That Sunday—that last Sunday I somehow feel inclined to call it—stands out in my memory quite differently from its fellows. Both Haddie and I felt dull and depressed, partly owing no doubt to the weather, but still more, I think, from that vague fear of something being wrong which we were both suffering from, though we would not speak of it to each other.
It cleared up a little in the evening, and though it was cold and chilly we went to church. Mamma had said to us we might if we liked, and Lydia was going.
When we came in, cook sent us a little supper which we were very glad of; it cheered us up.
"Aren't you thankful they're coming home to-morrow?" I said to Haddie. "I've never minded their being away so much before."
They had been away two or three times that wecould remember, though never for longer than a day or two.
"Yes," said Haddie, "I'm very glad."
But that was all he said.
They did come back the next day, pretty early in the morning, as father had to be at the bank. He went straight there from the railway station, and mamma drove home with the luggage. She was very particular when she went to stay with her godmother to take nice dresses, for Mrs. Selwood would not have been pleased to see her looking shabby, and it would not have made her any more sympathising or anxious to help, but rather the other way. Long afterwards—at least some years afterwards, when I was old enough to understand—I remember Mrs. Selwood saying to me that it was mamma's courage and good management which made everybody respect her.
I was watching at the dining-room window, which looked out to the street, when the cab drove up. After the heavy rain the day before, it was for once a fine day, with some sunshine. And sunshine was rare at Great Mexington, especially in late November.
Mamma was looking out to catch the first glimpse of me—of course she knew that my brother wouldbe at school. There was a sort of sunshine on her face, at least I thought so at first, for she was smiling. But when I looked more closely there was something in the smile which gave me a queer feeling, startling me almost more than if I had seen that she was crying.
I think for my age I had a good deal of self-control of a certain kind. I waited till she had come in and kissed me and sent away the cab and we were alone. Then I shut the door and drew her to father's special arm-chair beside the fire.
"Mamma, dear," I half said, half whispered, "what is it?"
Mamma gave a sort of gasp or choke before she answered. Then she said,
"Why, dear, why should you think—oh, I don't know what I am saying," and she tried to laugh.
But I wouldn't let her.
"It's something in your face, mamma," I persisted.
She was silent for a moment.
"We had meant to tell you and Haddie this evening," she said, "father and I together; but perhaps it is better. Yes, my Geraldine, there is something. Till now it was not quite certain, though it has been hanging over us for some weeks, ever since——"
"Since that day I asked you—the morning after father came home so late and you had been crying?"
"Yes, since then," said mamma.
She put her arm round me, and then she told me all that I have told already, or at least as much of it as she thought I could understand. She told it quietly, but she did not try not to cry—the tears just came trickling down her face, and she wiped them away now and then. I think the letting them come made her able to speak more calmly.
And I listened. I was very sorry for her, veryverysorry. But you may think it strange—I have often looked back upon it with wonder myself, though I now feel as if I understood the causes of it better—when I tell you that I wasnotfearfully upset or distressed myself. I did not feel inclined to cry,exceptout of pity for mamma. And I listened with the most intense interest, and even curiosity. I was all wound up by excitement, for this was the first great event I had ever known, the first change in my quiet child-life.
And my excitement grew even greater when mamma came to the subject of what was decided about us children.
"Haddie of course must go to school," she said;"to a larger and better school—Mrs. Selwood speaks of Rugby, if it can be managed. He will be happy there, every one says. But about you, my Geraldine."
"Oh, mamma," I interrupted, "do let me go to school too. I have always wanted to go, you know, and except for being away from you, I would far rather be a boarder. It's really being at school then. I know they rather look down upon day-scholars—Haddie says so."
Mamma looked at me gravely. Perhaps she was just a little disappointed, even though on the other hand she may have felt relieved too, at my taking the idea of this separation, which to her over-rodeeverything, which made the next two years a black cloud to her, so very philosophically. But she sighed. I fancy a suspicion of the truth came to her almost at once and added to her anxiety—the truth that I did not the least realise what was before me.
"Wearethinking of sending you to school, my child," she said quietly, "and of course it must be as a boarder. Mrs. Selwood advises Miss Ledbury's school here. She has known the old lady long and has a very high opinion of her, and it is not very far from Fernley in case Miss Ledbury wished to consultMrs. Selwood about you in any way, or in case you were ill."
"I am very glad," I said. "I should like to go to Miss Ledbury's."
My fancy had been tickled by seeing the girls at her school walking out two and two in orthodox fashion. I thought it must be delightful to march along in a row like that, and to have a partner of your own size to talk to as much as you liked.
Mamma said no more just then. I think she felt at a loss what to say. She was afraid of making me unnecessarily unhappy, and on the other hand she dreaded my finding the reality all the worse when I came to contrast it with my rose-coloured visions.
She consulted father, and he decided that it was best to leave me to myself and my own thoughts.
"She is a very young child still," he said to mamma. (All this of course I was told afterwards.) "It is quite possible that she willnotsuffer from the separation as we have feared. It may be much easier for her than if she had been two or three years older."
Haddie had no illusions. From the very first hetook it all in, and that very bitterly. But he was, as I have said, a very good boy, and a boy with a great deal of resolution and firmness. He said nothing to discourage me. Mamma told him how surprised she was at my way of taking it, and he agreed with father that perhaps I would not be really unhappy.
And I do think that my chief unhappiness during the next few weeks came from the sight of dear mamma's pale, worn face, which she could not hide, try as she might to be bright and cheerful.
