Without exactly practising to deceive, Gillian began to find that concealment involved her in a tangled web; all the more since Aunt Jane had become thoroughly interested in the Whites, and was inquiring right and left about schools and scholarships for the little boys.
She asked their master about them, and heard that they were among his best scholars, and that their home lessons had always been carefully attended to by their elder brother and sister. In fact, he was most anxious to retain Theodore, to be trained for a pupil-teacher, the best testimony to his value! Aunt Jane came home full of the subject, relating what the master said of Alexis White, and that he had begun by working with him at Latin and mathematics; but that they had not had time to go on with what needed so much study and preparation.
‘In fact, said Miss Mohun, ‘I have a suspicion that if a certificated schoolmaster could own any such thing, the pupil knew more than the teacher. When your father comes home, I hope he will find some way of helping that lad.’
Gillian began to crimson, but bethought herself of the grandeur of its being found that she was the youth’s helper. ‘I am glad you have been lending him books,’ added Aunt Jane.
What business had she to know what had not been told her? The sense of offence drove back any disposition to consult her. Yet to teach Alexis was no slight task, for, though he had not gone far in Greek, his inquiries were searching, and explaining to him was a different thing from satisfying even Mr. Pollock. Besides, Gillian had her own studies on hand. The Cambridge examinations were beginning to assume larger proportions in the Rockquay mind, and ‘the General Screw Company,’ as Mr. Grant observed, was prevailing.
Gillian’s knowledge was rather discursive, and the concentration required by an examination was hard work to her, and the time for it was shortened by the necessity of doing all Alexis’s Greek exercises and translations beforehand, and of being able to satisfy him why an error was not right, for, in all politeness, he always would know why it did not look right. And there was Valetta, twisting and groaning. The screw was on her form, who, unless especially exempted, were to compete for a prize for language examination.
Valetta had begun by despising Kitty Varley for being excepted by her mother’s desire and for not learning Latin; but now she envied any one who had not to work double tides at the book of Caesar that was to be taken up, and Vercingetorix and his Arverni got vituperated in a way that would have made the hair of her hero-worshipping mother fairly stand on end.
But then Lilias Mohun had studied him for love of himself, not for dread of failure.
Gillian had been displeased when Fergus deserted her for Aunt Jane as an assistant, but she would not have been sorry if Valetta had been off her hands, when she was interrupted in researches after an idiom in St. John’s Gospel by the sigh that this abominable dictionary had no verb oblo, or in the intricacies of a double equation by despair at this horrid Caesar always hiding away his nominatives out of spite.
Valetta, like the American child, evidently regarded the Great Julius in no other light than as writer of a book for beginners in Latin, and, moreover, a very unkind one; and she fully reciprocated the sentiment that it was no wonder that the Romans conquered the world, since they knew the Latin grammar by nature.
Nor was Gillian’s hasty and sometimes petulant assistance very satisfactory to the poor child, since it often involved hearing ‘Wait a minute,’ and a very long one, ‘How can you be so stupid?’ ‘I told you so long ago’; and sometimes consisted of a gabbling translation, with rapidly pointed finger, very hard to follow, and not quite so painstaking as when Alexis deferentially and politely pointed out the difficulties, with a strong sense of the favour that she was doing him.
Not that these personal lessons often took place. Kalliope never permitted them without dire necessity, and besides, there was always an uncertainty when Gillian might come down, or when Alexis might be able to come in.
One day when Aunt Jane had come home with a story of how one of her ‘business girls’ had confessed to Miss White’s counsel having only just saved her from an act of folly, it occurred to Aunt Adeline to say—
‘It is a great pity you have not her help in the G.F.S.’
‘I did not understand enough about her before, and mixed her up with the ordinary class of business girls. I had rather have her a member for the sake of example; but if not, she would be a valuable associate. Could not you explain this to her without hurting her feelings, as I am afraid I did, Gill? I did not understand enough about her when I spoke to her before.’
Gillian started. The conversation that should have been so pleasant to her was making her strangely uncomfortable.
‘I do not see how Gill is to get at her,’ objected the other aunt. ‘It would be of no great use to call on her in the nest of the Queen of the White Ants. I can’t help recollecting the name, it was so descriptive.’
‘Yes; it was on her mother’s account that she refused, and of course her office must not be invaded in business hours.’
‘I might call on her there before she goes home,’ suggested Gillian, seeing daylight.
‘You cannot be walking down there at dusk, just as the workmen come away’ exclaimed Aunt Ada, making the colour so rush into Gillian’s cheeks that she was glad to catch up a screen.
‘No,’ said Miss Mohun emphatically; ‘but I could leave her there at five o’clock, and go to Tideshole to take old Jemmy Burnet his jersey, and call for her on the way back.’
‘Or she could walk home with me,’ murmured the voice behind the screen.
