Star was pacing up and down in one of the corridors when Christian went past. Star called out when she saw her:
"Christian, are you using your Greek history to-night?"
"No."
"Will you lend it to me? I can't find my own copy."
"Oh, yes, with pleasure, Star. Shall I fetch it for you?"
"No; just tell me where it is and I'll get it."
"In the bookcase in front of my desk. I put it there this afternoon. It is on the third shelf."
"Thanks awfully," said Star. "What are you doing with yourself?"
"I am going to Susan; she asked me to have cocoa with her to-night."
It was one of the privileges of Penwerne Manor that the girls who slept in the White Corridor could entertain their friends now and then to cocoa. This was really anticipating their Girton or Newnham days; but for girls who were in their teens Miss Peacock was of the opinion that such privileges were good instead of harmful.
Christian ran on, therefore, in the direction of Susan's room. Star turned to Angela Goring, who happened to be walking with her when they met Christian.
"How queer she looked!" said Star.
"Do you know," replied Angela, "I am quite certain that something extraordinary is going to happen at the next meeting of the Penwernians. I can't quite make out what it is. I suspected it for some time, but when I found Susan slipping in at the back-door with a great brown-paper parcel in her hand I thought it was time to interfere.
"'Have you been shopping?' I said. 'You know we are not allowed to shop by ourselves.'
"'Old Betty, the cake-woman, gave me this,' said Susan.
"I dare say she did. It was a very big parcel. Of course it found its way to the front attic. I often wonder if we do ourselves any good by belonging to the Penwernians."
"Yes, we do. Don't be so goody-goody, Angela," cried Star. "I wouldn't do anything dishonorable, or what our darling Miss Peacock didn't approve of, for the whole world; but there's no harm in having a bit of a lark once a fortnight or so. Of course, I wouldn't regularly break the rules; but where Miss Jessie doesn't interfere, I must confess I feel my own conscience quite light. Now come along; I want to work up a little piece of Greek history. I don't half know the particulars of that famous trial of Socrates, and Professor French does so pounce on you when you happen to make a mistake."
The girls entered the classroom where the fourth class had their lessons. Star approached Christian's bookshelf, took down Grote'sHistory of Greece, and getting into a comfortable corner, opened it lazily. Angela approached her own desk, turned on the electric light and prepared to get her French exercise into as perfect order as she could.
Presently a cry from Star smote on her ears.
"Why, do look!" she said.
"What?" asked Angela.
"Oh! come here, Angela; this is too funny. See what I found in Christian's book."
As Star spoke she held up a sheet of paper. On it was written a whole list of eatables, which Star proceeded to read aloud:
"Twelve plum-tarts, twelve apricot-tarts, twelve cheese-cakes, two dozen sponge-cakes, four dozen sponge-fingers, one plum-cake, twenty-four bottles of ginger-beer, two pounds of mixed sweets."
These different items, jotted down one below the other, had their prices put against them, and the grand total amounted to nine and sixpence. There was a scrawled "Paid" put below the little account, and Star, peering down at it with her bright eyes, saw the stamp belonging to a well-known grocer in the town.
"How strange," she said. "Christian buying a whole lot of things for herself at Dawson's? Certainly neither Miss Peacock nor Jessie knows anything of this. What can it mean?"
"Oh, I know very well what it means," said Angela. "You rather crushed me just now when I spoke, but I am certain there are going to be high-jinks at the next meeting of the Penwernians. I am also sure there will be an open act of disobedience. This seems to confirm it."
"But think of Christian being mixed up with it," said Star. "Why, it's scandalous. Christian, of all people, buying a lot of food and smuggling it in. We always have been allowed to get a few sweets or chocolates when we pleased, but it was also an understood matter that we were never to have regular feasts in the house. And one of our best-understood rules is this: we are not to buy things from the tradespeople. Nine-and-sixpenceworth. Dear me! Christian must be running through her money very fast."
"She had two pounds when she first came," said Angela. "I know it, for she mentioned it; but when I asked her on Saturday last if she would lend me sixpence until my pocket-money was paid, she got that dreadful bright crimson all over her face, and then said, 'I am ever so sorry, but I haven't got it.'"
"What nonsense!" said Star. "It strikes me it is our duty is to look into this. Of course, Susan is at the bottom of it. But what a weak girl Christian must be! I am terribly disappointed in her."
"What are you going to do with that account?" asked Angela.
"Put it into my pocket and confront her with it," said Star. "She won't escape me. I shall know the truth before I am twenty-four hours older."
Angela said nothing further. She went back to her interrupted work; and Star, folding the little account into small compass, slipped it into her purse, and then resumed her study of the trial of Socrates.
The girls said nothing more with regard to this discovery; but the next day, as they were busy over their customary studies, Star from time to time watched Christian. Whatever Christian's faults might be, she was certainly a splendid student. She always mastered her lessons in that intelligent way which so delights all teachers. Her object was progress—progress at any cost. When such is the case a girl becomes delightful to teach, and those who have charge of her education give her every advantage.