There was of course a great deal of bustle and preparation, and all children enjoy that, I fancy. Even Haddie was interested about his school outfit. He was to go to a preparatory school at Rugby till he could get into the big school. And as far as school went, he told me he was sure he would like it very well, it was only the—but there he stopped.
"The what?" I asked.
"Oh, the being all separated," he said gruffly.
"But you'd have had to go away to a big school some day," I reminded him. "You didn't want always to go to a day-school."
"No," he allowed, "but it's the holidays."
The holidays! I had not thought about that part of it.
"Oh, I daresay something nice will be settled for the holidays," I said lightly.
In one way Haddie was very lucky. Mrs. Selwood had undertaken the whole charge of his education for the two years our parents were to be away. And after that "we shall see," she said.
She had great ideas about the necessity of giving a boy the very best schooling possible, but she had not at all the same opinion aboutgirls'education. She was a clever woman in some ways, but very old-fashioned. Her own upbringing had been at a time whenverylittle learning was considered needful or even advisable for our sex. And as she had good practical capacities, and had managed her own affairs sensibly, she always held herself up both in her own mind and to others as a specimen of anunlearned lady who had got on far better than if she had had all the "'ologies," as she called them, at her fingers' ends.
This, I think, was one reason why she approved of Miss Ledbury's school, which, as you will hear, was certainly not conducted in accordance with the modern ideas which even then were beginning tomake wise parents ask themselves if it was right to spend ten times as much on their sons' education as on their daughters'.
"Teach a girl to write a good hand, to read aloud so that you can understand what she says, to make a shirt and make a pudding and to add up the butcher's book correctly, and she'll do," Mrs. Selwood used to say.
"And what about accomplishments?" some one might ask.
"She should be able to play a tune on the piano, and to sing a nice English song or two if she has a voice, and maybe to paint a wreath of flowers if her taste lies that way. That sort of thing would do no harm if she doesn't waste time over it," the old lady would allow, with great liberality, thinking over her own youthful acquirements no doubt.
I daresay there was a foundation of solid sense in the first part of her advice. I don't see but that girls nowadays might profit by some of it. And in many cases theydo. It is quite in accordance with modern thought to be able to make a good many "puddings," though home-made shirts are not called for. But as far as the "accomplishments" go, Ishould prefer none to such a smattering of them as our old friend considered more than enough.
So far less thought on Mrs. Selwood's part was bestowed on Geraldine—that is myself, of course—than on Haddon, as regarded the school question. And mammahadto be guided by Mrs. Selwood's advice to a great extent just then. She had so much to do and so little time to do it in, that it would have been impossible for her to go hunting about for a school for me more in accordance with her own ideas. And she knew that personally Miss Ledbury was well worthy of all respect.
She went to see her once or twice to talk about me, and make the best arrangements possible. The first of these visits left a pleasanter impression on her mind than the second. For the first time she saw Miss Ledbury alone, and found her gentle and sympathising, and full of conscientious interest in her pupils, so that it seemed childish to take objection to some of the rules mentioned by the school-mistress which in her heart mamma did not approve of.
One of these was that all the pupils' letters were to be read by one of the teachers, and as to this Miss Ledbury said she could make no exception. Then,again, no story-books were permitted, except such as were read aloud on the sewing afternoons. But if I spent my holidays there, as was only too probable, this rule should be relaxed.
The plan for Sundays, too, struck my mother disagreeably.
"My poor Geraldine," she said to father, when she was telling him all about it, "I don't know how she will stand such a dreary day."
Father suggested that I should be allowed to write my weekly letter to them on Sunday, and mamma said she would see if that could be.
And then father begged her not to look at the dark side of things.
"After all," he said, "Geraldine is very young, and will accommodate herself better than you think to her new circumstances. She will enjoy companions of her own age too. And we know that Miss Ledbury is a good and kind woman—the disadvantages seem trifling, though I should not like to think the child was to be there for longer than these two years."
Mamma gave in to this. Indeed, there seemed nothing else to do. But the second time she went to see Miss Ledbury, the school-mistress introducedher niece—her "right hand," as she called her—a woman of about forty, named Miss Aspinall, who, though only supposed to be second in command, was really the principal authority in the establishment, much more than poor old Miss Ledbury, whose health was failing, realised herself.
Mamma did not take to Miss Aspinall. But it was now far too late to make any change, and she tried to persuade herself that she was nervously fanciful.
And here, perhaps, I had better say distinctly, that Miss Aspinall was not a bad or cruel woman. She was, on the contrary, truly conscientious and perfectly sincere. But she was wanting in all finer feelings and instincts. She had had a hard and unloving childhood, and had almost lost the power of caring much for any one. She loved her aunt after a fashion, but she thought her weak. She was just, or wished to be so, and with some of the older pupils she got on fairly well. But she did not understand children, and took small interest in the younger scholars, beyond seeing that they kept the rules and were not complained of by the under teachers who took charge of them. And as the younger pupils were very seldom boarders it didnot very much matter, as they had their own homes and mothers to make them happy once school hours were over.
Mamma did not know that there were scarcely any boarders as young as I, for when she first asked about the other pupils, Miss Ledbury, thinking principally of lessons, said, "oh yes," there was a nice little class just about my age, where I should feel quite at home.
A few days beforetheday—the day of separation for us all—mamma took me to see Miss Ledbury. She thought I would feel rather less strange if I had been there once, and had seen the lady who was to be my school-mistress.