Gillian felt with dismay that all these precautions as to her escort would render her friend more scrupulous than ever as to her visits. To have said, ‘I have several times been at the office,’ would have been a happy clearance of the ground, but her pride would not bend to possible blame, nor would she run the risk of a prohibition. ‘It would be the ruin of hope to Alexis, and mamma knows all,’ said she to herself.
It was decided that she should trust to Kalliope to go back with her, for when once Aunt Jane get into the very fishy hamlet of Tideshole, which lay beyond the quarries, there was no knowing when she might get away, since
‘Alike to her were time and tide,November’s snow or July’s pride.’
So after a few days, too wet and tempestuous for any expedition, they set forth accompanied by Fergus, who rushed in from school in time to treat his aunt as a peripatetic ‘Joyce’s scientific dialogues.’ Valetta had not arrived, and Gillian was in haste to elude her, knowing that her aunt would certainly not take her on to Tideshole, and that there would be no comfort in talking before her; but it was a new thing to have to regard her little sister in the light of a spy, and again she had to reason down a sense of guiltiness. However, her aunt wanted Valetta as little as she did; and she had never so rejoiced in Fergus’s monologue, ‘Then this small fly-wheel catches into the Targe one, and so—Don’t you see?’—only pausing for a sound of assent.
Unacquainted with the private door, Miss Mohun entered the office through the showroom, exchanging greetings with the young saleswomen, and finding Miss White putting away her materials.
Shaking hands, Miss Mohun said—
‘I have brought your friend to make a visit to you while I go on to Tideshole. She tells me that you will be kind enough to see her on her way home, if you are going back at the same time.’
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Kalliope, with eyes as well as tongue, and no sooner were she and Gillian alone together than she joyfully exclaimed—
‘Then Miss Mohun knows! You have told her.
‘No—’
‘Oh!’ and there were volumes in the intonation. ‘I was alarmed when she came in, and then so glad if it was all over. Dear Miss Merrifield—’
‘Call me Gillian; I have told you to do so before! Phyllis is Miss Merrifield, and I won’t be so before my time,’ said Gillian, interrupting in a tone more cross than affectionate.
‘I was going to say,’ pursued Kalliope, ‘that the shock her entrance gave to me proved all the more that we cannot be treating her properly.
‘Never mind that! I did not come about that. She is quite taken with you, Kally, and wants you more than ever to be a Friendly Girl, because she thinks it would be so good for the others who are under you.’
‘They have told me something about it,’ said Kalliope thoughtfully.
‘She fancied’ added Gillian, ‘that perhaps she did not make you understand the rights of it, not knowing that you were different from the others.’
‘Oh no, it was not that,’ said Kalliope. ‘Indeed, I hope there is no such nonsense in me. It was what my dear father always warned us against; only poor mamma always gets vexed if she does not think we are keeping ourselves up, and she had just been annoyed at—something, and we did not know then that it was Lady Merrifield’s sister.’
This was contradictory, but it was evident that, while Kalliope disowned conceit of station for herself, she could not always cross her mother’s wishes. It was further elicited that if Lady Flight had taken up the matter there would have been no difficulty. Half a year ago the Flights had seemed to the young Whites angelic and infallible, and perhaps expectations had been founded on their patronage; but there had since been a shadow of disappointment, and altogether Kalliope was less disposed to believe that my Lady was correct in pronouncing Miss Mohun’s cherished society as ‘dissentish,’ and only calculated for low servant girls and ladies who wished to meddle in families.
Clanship made Gillian’s indignation almost bring down the office, and her eloquence was scarcely needed, since Kalliope had seen the value to some of her ‘hands’ from the class, the library, the recreation-room, and the influence of the ladies, above all, the showing them that it was possible to have variety and amusement free from vulgar and perilous dissipation; but still she hesitated. She had no time, she said; she could not attend classes, and she was absolutely necessary at home in the evenings; but Gillian assured her that nothing was expected from her but a certain influence in the right direction, and the showing the younger and giddier that she did not think the Society beneath her.
‘I see all that,’ said Kalliope; ‘I wish I had not been mistaken at first; but, Miss Mer—Gillian, I do not see how I can join it now.’
‘Why not? What do you mean?’
Kalliope was very unwilling to speak, but at last it came.
‘How can I do this to please your aunt, who thinks better of me than I deserve, when—Oh! excuse me—I know it is all your kindness—but when I am allowing you to deceive her—almost, I mean—’
‘Deceive! I never spoke an untrue word to my aunt in my life,’ said Gillian, in proud anger; ‘but if you think so, Miss White, I had better have no more to do with it.’
‘I feel,’ said Kalliope, with tears in her eyes, ‘as if it might be better so, unless Miss Mohun knew all about it.’
‘Well, if you think so, and like to upset all your brother’s hopes—’
‘It would be a terrible grief to him, I know, and I don’t undervalue your kindness, indeed I don’t; but I cannot be happy about it while Miss Mohun does not know. I don’t understand why you do not tell her.’
