more profitably employed."

"Why should not I study algebra as well as Miss Isa—Miss Ferrand, I mean?" asked Rhoda, who began to be more amused than angry. "I never touch it till my work is done, and what harm does it do?"

"Miss Ferrand's position and yours are very different," answered Mr. Ferrand, austerely. "She is, or will soon be, a young lady, and your position is that of a servant—a very different matter. It is proper that you should read, and I will see that you are furnished with suitable books, but—but you must see that there is a great difference between you and Miss Ferrand."

Rhoda thought there was this difference—that she loved study and Miss Ferrand hated it; but she had become conscious that she was growing angry. She therefore prudently held her peace and busied herself with her dishes, and Mr. Ferrand, after again promising to supply her with suitable books, left the kitchen, to Rhoda's great relief. Presently, as she was putting away the dishes, she heard him in conversation with his wife:

"The young person in the kitchen seems to have some strange notions, Mrs. Ferrand. What books do you think I found hidden—that is, not exactly hidden: I wish to do her no injustice; but lying—in the kitchen? Nothing less than an algebra and geometry."

"Was that all?" said Mrs. Ferrand, in tone of relief. "I was afraid you might have found some bad books, there is so much trash afloat. Yes, I know Rhoda studies a great deal, though I must say she never neglects her work for her books. Mrs. Mulford told me that the child was very desirous to acquire an education, and I thought you would be interested in her on that account."

"I am interested in all young persons who try to improve, Mrs. Ferrand, but they must be content to improve in their proper sphere. I don't know—I cannot even guess—what my grandmother would have said at finding one of her maids studying mathematics," said Mr. Ferrand, whose grandmother had been a baronet's daughter, and who therefore professed a great love of everything English.

"Rhoda is a very good girl, and gives me more real help than almost any servant I ever had," said Mrs. Ferrand. "She seems to make a conscience of doing everything in the best way, and she is always so pleasant."

"I would rather hear you say that she is always respectful," said Mr. Ferrand. "However, if you like the girl, we must try to get on with her; only I trust you will not let yourself down by holding familiar conversations with her. It is your place to give directions, and hers to follow them. I am convinced that most of the multitudinous evils of our democratic society arise from people's getting out of their proper spheres. Especially I trust you will see that Isabella does not hold any intercourse with her. I am mistaken if they were not talking quite familiarly this morning when I entered the kitchen. Another thing I wish to mention while I think of it: I met Mr. Harvey on the cars, and he tells me that Isabella makes very little improvement in her music. I wish you would see that she gets up in time to practise an hour before breakfast."

"Really, Mr. Ferrand, I think that will not answer," said his wife, roused in behalf of her child even to the point of contradicting her husband. "Isa's eyes are weak now. She complains of headache, and of being tired all the time. I think she should be doing less rather than more while the warm weather lasts."

Mr. Ferrand smiled superior.

"I thought you knew by this time that my views for Isa's education 'must' be carried out," said he.

"Even if it kills her, as it did Charlie, I suppose," said Mrs. Ferrand.

"My son Charles died of a fever, and not from any over-application," answered Mr. Ferrand, coldly. "I have nothing to regret where he is concerned. I expect that Isabella will rise at half-past five and practise from six till seven hereafter."

"Then you must call her yourself, for I won't," returned his wife. "The child has as much to do now as she can bear."

Mr. Ferrand was amazed. Surely some evil spirit had entered his home during his absence. Never had he met with so much contradiction during one day in his own house. He had resolved already that Isabella should expiate her rebellion by some hours of solitary confinement and low diet, but he could not very well shut up his wife. He began to be scared, and thought he would try a little conciliation.

"Very well. Since you are so decidedly opposed to it, I shall say no more. I wish nothing but our daughter's good, as you must know, and the dearest desire of my heart is to see her well-educated, but I do not wish her to be oppressed. One thing, however, I must insist upon—that she shall hold no unnecessary communication with the servants in the kitchen on any subject whatever."

And having thus saved his dignity, Mr. Ferrand turned for consolation to his writing-table and his treatise on education—a work which had occupied him for several years.