I knew the house—Green Bank, it was called—by sight. It was a little farther out of the town than ours, and had a melancholy bit of garden in front, and a sort of playground at the back. It was not a large house—indeed, it was not really large enough for the number of people living in it—twenty to thirty boarders, and a number of day-scholars, who of course helped to fill the schoolrooms and to make them hot and airless, four resident teachers, and four or five servants. But in those days people did not think nearly as much as nowabout ventilation and lots of fresh air, and perfectly pure water, and all such things, which we now know to be quite as important to our health as food and clothes.
Mamma rang the bell. Everything about Green Bank was neat and orderly, prim, if not grim. So was the maid-servant who opened the door, and in answer to mamma's inquiry for Miss Ledbury, showed us into the drawing-room, a square moderate-sized-room, at the right hand of the passage.
I can remember the look of that room even now, perfectly. It was painfully neat, not exactly ugly, for most of the furniture was of the spindle-legged quaint kind, to which everybody now gives the general name of "Queen Anne." There were a few books set out on the round table, there was a cottage piano at one side, there were some faint water-colours on the wall, and a rather nice clock on the white marble mantelpiece, the effect of which was spoilt by a pair of huge "lustres," as they were called, at each side of it. The carpet was very ugly, large and sprawly in pattern, and so was the hearth-rug. They were the newest things in the room, and greatly admired by Miss Ledbury and her niece, who were full of the bad taste of the day in furniture, and would gladlyhave turned out all the delicate spidery-looking tables and chairs to make way for heavy and cumbersome sofas and ottomans, but for the question of expense, and perhaps for the sake of old association on the elder lady's part.
There was no fire, though it was November, and mamma shivered a little as she sat down, possibly, however not altogether from cold. It was between twelve and one in the morning—that was the hour at which Miss Ledbury asked parents to call.
Afterwards, when I got to know the rules of the house, I found that the drawing-room fire was never lighted except on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, or on some very special occasion.
I stood beside mamma. Somehow I did not feel inclined to sit down. I was full of a strange kind of excitement, half pleasant, half frightening. I think the second half prevailed as the moments went on. Mamma did not speak, but I felt her hand clasping my shoulder.
Then at last the door opened.
My first sight of Miss Ledbury was a sort of agreeable disappointment. She was not the least like what I had imagined, though till I did see her I do not think I knew that I had imagined anything! She had been much less in my thoughts than her pupils; it was the idea of companions, the charm of being one of a party of other girls, with a place of my own among them, that my fancy had been full of. I don't think I cared very much what the teachers were like.
What I did see was a very small, fragile-looking old lady, with quite white hair, a black or purple—I am not sure which, anyway it was dark—silk dress, and a soft fawn-coloured cashmere shawl. She had a white lace cap, tied with ribbons under her chin, and black lace mittens. Looking back now, I cannot picture her in any other dress. I cannot remember ever seeing her with a bonnet on, and yet she musthave worn one, as she went to church regularly. Her face was small and still pretty, and the eyes were naturally sweet, sometimes they had a twinkle of humour in them, sometimes they looked almost hard. The truth was that she was a gentle, kind-hearted person by nature, but a narrow life and education had stunted her power of sympathy, and she thought it wrong to give way to feeling. She was conscious of what she believed to be weakness in herself, and was always trying to be firm and determined. And since her niece had come to live with her, this put-on sternness had increased.
Yet I was never really afraid of Miss Ledbury, though I never—well, perhaps that is rather too strong—almost never, I should say, felt at ease with her.
I was, I suppose, a very shy child, but till now the circumstances of my life had not brought this out.
This first time of seeing my future school-mistress I liked her very much. There was indeed something very attractive about her—something almost "fairy-godmother-like" which took my fancy.
We did not stay long. Miss Ledbury was not without tact, and she saw that the mention of theapproaching parting, the settling the day and hour at which I was to come to Green Bank tostay, were very, very trying to mamma. And I almost think her misunderstanding of me began from that first interview. In her heart I fancy she was shocked at my coolness, for she did not know, or if she ever had known, she had forgotten, much about children—their queer contradictory ways of taking things, how completely they are sometimes the victims of their imagination, how little they realise anything they have had no experience of.
All that the old lady did not understand in me, she put down to my being spoilt and selfish. She even, I believe, thought me forward.
Still, she spoke kindly—said she hoped I should soon feel at home at Green Bank, and try to get on well with my lessons, so that when my dear mamma returned she would be astonished at the progress I had made.
I did not quite understand what she said—the word "progress" puzzled me. I wondered if it had anything to do with the pilgrim's progress, and I was half inclined to ask if it had, and to tell her that I had read the history of Christian and his family quite through, two or three times. But mamma hadalready got up to go, so I only said "Yes" rather vaguely, and Miss Ledbury kissed me somewhat coldly.
As soon as we found ourselves outside in the street again, mamma made some little remark. She wanted to find out what kind of impression had been left on me, though she would not have considered it right to ask me straight out what I thought of the lady who was going to be my superior—in a sense to fill a parent's place to me.
And I remember replying that I thought Miss Ledbury must be very, very old—nearly a hundred, I should think.
"Oh dear no, not nearly as old as that," mamma said quickly. "You must not say anything like that, Geraldine. It would offend her. She cannot be more than sixty."
I opened my eyes. I thought it would be very nice to be a hundred.
But before I had time to say more, my attention was distracted. For just at that moment, turning a corner, we almost ran into the procession I was so eager to join—Miss Ledbury's girls, returning two and two from their morning constitutional.