‘Because I know there would be a worry and a fuss. Either she would say we must wait for letters from mamma, or else that Alexis must come to Beechcroft, and all the comfort would be over, and it would be gossiped about all over the place. Can’t you trust me, when I tell you I have written it all to my own father and mother, and surely I know my own family best?’
Kalliope looked half convinced, but she persisted—
‘I suppose you do; only please, till there is a letter from Lady Merrifield, I had rather not go into this Society.’
‘But, Kally, you don’t consider. What am I to say to my aunt? What will she think of you?’
‘I can’t help that! I cannot do this while she could feel I was conniving at what she might not like. Indeed, I cannot. I beg your pardon, but it goes against me. When shall you be able to hear from Lady Merrifield?’
‘I wrote three weeks ago. I suppose I shall hear about half-way through December, and you know they could telegraph if they wanted to stop it, so I think you might be satisfied.’
Still Kalliope could not be persuaded, and finally, as a sort of compromise, Gillian decided on saying that she would think about it and give her answer at Christmas; to which she gave a reluctant assent, with one more protest that if there were no objection to the lessons, she could not see why Miss Mohun should not know of them.
Peace was barely restored before voices were heard, and in came Fergus, bringing Alexis with him. They had met on the beach road in front of the works, and Fergus, being as usual full of questions about a crane that was swinging blocks of stone into a vessel close to the little pier, his aunt had allowed him to stay to see the work finished, after which Alexis would take him to join his sister.
So it came about that they all walked home together very cheerfully, though Gillian was still much vexed under the surface at Kalliope’s old-maidish particularity.
However, the aunts were not as annoyed at the delay as she expected. Miss Mohun said she would look out some papers that would be convincing and persuasive, and that it might be as well not to enrol Miss White too immediately before the Christmas festivities, but to wait till the books were begun next year. Plans began to prevail for the Christmas diversions and entertainments, but the young Merrifields expected to have nothing to do with these, as they were to meet the rest of the family at their eldest uncle’s house at Beechcroft; all except Harry, who was to be ordained in the Advent Ember week, and at once begin work with his cousin David Merrifield in the Black Country. Their aunts would not go with them, as Beechcroft breezes, though her native air, were too cold for Adeline in the winter, and Jane could leave neither her, nor her various occupations, and the festivities of all Rockstone.
It is not easy to say which Gillian most looked forward to: Mysie’s presence, or the absence of the supervision which she imagined herself to suffer from, because she had set herself to shirk it. She knew she should feel more free. But behold! a sudden change, produced by one morning’s letters.
‘It is a beastly shame!’
‘Oh, Fergus! That’s not a thing to say,’ cried Valetta.
‘I don’t care! It is a beastly shame not to go to Beechcroft, and be poked up here all the holidays.’
‘But you can’t when Primrose has got the whooping-cough.’
‘Bother the whooping-cough.’
‘And welcome; but you would find it bother you, I believe.’
‘I shouldn’t catch it. I want Wilfred, and to ride the pony, and see the sluice that Uncle Maurice made.’
‘You couldn’t if you had the cough.’
‘Then I should stay there instead of coming back to school! I say it is horrid, and beastly, and abominable, and—’
‘Come, come, Fergus,’ here put in Gillian, ‘that is very wrong.’
‘You don’t hear Gill and me fly out in that way,’ added Valetta, ‘though we are so sorry about Mysie and Fly.’
‘Oh, you are girls, and don’t know what is worth doing. Iwillsay it is beast—’
‘Now don’t, Fergus; it is very rude and ungrateful to the aunts. None of us like having to stay here and lose our holiday; but it is very improper to say so in their own house, and I thought you were so fond of Aunt Jane.’
‘Aunt Jane knows a thing or two, but she isn’t Wilfred.’
‘And Wilfred is always teasing you.’
‘Fergus is quite right,’ said Miss Mohun, who had been taking off her galoshes in the vestibule while this colloquy was ending in the dining-room; ‘it is much better to be bullied by a brother than made much of by an aunt, and you know I am very sorry for you all under the infliction.’
‘Oh, Aunt Jane, we know you are very kind, and—’ began Gillian.
‘Never mind, my dear; I know you are making the best of us, and I am very much obliged to you for standing up for us. It is a great disappointment, but I was going to give Fergus a note that I think will console him.’
And out of an envelope which she had just taken from the letter-box she handed him a note, which he pulled open and then burst out, ‘Cousin David! Hurrah! Scrumptious!’ commencing a war-dance at the same moment.
‘What is it? Has David asked you?’ demanded both his sisters at the same moment.
‘Hurrah! Yes, it is from him. “My dear Fergus, I hope”—hurrah—“Harry, mm—mm—mm—brothers, 20th mm—mm. Your affectionate cousin, David Merrifield.”’