It was Mr. Ferrand's great misfortune that he was very rich and had no profession. If he had been obliged to work for a living, his love of order, accuracy, and system would have found legitimate outlets, and might have made him an excellent master-mechanic or merchant. As it was, the qualities which would have been a very moderate dose if distributed among a hundred workmen were all bestowed on his own family. No details were too small for his supervision, no neglect or omission too trifling to annoy him.

He would talk for a week about an old towel which had been found out of place, and made as much fuss about the mending of a latch as would be necessary for the repairing of a steam-engine. As I have said, he liked everything English, and was very apt to sneer at and contemn "our free and happy country," as he was fond of saying in a contemptuous tone. He believed in people keeping their places and being contented in them, and he had a special horror of servants in particular "getting out of their proper sphere."

But Mr. Ferrand's great hobby was education. On that theme he delighted to dwell for hours, and to his great work on that subject, he gave so much of his time as was not devoted to superintending family affairs and acquiring useful information—that is, to storing his mind with uninteresting facts and dates, arranged in scientific order. Accurate enumeration, logical deduction, and rigid sequence were the sun and moon of Mr. Ferrand's intellectual system, and he made no account of such wandering and comet-like lights as imagination and the poetic faculty.

True, certain poets, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Cowper, and Wordsworth, were to be studied. They were facts in English history, and it was needful, therefore, to have some acquaintance with them. But stories of all kinds—"works of fiction," as he comprehensively classed them—could do nobody any good, and were not to be tolerated for a moment. One of his pet theories was that change of employment was sufficient relaxation; and as his own head and nerves were as hard as cast iron, he never found out the fallacy of his theory.

His only son had been a prodigy of learning—only he died at thirteen of a fever which, as Doctor Morton had said at the time, ought not to have killed a baby. Mr. Ferrand loved his son dearly and mourned for him deeply, but neither his grief nor his love prevented him from trying the same system over again with his daughter.

Isa was of a different stamp from her brother. Charlie had loved study for its own sake—Isa hated it; Charlie was uncommonly and precociously intelligent—Isa was by no means bright, and was rather young for her age: nevertheless, both must be put through exactly the same process. The system was everything—the individual nothing. Mr. Ferrand had begun by teaching Isa himself, but he had found the confinement too great, and he could not make her study unless he were over her. So he gave up the idea of home education, and sent her to a school whose master was a man after his own heart—a man who revelled on a plenteous diet of "facts and figures," and looked upon Virgil and Homer, Milton, Cowper, and Young, as so much material for parsing.

Professor Sampson certainly "got his pupils on" wonderfully fast. The great trouble was that those of them who did not faint by the way—fall sick and have to be taken out of school—left him with an inexpressible disgust for books and information of all sorts.

Professor Sampson had done his best with Isa, feeling quite sure that, however tightly he might put on the screws, her father would always be ready to give them another turn. The consequence was that Isa, who under proper treatment might have turned out a very good woman, with a healthy body and a sound mind, was fast becoming morose, feverish, and hysterical, utterly discontented, and ready to consider any change a gain. Moreover, she became sly and deceitful.

Rhoda saw this, and it gave her a good deal of trouble. Mr. Ferrand had said that Isa was not to associate with a servant, and had told Isa so, yet Isa did not scruple to come to Rhoda's room for help about her algebra, and to talk to Rhoda on every occasion.

One night, as Rhoda was getting ready for bed, Isa came round to her room in great glee.

"Marion Campbell is coming back, and oh, ain't I glad?" said she, in a joyous whisper.

"Who is Marion Campbell?" asked Rhoda.

"She is the Scotch cook who used to live here two years ago. She went away because her sister was sick; and now her sister is dead, she is coming back. Why, you don't look as if you were glad one bit."

"I can't say I am," said Rhoda.

"But why not? She is real good-natured and you won't have half so much work to do as you have now."

"I don't mind the work—it is not hard at all," said Rhoda; "and I like to have my room to myself. It is none too large for one."

"Oh, but Marion won't sleep in your room. She has the one on the other side. Don't you know it's part of pa's system that every one should have a room to themselves?"

"'Every one having a room to themselves' is a very good system, but it isn't very good grammar," said Rhoda, smiling.