I felt my cheeks grow red with excitement. Istared at them, and some of them, I think, looked at me. Mamma looked at them too, but instead of getting red, her face grew pale.
They passed so quickly, that I was only able to glance at two or three of the twenty or thirty faces. I looked at the smallest of the train with the most interest, though one older face at the very end caught my attention almost without my knowing it.
When they had passed I turned to mamma.
"Did you see that little girl with the rosy cheeks, mamma? The one with a red feather in her hat.Doesn'tshe look nice?"
"She looked a good-humoured little person," said mamma. In her heart she thought the rosy-faced child rather common-looking and far too showily dressed, but that was not unusual among the rich Mexington people, and she would not have said anything like that to me. "I did notice oneverysweet face," she went on, "I mean the young lady at the end—one of the governesses no doubt."
I had, as I said, noticed her too, and mamma's words impressed it upon me. Mamma seemed quite cheered by this passing glimpse, and she went on speaking.
"She must be one of the younger teachers, Ishould think. I hope you may be in her class. You must tell me if you are when you write to me, and tell me her name."
I promised I would.
The next two or three days I have no clear remembrance of at all. They seemed all bustle and confusion—though through everything I recollect mamma's pale drawn face, and the set look of Haddie's mouth. He was so determined not to break down. Of father we saw very little—he was terribly busy. But when he was at home, he seemed to be always whistling, or humming a tune, or making jokes.
"How pleased father seems to be about going so far away," I said once to Haddie. But he did not answer.
He—Haddie—was to go a part of the way in the same train as father and mamma. They were to start on the Thursday, and I was taken to Green Bank on Wednesday morning. Father took me—and Lydia. I was such a little girl that mamma thought Lydia should go with me to unpack and arrange my things, and she never thought that any one could object to this. For she had never been at school herself, and did not know much about schoolways. I think the first beginning of my troubles and disappointments was about Lydia.
Father and I were shown into the drawing-room. But when the door opened this time, it was not to admit gentle old Miss Ledbury. Instead of her in came a tall, thin woman, dressed in gray—she had black hair done rather tightly, and a black lace bow on the top of her head.
Father was standing looking out of the window, and I beside him holding his hand. I was not crying. I had had one sudden convulsive fit of sobs early that morning when mamma came for a moment into my room, and for the first time itreallycame over me that I was leaving her. But she almost prayed me to try not to cry, and the feeling that I was helping her, joined to the excitement I was in, made it not so very difficult to keep quiet. I do not even think my eyes were red.
Father turned at the sound of the door opening.
"Miss Ledbury," he began.
"Not Miss Ledbury. I am Miss Aspinall, herniece," said the lady; she was not pleased at the mistake.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said poor father. "I understood——"
"Miss Ledbury is not very well this morning," said Miss Aspinall. "She deputed me to express her regrets."
"Oh certainly," said father. "This is my little daughter—you have seen her before, I suppose?"
"No," said the lady, holding out her hand. "How do you do, my dear?"
I did not speak. I stared up at her, I felt so confused and strange. I scarcely heard what father went on to say—some simple messages from mamma about my writing to them, and so on, and the dates of the mails, the exact address, etc., etc., to all of which Miss Aspinall listened with a slight bend of her head or a stiff "indeed," or "just so."
This was not encouraging. I am afraid even father's buoyant spirits went down: I think he had had some idea that if he came himself he would be able to make friends with my school-mistress and be able to ensure her special friendliness. But it was clear that nothing of this kind was to be done with the niece.
So he said at last,
"Well, I think that is all. Good-bye, my little woman, then. Good-bye, my darling. She will be agood girl, I am sure, Miss Aspinall; she has been a dear good child at home."
His voice was on the point of breaking, but the governess stood there stonily. His praise of me was not the way to win her favour. I do believe she would have liked me better if he had said I had been so naughty and troublesome at home that he trusted the discipline of school would do me good. And when I glanced up at Miss Aspinall's face, something seemed to choke down the sob which was beginning again to rise in my throat.
"GOOD-BYE!"
"Good-bye, my own little girl," said father. One more kiss and he was gone.
My luggage was in the hall—which was really a passage scarcely deserving the more important name—and beside it stood Lydia. Miss Aspinall looked at her coldly.
"Who——" she began, when I interrupted her.
"It's Lydia," I said. "She's come to unpack my things. Mamma sent her."
"Come to unpack your things," repeated the governess. "There must be some mistake—that is quite unnecessary. There is no occasion for you to wait," she said to poor Lydia, with a slight gesture towards the door.
Lydia grew very red.
"Miss Geraldine won't know about them all, I'm afraid," she began. "She has not been used to taking the charge of her things yet."
"Then the sooner she learns the better," said Miss Aspinall, and Lydia dared not persist. She turned to me, looking ready to burst out crying again, though, as she had been doing little else for three days, one might have thought her tears were exhausted.
"Good-bye, dear Miss Geraldine," she said, half holding out her arms. I flew into them. I was beginning to feel very strange.
"Good-bye, dear Lydia," I said.
"You will write to me, Miss Geraldine?"
"Of course I will; I know your address," I said. Lydia was going to her own home to work with a dressmaker sister in hopes of coming back to us at the end of the two years.
"Miss Le Marchant" (I think I have never said that our family name was Le Marchant), said a cold voice, "I really cannot wait any longer; you must come upstairs at once to take off your things."
Lydia glanced at me.