‘Let me read it to you,’ volunteered Gillian.
‘Wouldn’t you like it?’
‘How can you be so silly, Ferg? You can’t read it yourself. You don’t know whether he really asks you.’
Fergus made a face, and bolted upstairs to gloat, and perhaps peruse the letter, while Valetta rushed after him, whether to be teased or permitted to assist might be doubtful.
‘He really does ask him,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘Your cousin David, I mean. He says that he and Harry can put up all the three boys between them, and that they will be very useful in the Christmas festivities of Coalham.’
‘It is very kind of him,’ said Gillian in a depressed tone.
‘Fergus will be very happy.’
‘I only hope he will not be bent on finding a coal mine in the garden when he comes back,’ said Aunt Jane, smiling; ‘but it is rather dreary for you, my dear. I had been hoping to have Jasper here for at least a few days. Could he not come and fetch Fergus?’
Gillian’s eyes sparkled at the notion; but they fell at once, for Jasper would be detained by examinations until so late that he would only just be able to reach Coalham before Christmas Day. Harry was to be ordained in a fortnight’s time to work under his cousin, Mr. David Merrifield, and his young brothers were to meet him immediately after.
‘I wish I could go too,’ sighed Gillian, as a hungry yearning for Jasper or for Mysie took possession of her.
‘I wish you could,’ said Miss Mohun sympathetically; ‘but I am afraid you must resign yourself to helping us instead.’
‘Oh, Aunt Jane, I did not mean to grumble. It can’t be helped, and you are very kind.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said poor Miss Jane afterwards in private to her sister, ‘how I hate being told I am very kind! It just means, “You are a not quite intolerable jailor and despot,” with fairly good intentions.’
‘I am sure you are kindness itself, dear Jenny,’ responded Miss Adeline. ‘I am glad they own it! But it is very inconvenient and unlucky that that unjustifiable mother should have sent her child to the party to carry the whooping-cough to poor little Primrose, and Mysie, and Phyllis.’
‘All at one fell swoop! As for Primrose, the worthy Halfpenny is quite enough for her, and Lily is well out of it; but Fly is a little shrimp, overdone all round, and I don’t like the notion of it for her.’
‘And Rotherwood is so wrapped up in her. Poor dear fellow, I hope all will go well with her.’
‘There is no reason it should not. Delicate children often have it the most lightly. But I am sorry for Gillian, though, if she would let us, I think we could make her happy.’
Gillian meantime, after her first fit of sick longing for her brother and sister, and sense of disappointment, was finding some consolation in the reflection that had Jasper discovered her instructions to Alexis White, he would certainly have ‘made no end of a row about it,’ and have laughed to scorn the bare notion of her teaching Greek to a counting-house clerk! But then Jasper was wont to grumble and chafe at all employments—especially beneficent ones—that interfered with devotion to his lordly self, and on the whole, perhaps he was safer out of the way, as he might have set on the aunts to put a stop to her proceedings. Of Mysie’s sympathy she was sure, yet she would have her scruples about the aunts, and she was a sturdy person, hard to answer—poor Mysie, whooping away helplessly in the schoolroom at Rotherwood! Gillian felt herself heroically good-humoured and resigned. Moreover, here was the Indian letter so long looked for, likely by its date to be an answer to the information as to Alexis White’s studies. Behold, it did not appear to touch on the subject at all! It was all about preparations for the double wedding, written in scraps by different hands, at different times, evidently snatched from many avocations and much interruption. Of mamma there was really least of all; but squeezed into a corner, scarcely legible, Gillian read, ‘As to lessons, if At. J. approves.’ It was evidently an afterthought; and Gilliancould, and chose to refer it to a certain inquiry about learning the violin, which had never been answered—for the confusion that reigned at Columbo was plainly unfavourable to attending to minute details in home letters.
The longest portions of the despatch were papa’s, since he was still unable to move about. He wrote:—‘Our two “young men” think it probable you will have invitations from their kith and kin. If this comes to pass, you had better accept them, though you will not like to break up the Christmas party at Beechcroft Court.’
There being no Christmas party at Beechcroft Court, Gillian, in spite of her distaste to new people, was not altogether sorry to receive a couple of notes by the same post, the first enclosed in the second, both forwarded from thence.
‘VALE LESTON PRIORY,
‘9th December.
‘MY DEAR MISS MERRIFIELD—We are very anxious to make acquaintance with my brother Bernard’s new belongings, since we cannot greet our new sister Phyllis ourselves. We always have a family gathering at Christmas between this house and the Vicarage, and we much hope that you and your brother will join it. Could you not meet my sister, Mrs. Grinstead, in London, and travel down with her on the 23rd? I am sending this note to her, as I think she has some such proposal to make.—Yours very sincerely,
‘WILMET U. HAREWOOD.’
The other letter was thus—
‘BROMPTON, 10th December.