Christian was already, in the opinion of some of the girls, made too much of by her teachers and by the professors.
She worked hard now, and when the time came forthe history and literature lessons she acquitted herself with her customary brilliance. The literature lesson that day was particularly interesting. It related to the trial of Socrates. It was the custom of the professor to get one girl to give a description of the lesson. To-day it was Christian's turn. Wildly enthusiastic over the greatness of the theme, she acquitted herself so magnificently that she even won the unwilling praise of Star herself. Star could never feel enthusiastic about those who were dead and gone; but Christian, as she spoke, was living back again in the ancient times. She was with the marvelous old philosopher in the market-place at Athens: she was one of those Athenian youths who crowded around him to listen to his teaching. It seemed to her that she saw the great Socrates as she spoke. There he was, harsh, ugly, forbidding, as far as exterior went; but, oh! the magical power of his voice, the thrilling sympathy in his words, the tenderness with which he addressed those who listened to him. It seemed to Christian Mitford that morning that she lived in that far-gone time. Her voice broke as she related the end of the famous trial—the reply of Socrates when he was asked what change he would wish in the sentence of death—the scorn of his words, the indignation of his judges. Finally she told of the moment when he drank the cup of hemlock and sank away into the arms of death, one of the greatest men that ever lived.
"Thank you," said Professor French. His eyes were shining as he listened to Christian's words.
Now she returned to her seat. Her eyes shone. Star, as she watched her, could not but admire; but she also pitied.
Christian was just about to put her Greek history-book in its place on the shelf when something arrested herattention. She opened the book quickly, turned page after page, and finally shook it, as though by that means she might find what she sought. Star drew close to her.
"Have you lost anything?" she asked.
"Yes, but it doesn't matter."
"Professor Munro, young ladies," called the voice of an English teacher, and another professor entered the room.
A new lesson proceeded, and again Christian scored.
Between eleven and twelve came the welcome hour of recess, and it was then that Star went up to her classmate.
"Aren't you very proud of yourself?" she asked.
"I?" answered Christian. "Certainly not."
"Then you ought to be. I never cared for poor old Socrates before. I thought it so tiresome that a man who lived so far back should still be able to worry the girls of the twentieth century. I didn't think it at all necessary to learn about him."
Christian made no reply.
"But you have made him live. Oh, how you spoke, and how your eyes shone!"
"I was interested," said Christian briefly.
Her tone annoyed Star, who began to speak less kindly.
"I wonder," she said, "if what you couldn't find when the Greek history lesson was over has got, in some strange manner, into my possession. You looked for something?"
"Yes; I put a mark in the place, and the mark was gone."
"A piece of paper?"
"Yes."
"Had it any writing on it?"
"Some items. Do you think it could be found?"
Star took out her purse, opened it, and held up the paper a few feet from Christian.
"Twelve plum-tarts," she began, "twelve apricot-tarts, twelve cheese-cakes——"
"Oh, don't go on! That paper is mine," said Christian. She turned very red. "Give it to me," she continued; "I want it."
"Of course you want it," replied Star; "but if you have no objection, I think I will just keep it."
"But why should you, Star? It's mine; please, give it to me." Christian's voice became full of distress.
"I am ever so sorry, dear, but really I don't think I can, I want it. I won't show it to anyone, of course, but I want to keep it, just as a little piece of evidence. Christian, do you know what you are doing?"
"I know quite well."
"Don't you realize that you are disobeying one of the most severe rules of the school?"
"Yes, I know."
"Did you buy those things at Dawson's?"
"You have no right to question me."
"But did you?"
"Yes."
"Out of your own money?"
"Certainly."
"You knew you were disobeying?"
"I did."
"What does this mean, Christian?"
"I can't tell you. Think of me as you please. If you show what you found when I kindly lent you my history book, you will be the meanest girl on earth."
"I am certainly not that; but you had better beware, for if you suppose that Susan's ways, and Mary Hillary'sways, and Maud Thompson's ways, and—oh, that I should have to say it!—your ways are going to be tolerated by the better class of girls in this school, you are mistaken. It is within your power to give a very serious warning to Susan; for we girls who like our fun, and yet are not really disobeying the mistresses, are in the preponderance, whatever you may think."
The elder girls of the school retired to their rooms at half-past nine. They were all expected to be in bed by ten, when Jessie went round, just opening the door of each room, peeping in, saying, "Good-night, dear," and shutting it again.
On the night that Star had shown Christian Dawson's bill, Christian went to her room as usual. The luxuries of the first days of her residence at Penwerne Manor were quite at an end. The girl stood for a minute by a window that was partly open. From there she caught a glimpse of the rolling waves of the great Atlantic as they burst in magnificent spray upon the shore. She saw the outlines of the great rocks, and farther out the solitary spark of the bell-light at sea attracted her attention. The moon was coming up in the heavens; the sky was cloudless. Christian was very susceptible to the power of Nature. Nature had ever a keen and telling voice for her. Now no smile passed over her face, no look of pleasure. She dropped the curtain and turned aside.