"I beg pardon," she said; and then she too was gone.
Long afterwards the poor girl told me that her heart was nearly bursting when she left me, but she had the good sense to say nothing to add to mamma's distress, as she knew that my living at Green Bank was all settled about. She could only hope the other governesses might be kinder than the one she had seen.
Miss Aspinall walked upstairs, telling me to follow her. It was not a very large house, but it was a high one and the stairs were steep. It seemed to me that I had climbed up a long way when at last she opened a door half-way down a dark passage.
"This is your room," she said, as she went in.
I followed her eagerly. I don't quite know what I expected. I had not been told if I was to have a room to myself or not. But at first I think I was rather startled to see three beds in a room not much larger than my own one at home—three beds and two wash-hand stands, a large and a small, two chests of drawers, a large and a small also, which were evidently considered to be toilet-tables as well, as each had a looking-glass, and three chairs.
My eyes wandered round. It was all quite neat, though dull. For the one window looked on to the side-wall of the next-door house, and much lightcould not have got in at the best of times, added to which, the day was a very gray one. But the impression it made upon me was more that of a tidy and clean servants' room than of one for ladies, even though only little girls.
I stood still and silent.
"This is your bed," said Miss Aspinall next, touching a small white counterpaned iron bedstead in one corner—I was glad it was in a corner. "The Miss Smiths are your companions. They share the large chest of drawers, and your things will go into the smaller one."
"There won't be nearly room enough," I said quickly. I had yet to learn the habit of not saying out whatever came into my head.
"Nonsense, child," said the governess. "There must be room enough for you if there is room enough for much older and——" she stopped. "At your age many clothes are not requisite. I think, on the whole, it will be better for you not to unpack or arrange your own things. One of the governesses shall do so, and all that you do not actually require must stay in your trunk and be put in the box-room."
I did not pay very much attention to what she said. I don't think I clearly understood it, for, as Ihave said, in some ways I was rather a slow child. And my thoughts were running more on the Miss Smiths and the rest of my future companions than on my wardrobe. If I had taken in that it was not only my clothes that were in question, but that my little household gods, my special pet possessions, were not to be left in my own keeping, I would have minded much more.
"Now take off your things at once," said Miss Aspinall. "You must keep on your boots till your shoes are got out, but take care not to stump along the passages. Do your hands want washing? No, you have your gloves on. As soon as you are ready, go down two flights of stairs till you come to the passage under this on the next floor. The door at the end is the second class schoolroom, where you will be shown your place."
Then she went away, leaving me to my own reflections. Not a word of sympathy or encouragement, not a pat on my shoulder as she passed me, nor a kindly glance out of her hard eyes. But at the time I scarcely noticed this. My mind was still full of not unpleasant excitement, though I was beginning to feel tired and certainly very confused and bewildered.
I sat down for a moment on the edge of my little bed when Miss Aspinall left me, without hastening to take off my coat and bonnet. We wore bonnets mostly in those days, though hats were beginning to come into fashion for young girls.
"I wish there were only two beds, not three," I said to myself. "And I would like the little girl with the rosy face to sleep in my room. I wonder if she's Miss Smith perhaps. I wonder if there's several little girls as little as me. I'd like to know all their names, so as to write and tell them to mamma and Haddie."
The inclination to cry had left me—fortunately in some ways, though perhaps if I had made mydébutin the schoolroom looking very woe-begone and tearful I should have made a better impression. My future companions would have felt sorry for me. As it was, when I had taken off my things I made my way downstairs as I had been directed, and opening the schoolroom door—I remember wondering to myself what second class schoolroom could mean: would it have long seats all round, something like a second-class railway carriage?—walked in coolly enough.
The room felt airless and close, though it was acold day. And at the first glance it seemed to me perfectly full of people—girls—women indeed in my eyes many of them were, they were so much bigger and older than I—in every direction, more than I could count. And the hum of voices was very confusing, thehumsI should say, for there were two or three different sets of reading aloud, or lessons repeating, going on at once.
I stood just inside the door. Two or three heads were turned in my direction at the sound I made in opening it, but quickly bent over their books again, and for some moments no one paid any attention to me. Then suddenly a governess happened to catch sight of me. It was the same sweet-faced girl whom mamma had noticed at the end of the long file in the street.
She looked at me once, then seemed at a loss, then she looked at me again, and at last said something to the girl beside her, and getting up from her seat went to the end of the room, and spoke to a small elderly woman in a brown stuff dress, who was evidently another governess.
This person—I suppose I should say lady—turned round and stared at me. Then she said something to the younger governess, nothing very pleasant, Ifancy, for the sweet-looking one—I had better call her by her name, which was Miss Fenmore—went back to her place with a heightened colour.
You may ask how I can remember all these little particulars so exactly. Perhaps I do not quite do so, but still, all that happened just then made a very strong impression on me, and I have thought it over so much and so often, especially since I have had children of my own, that it is difficult to tell quite precisely how much is real memory, how much the after knowledge of how things must have been, to influence myself and others as they did. And later, too, I talked them over with those who were older than I at the time, and could understand more.
So there I stood, a very perplexed little person, though still more perplexed than distressed or disappointed, by the door. Now and then some head was turned to look at me with a sort of stealthy curiosity, but there was no kindness in any of the glances, and the young governess kept her eyes turned away. I was not a pretty child. My hair was straight and not noticeable in any way, and it was tightly plaited, as was the fashion,unlessa child's hair was thick enough to make pretty ringlets. My face was rather thin and pale, and therewas nothing of dimpling childish loveliness about me. I was rather near-sighted too, and I daresay that often gave me a worried, perhaps a fretful expression.