‘MY DEAR GILLIAN—It is more natural to call you thus, as you are becoming a sort of relation—very unwillingly, I dare say—for “in this storm I too have lost a brother.” However, we will make the best of it, and please don’t hate us more than you can help. Since your own home is dispersed for the present, it seems less outrageous to ask you to spend a Christmas Day among new people, and I hope we may make you feel at home with us, and that you will enjoy our beautiful church at Vale Leston. We are so many that we may be less alarming if you take us by driblets, so perhaps it will be the best way if you will come up to us on the 18th or 19th, and go down with us on the 23rd. You will find no one with us but my nephew—almost son—Gerald Underwood, and my niece, Anna Vanderkist, who will be delighted to make friends with your brother Jasper, who might perhaps meet you here. You must tell me all about Phyllis, and what she would like best for her Cingalese home.—Yours affectionately,
GERALDINE GRINSTEAD.
Thus then affairs shaped themselves. Gillian was to take Fergus to London, where Jasper would meet them at the station, and put the little boy into the train for Coalham, whither his brother Wilfred had preceded him by a day or two.
Jasper and Gillian would then repair to Brompton for two or three days before going down with Mr. and Mrs. Grinstead to Vale Leston, and they were to take care to pay their respects to old Mrs. Merrifield, who had become too infirm to spend Christmas at Stokesley.
What was to happen later was uncertain, whether they were to go to Stokesley, or whether Jasper would join his brothers at Coalham, or come down to Rockstone with his sister for the rest of the holidays. Valetta must remain there, and it did not seem greatly to distress her; and whereas nothing had been said about children, she was better satisfied to stay within reach of Kitty and mamma, and the Christmas-trees that began to dawn on the horizon, than to be carried into an unknown region of ‘grown-ups.’
While Gillian was not only delighted at the prospect of meeting Jasper, her own especial brother, but was heartily glad to make a change, and defer the entire question of lessons, confessions, and G.F.S. for six whole weeks. She might get a more definite answer from her parents, or something might happen to make explanation to her aunt either unnecessary or much more easy—and she was safe from discovery. But examinations had yet to be passed.
Examinations were the great autumn excitement. Gillian was going up for the higher Cambridge, and Valetta’s form was under preparation for competition for a prize in languages. The great Mr. White, on being asked to patronise the High School at its first start, four years ago, had endowed it with prizes for each of the four forms for the most proficient in two tongues.
As the preparation became more absorbing, brows were puckered and looks were anxious, and the aunts were doubtful as to the effect upon the girls’ minds or bodies. It was too late, however, to withdraw them, and Miss Mohun could only insist on air and exercise, and permit no work after the seven-o’clock tea.
She was endeavouring to chase cobwebs from the brains of the students by the humours of Mrs. Nickleby, when a message was brought that Miss Leverett, the head-mistress of the High School, wished to speak to her in the dining-room. This was no unusual occurrence, as Miss Mohun was secretary to the managing committee of the High School. But on the announcement Valetta began to fidget, and presently said that she was tired and would go to bed. The most ordinary effect of fatigue upon this young lady was to make her resemble the hero of the nursery poem—
‘I do not want to go to bed,Sleepy little Harry said.’
Nevertheless, this willingness excited no suspicion, till Miss Mohun came to the door to summon Valetta.
‘Is there anything wrong!’ exclaimed sister and niece together.
‘Gone to bed! Oh! I’ll tell you presently. Don’t you come, Gillian.’
She vanished again, leaving Gillian in no small alarm and vexation.
‘I wonder what it can be,’ mused Aunt Ada.
‘I shall go and find out!’ said Gillian, jumping up, as she heard a door shut upstairs.
‘No, don’t,’ said Aunt Ada, ‘you had much better not interfere.’
‘It is my business to see after my own sister,’ returned Gillian haughtily.
‘I see what you mean, my dear,’ said her aunt, stretching out her hand, kindly; ‘but I do not think you can do any good. If she is in a scrape, you have nothing to do with the High School management, and for you to burst in would only annoy Miss Leverett and confuse the affair. Oh, I know your impulse of defence, dear Gillian; but the time has not come yet, and you can’t have any reasonable doubt that Jane will be just, nor that your mother would wish that you should be quiet about it.’
‘But suppose there is some horrid accusation against her!’ said Gillian hotly.
‘But, dear child, if you don’t know anything about it, how can you defend her?’
‘I ought to know!’
‘So you will in time; but the more people there are present, the more confusion there is, and the greater difficulty in getting at the rights of anything.‘’
More by her caressing tone of sympathy than by actual arguments, Adeline did succeed in keeping Gillian in the drawing-room, though not in pacifying her, till doors were heard again, and something so like Valetta crying as she went upstairs, that Gillian was neither to have nor to hold, and made a dash out of the room, only to find her aunt and the head-mistress exchanging last words in the hall, and as she was going to brush past them, Aunt Jane caught her hand, and said—
‘Wait a moment, Gillian; I want to speak to you.’