"I am glad the sky is clear; it makes it a little less terrible," she said to herself; and then, without undressing, she lay down between the sheets and covered herself well up.
By and by Jessie's feet coming along the corridor were distinctly heard. She opened door after door, and her cheerful "Good-night, dear," or "Sleep well, my love," sounded like the note of a watchman.Christian's door was open wide; Jessie advanced a foot or two into the room.
"Are you in bed, Christian?"
"Yes."
"Are you comfortable, darling?"
"Yes, thank you, Jessie."
"Then good-night, dear; sleep well."
"Thank you, Jessie; good-night."
The door was shut, and Miss Jessie trotted downstairs. She called the girls of the White Corridor her own special babies, and of them all she loved Christian the best. She could not tell exactly why, but the young girl had found a place in her heart from the very first.
Christian lay quiet for the best part of half an hour; then she rose very softly, and taking up a somewhat heavy basket which she had placed under the bed, crept step by step towards the door. She had managed in the daytime to oil the lock, and it now opened without the least sound. When she got into the corridor the moonlight filled the place with a white radiance; and standing there, as though waiting for her, were Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and Janet Bouverie. Susan gave her a nod of approval, and going on in front, approached the stairs which led to the front attic. They all went up in single file, sometimes, notwithstanding every effort, stepping on a creaking board. They reached the door of the attic. Susan took a key out of her pocket, unlocked it, and they entered.
Susan then made certain preparations. She lit three or four candles, not by any means making the illumination which had taken place on the night of Christian's initiation. She drew forward a chair for herself, and an old wooden box turned upside down and one or two stools for her companions.
"Now, Christian," she said briskly, "the contents of the basket, please."
Christian held out the basket without a word.
"Oh, my dear child," said Susan, "how glum you are!—not at all the cheerful sort of companion we want. You have invited us here to a feast——"
"No, I haven't," said Christian, finding her voice.
"You haven't! What an absolutely extraordinary girl, when you bought all those nice things in the basket with your own money! Here we are, prepared to be ever so sweet to you, and ever so grateful, and to demolish at least part of them. Maud, what do you say to a girl who brings up a basketful of tuck and then says shehasn'tbrought it up? It's a contradiction in terms, isn't it, Maud?"
"Very much so; but why should we quarrel with mere words?" said Maud. "The thing is that Christian has arrived on the scene with a very delicious feast, and we are all dying to set our teeth in some of those cakes. Oh, don't they smell good!"
"You can open the basket," said Christian, "and eat as many as ever you like, Maud; and so can you, Susan; and so can you, Janet."
"Come," said Susan, "do get out of your sulks, Christian. Well, if you won't, we shall enjoy our feast, however unwillingly it is given to us. Now then, for goodness' sake, new Penwernian, arrange the goodies on this table and let us fall to."
Christian immediately went on her knees and took the paper packets from the basket. Opening these, she displayed some cheese-cakes, tarts, and other good things. A number of ginger-beer bottles were next brought forward, and Susan, who complained of a furious thirst, suggested that they should regale themselves with one apiece. A small tin can was therefore filled, andthe girls drank in turns. They declared that they were famished, and thought Christian's feast nectar and ambrosia.
"Isn't it wonderful how nice it is to be naughty?" said Susan. "Don't you think so?"
"Scrumptious!" cried Maud.
"For instance," continued Susan, "don't we all go nearly mad with delight over this stolen supper, and yet our bread and cheese and cocoa were scarcely touched an hour and a half ago downstairs?"
"I wasn't hungry then," said Christian, "and I'm not hungry now."
"Oh, you are a kill-joy!" exclaimed Susan. "I only wish it had fallen to the lot of some other girl to be blessed with a little money, and we would have sent you to Coventry long ago."
"If you'd only let me alone you might have all my money," said Christian suddenly.
"Hush, hush!" exclaimed Maud. "You do talk nonsense, Christian. And, Susan, I must say you worry the poor child a good bit. Now then, let us put away the rest of the delicious food. We shall have enough here for to-morrow night, and many nights after. That's a good thing, for we shall have to come up to the attic pretty often to arrange about our great feast."
"Which takes place exactly this day week," said Susan. "Well, Christian, we are very much obliged to you, and you have a vote of thanks from the entire party. We shall expect a little further money just before the great feast, but we are collecting for it, and our funds are pretty considerable. When I think of it," continued Susan, "I feel so excited that I can scarcely sit quiet."
"There is something I want to say," exclaimed Christian at this juncture. "You know the things you made me buy——"
"Made you buy!" cried Susan.
"That you made me buy—that you insisted on my buying," continued Christian firmly. "Well, I went to Dawson's in the High Street and got the things, and brought them home myself in a big basket. I won't say anything about what I felt when I slipped out in the dark. I paid for them, of course, and Dawson gave me the bill. I didn't think very much about it, and when I was studying my Greek history yesterday I slipped it into the book as a mark."