After all, I did not have to wait very long. The elderly governess finished the page she was reading aloud—she may have been dictating to her pupils, I cannot say—and came towards me.
"Did Miss Aspinall send you here?" she said abruptly.
I looked up at her. She seemed to me no better than our cook, and not half so good-natured.
"Yes," I said.
"Yes," she repeated, as if she was very shocked. "Yeswho, if you please? Yes, Miss ——?"
"Yes, Miss," I said in a matter-of-fact way.
"What manners! Fie!" said Miss ——; afterwards I found her name was Broom. "I think indeed it was quite time for you to come to school. If you cannot say my name, you can at least say ma'am."
I stared up at her. I think my trick of staring must have been rather provoking, and perhaps even must have seemed rude, though it arose entirely from my not understanding.
"I don't know your name, Miss—ma'am," I said. I spoke clearly. I was not frightened. And a titter went round the forms. Miss Broom was angry at being put in the wrong.
"Miss Aspinall sent you to my class,Miss Broom'sclass," she said.
"No, ma'am—Miss Broom—she didn't."
The governess thought I meant to be impertinent—impertinent, poor me!
And with no very gentle hand, she half led, half pushed me towards her end of the room, where there was a vacant place on one of the forms.
"Silence, young ladies," she said, for some whispering was taking place. "Go on with your copying out."
And then she turned to me with a book.
"Let me hear how you can read," she said.
I could read aloud well, unusually well, I think, for mamma had taken great pains with my pronunciation. She was especially anxious that both Haddie and I should speak well, and not catch the Great Mexington accent, which was both peculiar and ugly.
But the book which Miss Broom had put before me was hardly a fair test. I don't remember what it was—some very dry history, I think, bristling with long words, and in very small print. I did not take in the sense of what I was reading in the very least, and so, of course, I read badly, tumbling over the long words, and putting no intelligence into my tone. I think, too, my teacher was annoyed at the purity of my accent, for no one could possibly have mistakenherfor anything but what she was—a native of Middleshire. She corrected me once or twice, then shut the book impatiently.
"Very bad," she said, "very bad indeed for eleven years old."
"I am not eleven, Miss Broom," I said. "I am only nine past."
"LITTLE GIRLS MUST NOT CONTRADICT, AND MUST NOT BE RUDE."
"Little girls must not contradict, and must not be rude," was the reply.
What had I said that could be called rude? I tried to think, thereby bringing on myself a reprimand for inattention, which did not have the effect of brightening my wits, I fear.
I think I was put through a sort of examination as to all my acquirements. I know I came out of it very badly, for Miss Broom pronounced me so backward that there was no class, not even the youngest, in the school, which I was really fit for. There was nothing for it, however, but to put me into this lowest class, and she said I must do extra work in play hours to make up to my companions.
Even my French, which I nowknowmust have been good, was found fault with by Miss Broom, who said my accent was extraordinary. And certainly, if hers was Parisian, mine must have been worse than that of Stratford-le-Bow!
Still, I was not unhappy. I thought it must be always like that at school, and I said to myself Ireally would work hard to make up to the others, who were so much, much cleverer than I. And I sat contentedly enough in my place, doing my best to learn a page of English grammar by heart, from time to time peeping round the table, till, to my great satisfaction and delight, I caught sight of the rosy-cheeked damsel at the farther end of the table.
I was so pleased that I wonder I did not jump up from my place and run round to speak to her, forgetful that though I had thought so much of her, she had probably never noticed me at all the only other time of our meeting, or rather passing each other.
But I felt Miss Broom's eye upon me, and sat still. I acquitted myself pretty fairly of my page of grammar, leading to the dry remark from the governess that it was plain I "could learn if I chose." As this was the first thing I had been given to learn, the implied reproach was not exactly called for. But none of Miss Broom's speeches were remarkable for being appropriate. They depended much more on the mood she happened to be in herself than upon anything else.
I can clearly remember most of that day. I have a vision of a long dining-table, long at least itseemed to me, and a plateful of roast mutton and potatoes which I could not manage to finish, followed by rice pudding with which I succeeded better, though I was not the least hungry. Miss Aspinall was at one end of the table, Miss Broom at the other, and Miss Fenmore, who seemed always to be jumping up to ring the bell or hand the governesses something or other that had been forgotten by the servant, sat somewhere in the middle.
No one spoke unless spoken to by one of the teachers. Miss Aspinall shot out little remarks from time to time about the weather, and replied graciously enough to one or two of the older girls who ventured to ask if Miss Ledbury's cold, or headache, was better.
Then came the grace, followed by a shoving back of forms, and a march in order of age, or place in class rather, to the door, and thence down the passage to what was called the big schoolroom—a room on the ground floor, placed where by rights the kitchen should have been, I fancy. It was the only large room in the house, and I think it must have been built out beyond the original walls on purpose.
And then—there re-echo on my ears even nowthe sudden bursting out of noise, the loosening of a score and a half of tongues, girls' tongues too, forcibly restrained since the morning. For this was the recreation hour, and on a wet day, to make up for not going a walk, the "young ladies" were allowed from two to three to chatter as much as they liked—in English instead of in the fearful and wonderful jargon yclept "French."