There was no getting away, but she was very indignant. She tugged at her aunt’s hand more than perhaps she knew, and there was something of a flouncing as she flung into the drawing-room and demanded—
‘Well, what have you been doing to poor little Val?’
‘We have done nothing,’ said Miss Mohun quietly. ‘Miss Leverett wanted to ask her some questions. Sit down, Gillian. You had better hear what I have to say before going to her. Well, it appears that there has been some amount of cribbing in the third form.’
‘I’m sure Val never would,’ broke out Gillian. And her aunt answered—
‘So was I; but—’
‘Oh—’
‘My dear, do hush,’ pleaded Adeline. ‘You must let yourself listen.’
Gillian gave a desperate twist, but let her aunt smooth her hand.
‘All the class—almost—seem to have done it in some telegraphic way, hard to understand,’ proceeded Aunt Jane. ‘There must have been some stupidity on the part of the class-mistress, Miss Mellon, or it could not have gone on; but there has of late been a strong suspicion of cribbing in Caesar in Valetta’s class. They had got rather behindhand, and have been working up somewhat too hard and fast to get through the portion for examination. Some of them translated too well—used terms for the idioms that were neither literal, nor could have been forged by their small brains; so there was an examination, and Georgie Purvis was detected reading off from the marks on the margin of her notebook.’
‘But what has that to do with Val?’
‘Georgie, being had up to Miss Leverett, made the sort of confession that implicates everybody.’
‘Then why believe her?’ muttered Gillian. But her aunt went on—
‘She said that four or five of them did it, from the notes that Valetta Merrifield brought to school.’
‘Never!’ interjected Gillian.
‘She said,’ continued Miss Mohun, ‘it was first that they saw her helping Maura White, and they thought that was not fair, and insisted on her doing the same for them.’
‘It can’t be true! Oh, don’t believe it!’ cried the sister.
‘I grieve to remind you that I showed you in the drawer in the dining-room chiffonier a translation of that very book of Caesar that your mother and I made years ago, when she was crazy upon Vercingetorix.’
‘But was that reason enough for laying it upon poor Val?’
‘She owned it.’
There was a silence, and then Gillian said—
‘She must have been frightened, and not known what she was saying.’
‘She was frightened, but she was very straightforward, and told without any shuffling. She saw the old copy-books when I was showing you those other remnants of our old times, and one day it seems she was in a great puzzle over her lessons, and could get no help or advice, because none of us had come in. I suppose you were with Lilian, and she thought she might just look at the passage. She found Maura in the same difficulty, and helped her; and then Georgie Purvis and Nelly Black found them out, and threatened to tell unless she showed them her notes; but the copying whole phrases was only done quite of late in the general over-hurry.’
‘She must have been bullied into it,’ cried Gillian. ‘I shall go and see about her.’
Aunt Ada made a gesture as of deprecation; but Aunt Jane let her go without remonstrance, merely saying as the door closed—
‘Poor child! Esprit de famille!’
‘Will it not be very bad for Valetta to be petted and pitied?’
‘I don’t know. At any rate, we cannot separate them at night, so it is only beginning it a little sooner; and whatever I say only exasperates Gillian the more. Poor little Val, she had not a formed character enough to be turned loose into a High School without Mysie to keep her in order.’
‘Or Gillian.’
‘I am not so sure of Gillian. There’s something amiss, though I can’t make out whether it is merely that I rub her down the wrong way. I wonder whether this holiday time will do us good or harm! At any rate, I know how Lily felt about Dolores.’
‘It must have been that class-mistress’s fault.’
‘To a great degree; but Miss Leverett has just discovered that her cleverness does not compensate for a general lack of sense and discipline. Poor little Val—perhaps it is her turning-point!’
Gillian, rushing up in a boiling state of indignation against everybody, felt the family shame most acutely of all; and though, as a Merrifield, she defended her sister below stairs, on the other hand she was much more personally shocked and angered at the disgrace than were her aunts, and far less willing to perceive any excuse for the culprit.
There was certainly no petting or pitying in her tone as she stood over the little iron bed, where the victim was hiding her head on her pillow.
‘Oh, Valetta, how could you do such a thing? The Merrifields have never been so disgraced before!’
‘Oh, don’t, Gill! Aunt Jane and Miss Leverett were—not so angry—when I said—I was sorry.’
‘But what will papa and mamma say?’
‘Must they—must they hear?’
‘You would not think of deceiving them, I hope.’
‘Not deceiving, only not telling.’
‘That comes to much the same.’
‘You can’t say anything, Gill, for you are always down at Kal’s office, and nobody knows.’
This gave Gillian a great shock, but she rallied, and said with dignity, ‘Do you think I do not write to mamma everything I do?’