"You did what?" cried Susan.
"I put the bill into the book without thinking. Well, last night Star asked for the loan of my History of Greece. I told her she could take it, and she found the bill, and she showed it to me to-day. She said, too, that we had better not do what we intended to do, for if we did she would tell. She said that I had done a most dishonorable thing when I bought those things in a shop in the town. She is very angry, and she thinks that you had better know that she is angry. That is really why I am here to-night; otherwise you might have got your basket up the attic stairs without any help from me."
Christian dropped down on an upturned box as she uttered the last words. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed straight before her. The other three girls were silent for nearly a minute; then Janet Bouverie took one of Christian's hands and said:
"What a miserable-looking little thing you are!"
"I am very unhappy," said Christian.
"Oh, don't listen to her now," said Susan. "Really her folly passes belief. The idea of putting that tell-tale bill into a common school-book! I never heard of anything so idiotic in the whole course of my life. Where is it now, Christian? Give it to me this minute."
"I haven't got it," said Christian. "Star wouldn't give it to me."
"You mean to tell me that Star has it—Star Lestrange?"
"Yes, I do."
"And she means to keep it, darling," suddenly cried a high, clear, voice, which as usual seemed to fall from the skies.
The next instant the gay, bright face of Star herself shone on the assembled and frightened girls.
"I have come to stay during the remainder of this meeting," said Star in a particularly bright and confident voice. "I am on the committee; you remember that fact, don't you, Susan? Will no one offer me a chair?"
Christian sprang forward and brought another box forward.
"How convenient!" said Star.
She dropped on it, crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and looked around her.
"Would you like a cheese-cake, dear?" said Susan, speaking in her usually insolent and bold voice.
She had got over her momentary terror at the sight of Star, and was now rather glad than otherwise at her appearing on the scene.
Now, Star was hungry, and she had naturally a passion for such things as cheese-cakes, queen-cakes, and sweetmeats generally, but she replied in a cold and yet apparently amiable voice:
"Not at present, thank you, Susan, dear. We had better finish our business, had we not? It must be a somewhat important affair to cause you all to meet here between ten and eleven o'clock on a night which is not a general meeting night of the Penwernians."
"We had a good deal to decide," said Susan. "Wehave to prepare for our next big party; it takes place next week. Have you forgotten, Star?"
"Oh, no," replied Star; "on the contrary, I remember very accurately. When one can only indulge in a good feed of the most unwholesome things in Christendom once a month, is one likely to forget? Nevertheless, Susan, it is strange of you not to have told me; I am a member of the committee."
"I am very sorry," replied Susan. "But really, Star, you are so changeable: at one time the most delightful, pleasant, satisfactory creature on earth, and at other times quite the reverse. We only too eagerly wanted you, dear; of course we did."
Susan held out a fat ungainly hand and tried to take the soft little white palm of Star between her own; but Star resolutely put her hands behind her back.
"I am only here on sufferance," she said; "therefore, I presume I can approve or disapprove. Continue your meeting, ladies; don't, pray, think anything about me. I have forced myself on your society."
"And we are very glad to have you," said Maud. "Aren't we, Christian?"
But Christian said nothing. Star looked at her, and her very bright eyes suddenly softened.
"Come here, Christian," she said, "and stand next to me. Perhaps, after all, though I scarcely thought so this afternoon, you and I are nearer akin than I had any idea of."
"By the way," said Susan, "I don't quite understand you, Star. You are on the committee; you are a Penwernian, and you must clearly understand that if three of the committee assemble at any time, it is what is called a quorum, and we are permitted to act for the good of the rest. We are here now arranging for our next delightful reunion in this attic. We propose thatthere should be an extra scene of magnificence on that occasion. For instance, we shall wear our fancy dresses."
Star's eyes now became brighter than ever, and her little feet ceased to cross themselves, but were put down firmly on the old deal floor of the attic.
"We shall wear our fancy dresses and disport ourselves in the most delightful fashion in the world," said Susan. "Christian's dress is not yet made, but that can be arranged. Now, however, to the case in point. You know that although our kind teacher, Miss Peacock, does not say sheapprovesof our meetings, yet she practically gives her consent to our having them; otherwise she surely would not allow Jessie to blink at the fact and let us all assemble here without taking any notice. But there is always the danger of being too confident, and it certainly was a very mad thing of Christian Mitford to do to leave a bill from a shop in town in her history-book. We should get into terrible trouble if that were discovered. I hear, Star, that you possess the bill. Perhaps you have it now on your person. If so, will you kindly tear it up in our presence?"
"Yes, I have it on my person," said Star. She sprang to her feet as she spoke. "And, girls," she continued, "I do not mean to tear it up; I mean to keep it. What I shall do with it eventually I am not prepared to disclose to-night; but I shall keep it, Susan and Maud and Janet, as a reminder to you that I have you in my power, and that if you do anything again really to break the acknowledged rules of the school, I shall disclose the story of this bill to Miss Peacock. I don't want to make serious mischief, butnoblesse obligedoes form part of my internal arrangements. I may do a wild thing and a silly thing, but I will not do a mean thing. You know the fixed rules of the school with regard to buying things in theshops. Why did you send Christian to Dawson's? Why did you force her to spend her money? You did it, Susan; I want to know the reason."