I stood in a corner by myself, staring, no doubt. I felt profoundly interested. This was alittlemore like what I had pictured to myself, though I had not imagined it would be quite so noisy and bewildering. But some of the girls seemed very merry, and their laughter and chatter fascinated me—if only I were one of them, able to laugh and chatter too! Should I ever be admitted to share their fun?
The elder girls did not interest me. They seemed to me quite grown-up. Yet it was from their ranks that came the first token of interest in me—of notice that I was there at all.
"What's your name?" said a tall thin girl with fair curls, which one could see she was very proud of. She was considered a beauty in the school. She was silly, but very good-natured. She spoke with a sort of lisp, and very slowly, so her questiondid not strike me as rude. Nor was it meant to be so. It was a mixture of curiosity and amiability.
"My name," I repeated, rather stupidly. I was startled by being spoken to.
"Yes, your name. Didn't Miss Lardner say what's your name? Dear me—don't stand gaping there like a monkey on a barrel-organ," said another girl.
By this time a little group had gathered round me. The girls composing it all laughed, and though it does not sound very witty—to begin with, I never heard of a monkey "gaping"—I have often thought since that there was some excuse for the laughter. I was small and thin, and I had a trick of screwing up my eyes which made them look smaller than they really were. And my frock was crimson merino with several rows of black velvet above the hem of the skirt.
I was not offended. But I did not laugh. The girl who had spoken last was something of a tomboy, and looked upon also as a wit. Her name was Josephine Mellor, and her intimate friends called her Joe. She had very fuzzy red hair, and rather good brown eyes.
"I say," she went on again, "whatisyour name?And are you going to stay to dinner every day, or only when it rains, like Lizzie Burt?"
Who was Lizzie Burt? That question nearly set my ideas adrift again. But the consciousness of my superior position fortunately kept me to the point.
"I am going to be at dinner always," I said proudly. "I am a boarder."
The girls drew a little nearer, with evidently increased interest.
"A boarder," repeated Josephine. "Then Harriet Smith'll have to give up being baby. You're ever so much younger than her, I'm sure."
"What are you saying about me?" said Harriet, who had caught the sound of her own name, as one often does.
"Only that that pretty snub nose of yours is going to be put out of joint," said Miss Mellor mischievously.
Harriet came rushing forward. She was my rosy-cheeked girl! Her face was redder than usual. I felt very vexed with Miss Mellor, even though I did not quite understand her.
"What are you saying?" the child called out. "I'm not going to have any of your teasing, Joe."
"It's not teasing—it's truth," said the elder girl. "You're not the baby any more.She," and she pointed to me, "she's younger than you."
"How old are you?" said Harriet roughly.
"Nine past," I said. "Nine and a half."
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Harriet. "I'm only nine and a month. I'm still the baby, Miss Joe."
She was half a head at least taller than I, and broad in proportion.
"What a mite you are, to be sure," said Miss Mellor, "nine and a half and no bigger than that."
I felt myself getting red. I think one or two of the girls must have had perception enough to feel a little sorry for me, for one of them—I fancy it was Miss Lardner—said in a good-natured patronising way,
"You haven't told us your name yet, after all."
"It's Geraldine," I said. "That's my first name, and I'm always called it."
"Geraldine what?" said the red-haired girl.
"Geraldine Theresa Le Marchant—that's all my names."
"My goodness," said Miss Mellor, "how grand we are! Great Mexington's growing quite aristocratic. I didn't know monkeys had such fine names."
Some of the girls laughed, some, I think, thought her as silly as she was.
"Where do you come from?" was the next question.
"Come from?" I repeated. "I don't know."
At this they all did laugh, and I suppose it was only natural. Suddenly Harriet Smith made a sort of dash at me.
"Oh, I say," she exclaimed. "I know. She's going to sleep in our room. I saw them putting sheets on the bed in the corner, but Jane wouldn't tell me who they were for. Emma," she called out loudly to a girl of fourteen or fifteen, "Emma, I say, she's going to sleep in our room I'm sure."
Emma Smith was taller and thinner and paler than her sister, but still they were rather like. Perhaps it was for that very reason that they got on so badly—they might have been better friends if they had been more unlike. As it was, they quarrelled constantly, and I must say it was generally Harriet's fault. She was very spoilt, but she had something hearty and merry about her, and so had Emma. They were the daughters of a rich Great Mexington manufacturer, and they had no mother. They were favourites in the school, partly I suspectbecause they had lots of pocket money, and used to invite their companions to parties in the holidays. But they were not mean or insincere, though rough and noisy—more like boys than girls.
Emma came bouncing forward.
"I say," she began to me, "if it's true you're to sleep in our room I hope you understand you must do what I tell you. I'm the eldest. You're not to back up Harriet to disobey me."
"No," I said. "I don't want to do anything like that."
"Well, then," said Harriet, "you'll be Emma's friend, not mine."
My face fell, and I suppose Harriet saw it. She came closer to me and looked at me well, as if expecting me to answer. But for the first time since I had been in my new surroundings I felt more than bewildered—I felt frightened and lonely, terribly lonely.
"Oh, mamma," I thought to myself, "I wish I could see you to tell you about it. It isn't a bit like what I thought it would be."
But I said nothing aloud. I think now that if I had burst out crying it would have been better for me, but I had very little power of expressing myself,and Haddie had instilled into me a great horror of being a cry-baby at school.
In their rough way, however, several of the girls were kind-hearted, the two Smiths perhaps as much so as any. Harriet came close up to me.
