Six to Sixteen | Page 3

you let her work out each train of thought in peace?
The curt, clean-cut French style may suit some people, whose brains
won't stretch far without getting tired; but others may have more
sympathy with a Semitic cast of mind."
This excuse pleased me very much. It was pleasanter to believe that my
style was Semitic, than to allow, with Jack, that it tended towards that
of Mrs. Nickleby. Though at that time my notion of the meaning of the

word Semitic was not so precise as it might have been.
Our home is a beautiful place in the summer, and in much of spring and
autumn. In winter I fancy it would look dreary to the eyes of strangers.
At night the wind comes over the top of Deadmanstone Hill, and down
the valley, whirls the last leaves off the old trees by the church, and
sends them dancing over the closely-ranged gravestones. Then up
through the village it comes, and moans round our house all night, like
some miserable being wanting to get in. The boys say it does get in,
more than enough, especially into their bedrooms; but then boys always
grumble. It certainly makes strange noises here. I have more than once
opened the back-door late in the evening, because I fancied that one of
the dogs had been hurt, and was groaning outside.
That stormy winter after the Ladybrig murder, our fancies and the wind
together played Eleanor and me sad tricks. When once we began to
listen we seemed to hear a whole tragedy going on close outside. We
could distinguish footsteps and voices through the bluster, and then a
struggle in the shrubbery, and a thud, and a groan, and then a roar of
wind, half drowning the sound of flying footsteps--and then an awful
pause, and at last faint groaning, and a bump, as of some poor wounded
body falling against the house. At this point we were wont to summon
courage and rush out, with the kitchen poker and a candle shapeless
with tallow shrouds from the strong draughts. We never could see
anything; partly, perhaps, because the candle was always blown out;
and when we stood outside it became evident that what we had heard
was only the wind, and a bough of the old acacia-tree, which beat at
intervals upon the house.
When the nights are stormy there is no room so comfortable as the big
kitchen. We first used it for parochial purposes, small night-schools,
and so forth. Then one evening, as we strolled in to look for one of the
dogs, the cook said, "You can sit here, if you like, Miss Eleanor. We
always sits in the pantry on winter nights; so there'll be no one to
disturb you." And as we had some writing on hand which we did not
wish to have discussed or overlooked by other members of the family,
we settled down in great peace and comfort by the roaring fire which

the maids had heaped to keep the kitchen warm in their absence.
We found ourselves so cosy and independent that we returned again
and again to our new study. The boys (who go away a great deal more
than we do, and are apt to come back dissatisfied with our "ways," and
anxious to make us more "like other people") object strongly to this
habit of ours. They say, "Who ever heard of ladies sitting in the
kitchen?" And, indeed, there are many south-country kitchens in which
I should not at all like to sit. But we have this large, airy, spotlessly
clean room, with its stone floor, its yellow-washed walls, its tables
scrubbed to snowy whiteness, its quaint old dresser and clock and
corner cupboards of shiny black oak, and its huge fire-place and
blazing fire all to ourselves, and we have abundance of room, and may
do anything we please, so I think it is no wonder that we like it, though
it be, in point of fact, a kitchen. We cover the table, and (commonly)
part of the floor, with an amount of books, papers, and belongings of
various sorts, such as we should scruple to deluge the drawing-room
with. The fire crackles and blazes, so that we do not mind the wind,
though there are no blinds to the kitchen, and if we do not "cotter" the
shutters, we look out upon the black night, and the tall Scotch pine that
has been tossed so wildly for so many years, and is not torn down yet.
Keziah the cook takes much pride in this same kitchen, which partly
accounts for its being in a state so suitable to our use. She "stones" the
floor with excruciating regularity. (At least, some people hate the
scraping sound. I do not