"And I," said Susan, "will not tell you."
"All right. I give you twenty-four hours from now. If you do not tell me all about the hold you have on Christian Mitford within twenty-four hours, I shall go to Miss Peacock and show her this bill."
"And get Christian and the rest of us into the most dreadful trouble," said Maud. "You can't possibly mean it, Star."
"Yes, but I do mean it; and I think you all know me. When I have made up my mind, it is made up."
"You will be a tell-tale and a turn-coat. You will be hated in the school," said Susan.
"Perhaps so," replied Star; "but I shall do it all the same. Christian, come downstairs and go to bed this minute. Oh! I am tired of underhand ways. I believe I shall cease to be a Penwernian. As to the rest of you, you can please yourselves, but Christian comes down with me. And, Susan, remember—I mean everything that I say. At seven o'clock to-morrow evening I shall be in the bowling-alley. You can come and walk with me there or not, just as you please. If you come, well and good. You can tell your story, and I will decide after hearing it how to act. If you don't come I shall show the bill to Miss Peacock.Au revoir, ladies. Come, Christian."
When Star ceased speaking she took out her purse, opened it, and produced the bill. It was folded into very minute compass, but it was there, thin and aggravating, with its items quite perceptible even in the somewhat dim light of the attic.
As she turned to go she put the bill back into her purse, and slipped the purse into her pocket; then she left the room. Christian followed her, feeling very much as though she were beaten all over. When they arrived in the corridor which led to the white rooms, Star turned and spoke.
"I believe," she said—and there was a kind tone in her voice—"that I have misunderstood you. I shall know better to-morrow night. You made a vast mistake in confiding your secret, whatever it may happen to be, to those girls. You should have told me. I am not immaculate, and I can understand even if a girl has got into a little scrape. Don't cry, Christian; I won't be hard on you—I promise that—only don't take up with that lot; they are, I assure you, beneath you. If I were a girl like you, and had a father such as I hear yours is, to say nothing of your pretty mother—for I have heard of her too—I wouldn't touch that sort of girl; I'd let her go by; I'd say to myself, 'She's not for me; she's not the sort I want to know.' Now go to bed and to sleep. Good-night."
Christian said nothing; she felt absolutely tongue-tied.She entered her little room. It was late—very late; the whole school was supposed to be sunk in slumber. She did not even dare to light her candle. She slipped off her clothes and got into bed. A chink of light from the moon came through the curtain of the window. The light lay in two very bright bars on the bed, and as the solitary moon went on her majestic way the bars of light moved, until presently they reached the young girl's shoulder, and then her ear, and then fell across her face. She gave a smothered cry, for once in her home she had read about a woman who was supposed to go mad when the moonlight covered her. Christian felt almost mad that night. She could not sleep; she lay and tossed from side to side until the morning.
The next day happened to be very wet; the sky was covered with a heavy curtain of cloud. There was a sea-fog, too, so that even the beautiful, fresh, sparkling Atlantic could not be seen. But the muffled roar of the waves broke on the stillness; otherwise there was no sound.
As Christian dressed she noticed people, looking large and indistinct in the fog, coming to the house and leaving it. Life at Penwerne Manor would go on just the same whether the outside world was foggy or full of sunshine, and whether young girls were happy or miserable. The school was a strict one, and the hours were rigorously employed; the rules were insisted on no matter whether Christian had a headache or not. Nothing short of absolute illness could excuse lessons not being performed.
She rose and went downstairs, feeling as though the weight of centuries were resting on her shoulders. She entered the long preparation-hall where the girls usually assembled when they first went downstairs. There shestood disconsolately near the door. Presently Star, looking bright and breezy and independent, passed her. She went up to Angela Goring, and standing near her, took her hand with an affectionate squeeze. Susan Marsh had not put in appearance.
Presently a teacher entered, looking sleepy and somewhat depressed. She went through the roll-call. Susan Marsh came in at the last moment, just in time to save herself from a bad mark.
The girls then went into the wide, pleasant-looking refectory, where a wholesome breakfast was provided for them. After breakfast came prayers, and then the usual lessons of the day.
Christian felt all the time as though she were living in a dream. So occupied was her mind, and so absolutely miserable and bewildered did she feel, that for the first time since her appearance in the school she disappointed her teachers. There was a special professor who always came on Wednesdays to give the girls recitation and reading lessons. He was a very irascible person, and could not stand any inattention on the part of his pupils. To find a girl like Christian, so intelligent, so full of soul and true appreciation, was like honey and ambrosia to the poor professor. To hear her read, with her pure Saxon accent and her perfect pronunciation, soothed him, he was fond of saying, as though it were the sweetest music.