"I'm only in fun," she said; "of course we'll be friends. I'll tell you how we'll do," and she put her fat little arm round me in a protecting way which I much appreciated. "Come over here," she went on in a lower voice, "where none of the big ones can hear what we say," and she drew me, nothing loth, to the opposite corner of the room.
As we passed through the group of older girls standing about, one or two fragments of their talk reached my ears.
"Yes—I'm sure it's the same. He's a bank clerk, I think. I've heard papa speak of them. They're awfully poor—come-down-in-the-world sort of people."
"Oh, then, I expect when she's old enough she'll be a governess—perhaps she'll be a sort of teacher here to begin with."
Then followed some remark about looking far ahead, and a laugh at the idea of "the monkey" ever developing into a governess.
But after my usual fashion it was not till I thought it over afterwards that I understood that it was I and my father they had been discussing. In the meantime I was enjoying a confidential talk with Harriet Smith—that is to say, I was listening to all she said to me; she did not seem to expect me to say much in reply.
I felt flattered by her condescension, but I did not in my heart feel much interest in her communications. They were mostly about Emma—how she tried to bully her, Harriet, because she herself was five years older, and how the younger girl did not intend to stand it much longer. Emma was as bad as a boy.
"As bad as a boy," I repeated. "I don't know what you mean."
"That's because you've not got a brother, I suppose," said Harriet. "Our brother's a perfect nuisance. He's so spoilt—papa lets him do just as he likes. Emma and I hate the holidays because of him being at home. But it's the worst for me, you see. Emma hates Fred bullying her, so she might know I hate her bullying me."
This was all very astonishing to me.
"I have a brother," I said after a moment or two's reflection.
"Then you know what it is. Why didn't you say so?" asked Harriet.
"Because I don't know what it is. Haddie never teases me. I love being with him."
"My goodness! Then you're not like most," said Harriet elegantly, opening her eyes.
She asked me some questions after this—as to where we lived, how many servants we had, and so on. Some I answered—some I could not, as I was by no means as worldly-wise as this precocious young person.
She gave me a great deal of information about school—she hated the governesses, except the old lady, and she didn't care about her much. Miss Broom was her special dislike. But she liked school very well, she'd been there a year now, and before that she had a daily governess at home, and it was very dull indeed. What had I done till now—had I had a governess?
"Oh no," I said. "I had mamma."
"Was she good to you," asked my new friend, "or was she very strict?"
I stared at Harriet. Mamma was strict, but she was very, very good to me. I said so.
"Then why are you a boarder?" she asked."We've not got a mamma, but even if we had I'm sure she wouldn't teach us herself. I suppose your mamma isn't rich enough to pay for a governess for you."
"I don't know," I said simply. I had never thought in this way of mamma's teaching me, but I was not at all offended. "I don't think any governess would be as nice as mamma."
"Then why have you come to school?" inquired Harriet.
"Because"—"because father and mamma have to go away," I was going to say, when suddenly the full meaning of the words seemed to rush over me. A strange giddy feeling made me shut my eyes and I caught hold of Harriet's arm.
"What's the matter?" she said wonderingly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her again.
"I'd rather not talk about mamma just now," I said. "I'll tell you afterwards."
"Up in our room," said Harriet, "oh yes, that'll be jolly. We've got all sorts of dodges."
But before she had time to explain more, or I to ask her why "dodges"—I knew the meaning of the word from Haddie—were required, a bell rang loudly.
Instantly the hubbub ceased, and there began a sort of silent scramble—the elder girls collecting books and papers and hurrying to their places; the younger ones rushing upstairs to the other schoolroom, I following.
In a few minutes we were all seated round the long tables. It was a sewing afternoon, and to my great delight I saw that Miss Fenmore, the pretty governess whom I had taken such a fancy to, though I had not yet spoken to her, was now in Miss Broom's place.
Mamma had provided me with both plain work and a little simple fancy work, but as my things were not yet unpacked, I had neither with me, and I sat feeling awkward and ashamed, seeing all the others busily preparing for business.
"Have you no work, my dear?" said Miss Fenmore gently. It was the first kind speech I had had from a governess.
"It isn't unpacked," I said, feeling my cheeks grow red, I did not know why.
Miss Fenmore hesitated for a moment. Then she took out a stocking—or rather the beginning of one on knitting-needles.
"Can you knit?" she asked.
"I can knit plain—plain and purl—just straight on," I said. "But I've never done it round like that."
"Never mind, you will learn easily, as you know how to knit. Come and sit beside me, so that I can watch you."
She made the girls sit a little more closely, making a place for me beside her, and I would have been quite happy had I not seen a cross expression on several faces, and heard murmurs of "favouring," "spoilt pet," and so on.
Miss Fenmore, ifsheheard, took no notice. And in a few moments all was in order. We read aloud in turns—the book was supposed to be a story-book, but it seemed to me very dull, though the fault may have lain in the uninteresting way the girls read, and the constant change of voices, as no one read more than two pages at a time. I left off trying to listen and gave my whole attention to my knitting, encouraged by Miss Fenmore's whispered "very nice—a little looser," or "won't it be nice to knit socks for your father or brother, if you have a brother?"
I nodded with a smile. I was burning to tell her everything. Already I felt that I loved her dearly—hervoice was as sweet as her face. Yet there were tones in the former and lines in the latter telling of much sorrow and suffering, young as she was. I was far too much of a child to understand this. I only felt vaguely that there was something about her which reminded me of mamma as she had looked these last few weeks.
And my heart was won.