It sufficed for the immediate purpose of annihilating Valetta, who had just been begging off from letting mamma hear of her proceedings; but it left Gillian very uneasy as to how much the child might know or tell, and this made her proceed less violently, and more persuasively, ‘Whatever I do, I write to mamma; and besides, it is different with a little thing like you, and your school work. Come, tell me how you got into this scrape.’
‘Oh, Gill, it was so hard! All about those tiresome Gauls, and there were bits when the nominative case would go and hide itself, and those nasty tenses one doesn’t know how to look out, and I knew I was making nonsense, and you were out of the way, and there was nobody to help; and I knew mamma’s own book was there—the very part too—because Aunt Jane had shown it to us, so I did not think there was any harm in letting her help me out of the muddle.’
‘Ah! that was the beginning.’
‘If you had been in, I would not have done it. You know Aunt Jane said there was no harm in giving a clue, and this was mamma.’
‘But that was not all.’
‘Well, then, there was Maura first, as much puzzled, and her brother is so busy he hasn’t as much time for her as he used to have, and it does signify to her, for perhaps if she does not pass, Mr. White may not let her go on at the High School, and that would be too dreadful, for you know you said I was to do all I could for Maura. So I marked down things for her and she copied them off, and then Georgie and Nelly found it out, and, oh! they were dreadful! I never knew it was wrong till they went at me. And they were horrid to Maura, and said she was a Greek and I a Maltese, and so we were both false, and cheaty, and sly, and they should tell Miss Leverett unless I would help them.’
‘Oh! Valetta, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I never get to speak to you, said Val. ‘I did think I would that first time, and ask you what to do, but then you came in late, and when I began something, you said you had your Greek to do, and told me to hold my tongue.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Gillian, feeling convicted of having neglected her little sister in the stress of her own work and of the preparation for that of her pupil, who was treading on her heels; ‘but indeed, Val, if you had told me it was important, I should have listened.’
‘Ah I but when one is half-frightened, and you are always in a hurry,’ sighed the child. And, indeed, I did do my best over my own work before ever I looked; only those two are so lazy and stupid, they would have ever so much more help than Maura or I ever wanted; and at last I was so worried and hurried with my French and all the rest, that I did scramble a whole lot down, and that was the way it was found out. And I am glad now it is over, whatever happens.’
‘Yes, that is right,’ said Gillian, ‘and I am glad you told no stories; but I wonder Emma Norton did not see what was going on.’
‘Oh, she is frightfully busy about her own.’
‘And Kitty Varley?’
‘Kitty is only going up for French and German. Miss Leverett is so angry. What do you think she will do to me, Gill? Expel me?’
‘I don’t know—I can’t guess. I don’t know High School ways.’
It would be so dreadful for papa and mamma and the boys to know,’ sobbed Valetta. ‘And Mysie! oh, if Mysie was but here!’
‘Mysie would have been a better sister to her,’ said Gillian’s conscience, and her voice said, ‘You would never have done it if Mysie had been here.’
‘And Mysie would be nice,’ said the poor child, who longed after her companion sister as much for comfort as for conscience. ‘Is Aunt Jane very very angry?’ she went on; ‘do you think I shall be punished?’
‘I can’t tell. If it were I, I should think you were punished enough by having disgraced the name of Merrifield by such a dishonourable action.’
‘I—I didn’t know it was dishonourable.’
‘Well,’ said Gillian, perhaps a little tired of the scene, or mayhap dreading another push into her own quarters, ‘I have been saying what I could for you, and I should think they would feel that no one but our father and mother had a real right to punish you, but I can’t tell what the School may do. Now, hush, it is of no use to talk any more. Good-night; I hope I shall find you asleep when I come to bed.’
Valetta would have detained her, but off she went, with a consciousness that she had been poor comfort to her little sister, and had not helped her to the right kind of repentance. But then that highest ground—the strict rule of perfect conscientious uprightness—was just what she shrank from bringing home to herself, in spite of those privileges of seniority by which she had impressed poor Valetta.
The worst thing further that was said that night, when she had reported as much of Valetta’s confidence as she thought might soften displeasure, was Aunt Ada’s observation: ‘Maura! That’s the White child, is it not? No doubt it was the Greek blood.’
‘The English girls were much worse,’ hastily said Gillian, with a flush of alarm, as she thought of her own friends being suspected.
‘Yes; but it began with the little Greek,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘What a pity, for she is such an engaging child! I would take the child away from the High School, except that it would have the appearance of her being dismissed.
‘We must consider of that,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘There will hardly be time to hear from Lilias before the next term begins. Indeed, it will not be so very long to wait before the happy return, I hope.’
‘Only two months,’ said Gillian; ‘but it would be happier but for this.’
‘No,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘If we made poor little Val write her confession, and I do the same for not having looked after her better, it will be off our minds, and need not cloud the meeting.’
‘The disgrace!’ sighed Gillian; ‘the public disgrace!’