He desired her to stand up now and read one of the most celebrated and magnificent passages from Milton's Paradise Lost. She had left off at a certain stanza at the previous lesson, and he desired her to proceed from the line she had last read. Christian took her accustomed place.
Now, it so happened that Miss Peacock herself came into the classroom on this occasion. Mr. Penrose haddescribed to Miss Peacock how splendidly Christian Mitford read, how in all respects she was unlike the ordinary schoolgirl of her age. He was so enthusiastic about her that Miss Peacock decided to hear the young girl herself.
"You must not spoil her by too much praise," she had said to the professor. "I am much interested in Christian Mitford, and will do all in my power for her, but I have to think of more than just the making of a brilliant elocutionist."
"But she will be far better than that," said the professor. "I am convinced she has a beautiful soul. The girl is a sort of genius, although all is more or less in embryo at present."
Now, just as Christian stood up with the open book in her hand and most eyes were fixed on her, the door opened at the farther end of the room and Miss Peacock came slowly forward. Star, who was in the same class, raised her bright eyes and fixed them first on Miss Peacock and then on Christian.
Christian had been looking pale—pale as death—but now a warm wave of color passed over her young cheeks and mounted to her smooth brow. She looked up at Miss Peacock, and even that lady, accustomed as she was to all phases of girl character, was startled at the anguish in Christian's gaze.
"Begin, Miss Mitford," said the professor—"begin." He stamped his foot with some impatience. He murmured a word or two of the opening lines, and Christian read.
But where was the enthusiasm, where the go, the fire, the pathos, of her delivery a week ago? Her voice shook with emotion then; she forgot herself in the grandeur of the scene. Now she thought only of herself—or rather she thought only of that awful hour to-nightwhen all would be known, and she would be disgraced and made miserable forever.
The book suddenly dropped from her hand; she burst into tears.
"I'm not well; I can't do it," she said.
By this frank admission she saved herself from censure. The professor muttered an apology, looked at Miss Peacock as much as to say, "Don't judge her by this ignominious failure," and went on with the lesson.
Star Lestrange was then asked to read the page aloud, and she did so with as much fire and interest as she was capable of.
Christian resumed her seat in the class, and buried her head in her hands. When the professor's hour was over Miss Peacock went up to her and asked if she would like to rest in the library.
"You are not fit for lessons," she said; "you have a bad headache. What can be the matter?"
"My head does ache, but I am quite well. I did not sleep last night; that is the reason. There is really nothing the matter. I would rather go on with my lessons please."
"You are not fit for them, dear. Obey me. There is perfect quiet in the library at present; go there and sleep. If you go, I promise that you shall not be disturbed until dinner-time."
Christian went away at once. The library was a very pleasant apartment, given over partly to the use of the elder girls and partly to the teachers. Christian entered it, sought a chair by the fire, and lay back in it, soothed for the time being by the stillness and the sleepy crackle of the flames. She was just dozing off into real sleep when a girl entered and said:
"Do you know where Star Lestrange is?"
"No," said Christian, "I don't. What is it, Alice?"
"How bad you look, Christian! What is the matter?"
"What do you want Star for?" repeated Christian.
"I wanted to give her her purse. She sent me upstairs to fetch it. She wanted it in a great hurry for some reason or other. Oh, dear! I have to go into Tregellick at once with my music-mistress. What is to be done?"
"Give it to me," said Christian; "I'll see that she gets it."
"Thank you so much!" said Alice. "Give it to her as soon as you see her, please; she wanted it at once."
"Yes," replied Christian.
Alice dropped the purse into Christian's lap and ran out of the library. She was a merry, lively girl, and did not give another thought to the purse. Christian let it lie in her lap and also forgot it; all her thoughts were centered round the evening, and round what would happen then. What was to be done? How could she live through her life in the school when all was known?
"I could run away again," she thought. "Oh, what a mistake I made to run away the last time! What an awful, awful thing it is for any girl to do the sort of wrong I did then! I should be so happy but for that. I should never take the slightest notice of a girl like Susan Marsh; and I should be very fond of Star, and Angela, and Lucy, and Louisa, and even of Jane. Jane is quite a good sort of girl. They are all of them nice—all except Susan, and perhaps Maud Thompson. Oh, what is to be done?"
She writhed in her misery, but once again the absolute stillness soothed her, and she was dozing off to sleep when she heard a door open at the far end of the room. A girl's voice said "Hush!" and then there was silence. Christian turned her head.
"Is there anybody there?" she called out; but therewas no answer, only she fancied that she heard a rustle.
She was half-disposed to rise and go down the long room to find out who was hiding; but after all, she thought, it did not matter. She was yielding more and more each moment to the influence of her comfortable seat, the pleasant fire, and the feeling of warmth and rest. Her troubles did not press her so close; they seemed to go away from her, to recede in the distance. It seemed to her that she did not greatly care what happened. She could not help herself. How sleepy she was! How pleasant the flames looked! When she shut her eyes she saw pictures. They were pictures of her old life—her mother's boudoir, and the nest of all nests behind the curtains—the softness of those pillows on which her head had once rested. Then she was in the attic with her dreams of past and future glory, her romances, her spells of idealism. Or she was with her father, and he was telling her about her grandmother, and what he hoped she herself would be. Then, again, she was in those awful slums near Paddington, and Mrs. Carter was looking in at the window. Christian cried out in her sleep:
"Go away! Don't touch me."