"Who cares?" returned Isa. "But I want you to like Marion; she is very 'Scotchy,' but she is awful good-natured. There! I wonder what pa would say to such a sentence as that? I know," she added, laughing: "he would say, 'Isabella, will you give me the definition of awful?'"

"Miss Isa, you ought not to make fun of your father," said Rhoda, reprovingly; "and you ought not to be here. You know he does not like it."

"He isn't home," answered Isa. "Now, Rhoda, do show me how to do these sums. I know you understand them, and I don't the least in the world. Come, now, be good. I know I shall fail, and I have failed twice this week already. I believe I am growing a perfect idiot," said she, despairingly. "I don't seem to understand anything, especially in the morning, my head is so dizzy and confused."

"That's because you don't eat any breakfast or supper," said Rhoda.

"Well, I can't eat porridge—I fairly loathe it; and if I do eat it, it makes me sick, so I might as well feel badly for one thing as for another. Come, do help me, Rhoda, please."

Rhoda suffered herself to be persuaded. She knew it was not right to help Isa in deceiving and disobeying her father, but she felt very sorry for the poor oppressed girl, and she had not strength to resist her pleadings. Perhaps such strength was hardly to be expected of a girl of sixteen. Rhoda had been well drilled in common arithmetic, and she had a natural gift for mathematics, as she had for music. She soon made Isa's perplexities plain.

"You are the best girl that ever lived," said Isa, kissing her. "I am sure you were born for a teacher. But there goes half-past nine, and I must be in bed before pa comes home. I shall have to hurry."

"Don't forget your prayers, Miss Isa," said Rhoda.

And then she turned to her own devotions, but she did not find much comfort in them. She knew she was doing wrong in keeping up this kind of secret intercourse with Isa, and yet she could not quite make up her mind to abandon it. She said to herself that she only did it to help Isa, but in her secret soul she knew better. She found her own comprehension and memory greatly assisted by going over the lessons with another, and she hated to forego the advantage.

The truth was, Rhoda was getting into a bad way. She had one grand object in life, and it was a very good object, but she looked at it till it grew so large as to be in danger of eclipsing everything else.

Indeed, the atmosphere of the family where she found herself was not favourable to truthfulness. Mrs. Ferrand, if she did not absolutely deceive, certainly managed, her husband. Isa had no scruple about making a false excuse or telling a tolerable sized fib to escape the penalty of any infraction of Mr. Ferrand's numerous "rules."

Marion Campbell did not make matters any better when she came. She was a tall, thin Scotchwoman, an excellent cook, a superlative laundress, and neat and quick at all sorts of work. She was always good-natured, even in the agony of dishing up a company dinner, and she was strictly and scrupulously honest in all that pertained to her employer's property.

But she thought it no harm to gain her own way by a little canny management, and she had no scruple in bestowing on Isa, of whom she was very fond, all the indulgence that came in her way. Many a delicate sandwich and dainty cake and savoury pickle found its way into Isa's school satchel by Marion's means.

"You would na have me send her away hungry, and she such a slender lass?" she said, one day, when Rhoda ventured to hint a remonstrance. "She canna thole the porridge."

"I know, and it does seem cruel," answered Rhoda, "and yet it can't be quite right, either, to help her to deceive her father."

"It's just his ain fault, then, and no hers," said Marion, who had slipped into Rhoda's room on her way from Isa's. "I'm no that fond of the oatmeal myself, though I was brought up on it. Laws! How many books ye have! Are ye fond of reading?"

"Yes, indeed, I am."

"Aweel, ye must read to me whiles. I'm fond of a book myself, but my eyes are failed, and I canna see very well. I have a grand history of Scotland that I bought cheap at a stall the ither day. I'll bring it the next time I go home, and we'll have some readings. Eh! What a fine Bible!"

"Isn't it?" asked Rhoda. "Dear Aunt Hannah gave it to me the very last time I ever saw her." And Rhoda's eyes overflowed at the remembrance of her last interview with Aunt Hannah.

"Ah, well, dinna greet for her, my doo," said Marion, sympathetically. "She was a good woman, na doubt, and gane to a better place. Lass, your room looks fine, with all these pictures and little things about it. I ay like a young lass to be neat and dainty. I think you and I will 'gree very well."