‘My dear, I don’t want to make you think lightly of such a thing. It was very wrong in a child brought up as you have all been, with a sense of honour and uprightness; but where there has been no such training, the attempt to copy is common enough, for it is not to be looked on as an extraordinary and indelible disgrace. Do you remember Primrose saying she had broken mamma’s heart when she had knocked down a china vase? You need not be in that state of mind over what was a childish fault, made worse by those bullying girls. It is of no use to exaggerate. The sin is the thing—not the outward shame.’
‘And Valetta told at once when asked,’ added Aunt Ada.
‘That makes a great difference.’
‘In fact, she was relieved to have it out,’ said Miss Mohun. ‘It is not at all as if she were in the habit of doing things underhand.’
Everything struck on Gillian like a covert reproach. It was pain and shame to her that a Merrifield should have lowered herself to the common herd so as to need these excuses of her aunts, and then in the midst of that indignation came that throb of self-conviction which she was always confuting with the recollection of her letter to her mother.
She was glad to bid good-night and rest her head.
The aunts ended by agreeing that it was needful to withdraw Valetta from the competition. It would seem like punishment to her, but it would remove her from the strain that certainly was not good for her. Indeed, they had serious thoughts of taking her from the school altogether, but the holidays would not long be ended before her parents’ return.
‘I am sorry we ever let her try for the prize,’ said Ada.
‘Yes,’ said Aunt Jane, ‘I suppose it was weakness; but having opposed the acceptance of the system of prizes by competition at first, I thought it would look sullen if I refused to let Valetta try. Stimulus is all very well, but competition leads to emulation, wrath, strife, and a good deal besides.’
‘Valetta wished it too, and she knew so much Latin to begin with that I thought she would easily get it, and certainly she ought not to get into difficulties.’
‘After the silken rein and easy amble of Silverfold, the spur and the race have come severely.’
‘It is, I suppose, the same with Gillian, though there it is not competition. Do you expect her to succeed?’
‘No. She has plenty of intelligence, and a certain sort of diligence, but does not work to a point. She wants a real hand over her! She will fail, and it will be very good for her.’
‘I should say the work was overmuch for her, and had led her to neglect Valetta.’
‘Work becomes overmuch when people don’t know how to set about it, and resent being told—No, not in words, but by looks and shoulders. Besides, I am not sure that it is her proper work that oppresses her. I think she has some other undertaking in hand, probably for Christmas, or for her mother’s return; but as secrecy is the very soul of such things, I shut my eyes.’
‘Somehow, Jane, I think you have become so much afraid of giving way to curiosity that you sometimes shut your eyes rather too much.’
‘Well, perhaps in one’s old age one suffers from the reaction of one’s bad qualities. I will think about it, Ada. I certainly never before realised how very different school supervision of young folks is from looking after them all round. Moreover, Gillian has been much more attentive to poor Lily Giles of late, in spite of her avocations.’
Valetta was not at first heartbroken on hearing that she was not to go in for the language examination. It was such a relief from the oppression of the task, and she had so long given up hopes of having the prize to show to her mother, that she was scarcely grieved, though Aunt Jane was very grave while walking down to school with her in the morning to see Miss Leverett, and explain the withdrawal.
That lady came to her private room as soon as she had opened the school. From one point of view, she said, she agreed with Miss Mohun that it would be better that her niece should not go up for the examination.
‘But,’ she said, ‘it may be considered as a stigma upon her, since none of the others are to give up.’
‘Indeed! I had almost thought it a matter of course.’
‘On the contrary, two of the mothers seem to think nothing at all of the matter. Mrs. Black—’
‘The Surveyor’s wife, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she writes a note saying that all children copy, if they can, and she wonders that I should be so severe upon such a frequent occurrence, which reflects more discredit on the governesses than the scholars.’
‘Polite that! And Mrs. Purvis? At least, she is a lady!’
‘She is more polite, but evidently has no desire to be troubled. She hopes that if her daughter has committed a breach of school discipline, I will act as I think best.’
‘No feeling of the real evil in either! How about Maura White?’
‘That is very different. It is her sister who writes, and so nicely that I must show it to you.’
‘MY DEAR MADAM—I am exceedingly grieved that Maura should have acted in a dishonourable manner, though she was not fully aware how wrongly she was behaving. We have been talking to her, and we think she is so truly sorry as not to be likely to fall into the same temptation again. As far as we can make out, she has generally taken pains with her tasks, and only obtained assistance in unusually difficult passages, so that we think that she is really not ill-prepared. If it is thought right that all the pupils concerned should abstain from the competition, we would of course readily acquiesce in the justice of the sentence; but to miss it this year might make so serious a difference to her prospects, that I hope it will not be thought a necessary act of discipline, though we know that we have no right to plead for any exemption for her. With many thanks for the consideration you have shown for her, I remain, faithfully yours,