She started up as she spoke, and was wide awake again. A girl was walking down the room. Star's purse still lay in Christian's lap.
"What is it? What are you doing? You frightened me," said Christian.
"Sorry," replied Susan in a nonchalant voice. "I came to look for a book—the 'Heir of Redclyffe.' Don't you like it? Don't you think it a beautiful story?"
"I read it a couple of years ago; I forgot it now," replied Christian.
"Are you better for your sleep?"
"Yes, thank you."
Susan opened the door. Christian suddenly seemed to remember something. She started up, clasped Star's purse in her hand, and ran towards the open door.
"What are you going to do about—about to-night?" she said.
Susan laughed. "Nothing at all," she said.
Just at that moment Star came in.
"Oh, Christian," she said, "you have got my purse! What a search I have had for it! I sent Alice up to my room for it."
"She gave it to me," said Christian quite calmly. "She had to hurry out to her music lesson at Tregellick. She could not find you."
"I was in the bowling-alley. I want it."
Star snatched up her purse and slipped it into her pocket. She then left the room, and Christian returned to her place by the fire. Her sleep had wonderfully soothed her.
After all, nothing mattered—that is, nothing mattered much. Seven o'clock in the bowling-alley seemed a long way off. Her headache was better—nearly gone; she could endure life once more.
At ten minutes to seven that evening two girls might have been seen strolling leisurely in the direction of the bowling-alley. The fog had lifted, and the clouds had rolled by. The evenings were getting long now, and there was still plenty of daylight.
The girls entered the bowling-alley and paced up and down. Their arms were entwined; they were talking eagerly. One girl was Susan Marsh, and the other her special friend Maud Thompson.
"Well," said Maud, "what do you mean to do? Star is quite certain not to give up the bill. Will you confess to her? Will you throw yourself on her mercy?"
"Never!" said Susan. "I am not that sort."
Maud's eyes narrowed. She looked frightened.
"It is a very awkward thing," she said after a pause, "and it makes me downright uncomfortable. Just at present, too, when the Easter holidays are coming; and then all the prizes which we are to compete for at the grand break-up in summer. It's horrid to be in hot water, and we are certain to be if it is known that you sent Christian to Dawson's to buy those things."
"She won't tell," said Susan. "Don't fret yourself; it's all right, I assure you."
"You are a wonderful girl, Susan, but you can't make wrong right. As Star has the bill and nothing will induce her to give it up, I don't see where we are. It seems to me it would be better to tell her than for the whole school to know. She could not be too spiteful or too much of a traitor to her own cause."
"She's a horrid girl and I hate her," said Susan. "She's just the sort that makes more mischief than anybody else. She's neither bad nor good; she's lukewarm. And you know what the Bible says about lukewarm people. I hate her, and I'm not ashamed to say so."
"Of course, I must be guided by you, Susan; but I do trust you not to get me into a scrape."
"I will do what I can; you have no cause to be the least alarmed," said Susan. "Ah! here comes Janet. She hasn't half nor quarter your spunk, Maud, as a rule, but really she looks more calm and collected to-night."
Janet ran up quickly. "The others are coming," she said. "I wonder what is going to happen. I can't help feeling awfully troubled."
"I think the whole thing most horrible," said Maud.
Susan pinched her arm. Just then Star and Christian appeared. Star was holding Christian by the arm. The girls walked slowly forward.
"There is no hurry," said Star; "it will soon be over."
"I wish I was dead," said Christian in a moaning voice.
"Oh, don't be silly!" said Star. "You will soon see for yourself what a jolly time we shall have together. Now then, here they are."
Star walked up to Susan.
"Well, Susan," she said, "the time is up; what do you mean to do?"
Susan gave a slow smile. Her smiles were some of the most aggravating things about her. She always smiled when others stormed.
"Be quick," said Star; "I am in a hurry. I have got to see Miss Peacock before eight o'clock."
"But suppose you don't want to see her at all?" suddenly said Maud.
"I hope I may not have to see her, Maud; I would much rather not. Now, Christian, my dear, good, frightened child, just stand near me, and don't shake so terribly from head to foot. I can't get the mystery out of Christian, Susan, so I have come to you. You know her secret. Most likely it is all nonsense; but anyhow she has confided it to you."
"I did not," suddenly interrupted Christian.
"Then how did you get hold of it, Susan?"
Again Susan smiled, and again she was absolutely silent.
"Oh, bother!" said Star; "we needn't inquire now into the why and wherefore of your knowledge. All we have got to discover—and to discover pretty quickly, too—is what your power over Christian consists of. Why is she afraid of you? Why has she, who is naturally amiable and good and honorable, deliberately turned round and become dishonorable and treacherous? I must say it, Christian, for it is the truth. She is afraid, and I want to get to the bottom of it. You force her to disobey the rules of the school. Why, a girl could be expelled for what you made Christian do. You made her break one of the strictest rules when you ordered her to go out and buy those things for the feast that ought never to be held."
"I like that!" cried Susan. "It doesn't sound well for you to talk, you who have enjoyed those tarts and cheese-cakes and jolly things in our attic."
"It's quite true. I have enjoyed them; but I always made up my mind that if Miss Peacock spoke to me about it I would tell her frankly. I know Miss Peacock has an inkling that we enjoy ourselves occasionally in that fashion. I know also that Jessie is aware of it.But I have never done anything really underhand. I have never bought tarts and cheese-cakes outside. When I gave a feast the things were sent to me from home. Miss Peacock doesn't object to my having hampers from home twice every term; and as the cakes and sweetmeats are always sent in tin boxes, they last a long time. But that is not the point. The point is this: why is Christian Mitford afraid of you—so much afraid of you that she does wrong because you tell her to? It isn't her wish to do wrong. It is contrary—altogether contrary—to her nature. Why, too, should she spend her money? Hitherto, when we gave feasts in our attic, we subscribed, each of us according to our means. Why should Christian spend her money on food for the rest of you?"
"You can ask her," said Susan. "She can tell you exactly what she likes. Speak, Christian; we are all ready to listen. Tell all about that night—that wonderful night; tell all about Rosy; tell about——"
"Don't!" said Christian in a voice of agony.
"You see for yourself she doesn't want you to know, Star. She would infinitely prefer your being left in ignorance. Much as you think of her, honorable as you esteem her, compared to your humble servant, she has done something which Maud and Janet and I would scorn to do. I have not told Maud, and I have not told Janet. I have been singularly merciful to Christian, and she knows it. Now, I wanted a little money for this special feast, and she was kind enough to offer to lend it to me. And as to the thing you accuse her of—namely, having got the cakes and things from Dawson's in the High Street—I ask you what proof you have?"
"Proof!" cried Star. "How extraordinary you are! I can show it; and I will, too. This kind of thing must not go on. I won't be a party to it."
"Very well," replied Susan; "you must please yourself. The bill is the thing that condemns, is it not?"
"Yes; it proves the truth of my words."
"Where is it? I should like to see it."
"In my purse; you know that. You saw me put it there last night. I have not touched it since."
"Very well," said Susan; "I think that is all. Now, I have a statement to make. I refuse to betray poor Christian. She did some very wrong and shameful things, but I am not going to tell. I am a good friend, although some people don't think so. Cheer up, Chris. Do your worst, Star; do your very worst."
There was a mocking tone in Susan's voice, and a look of defiance all over her. She held herself very erect; her large face was flushed, and her eyes looked calm as well as daring.
"I wish you luck, Star; I wish you luck," she said.
Star put her hand into her pocket and took out her purse.
"I said I would do it, and I will," she said. "It is horrible beyond words, but I must do what I said. I shall take it with me and go. I said I'd go. It is all hateful. I could cry about the whole thing; but it is the only way to save Christian."
"A nice way of saving her!" said Susan. "You talk about saving her and you get her into a most terrible row."
"I would rather do that than have her any longer in your power," said Star.
As she spoke she bent her little head and looked into the purse. Her curly hair fell forward over her eyes; she pushed it back impatiently.
"It is dark," she said, "but I ought to see it. I don't see it. Where can it be?"
Susan had partly turned away.
"Where is what?" she asked, and she returned again to her post close to Star's side.
"Why, the bill—the bill from Dawson's. I put it into this division last night. Where is it?"
"How can I say?" replied Susan. "I don't keep your purse. I saw you put it in and have neither seen it nor heard of it since."
Star's face turned very white. She looked full at Christian.
"Do you know, Christian?" she said.
"Certainly not," said Christian. "Alice gave me your purse when I was sitting in the library by the fire. She threw it into my lap. I had a headache and fell asleep. It lay in my lap when I slept. I did not touch it until you came in. Then I gave it to you."
"Oh!" cried Susan, with a laugh, "I don't think that story will hold water."
She laughed loudly. Then she clutched Maud by the shoulder.
"You see, Maud, we have nothing to fear. Chris, I congratulate you; you acted with great promptitude and decision. You are one of us now. Oh, Chris, Chris! to think you were really so knowing as all that."
Christian did not at first understand; but suddenly the knowledge of Susan's cruel words burst upon her—the knowledge and what that knowledge meant. A crimson tide mounted to her face.
She turned to say a word to Star, but Star had gone.
"Why have you sent for us, Star?" said Lucy Norris.
Star was in her own room. It was the prettiest room in the White Corridor. She had it to herself, her parents paying a little extra to secure her this privilege. Round the fireplace were arranged two or three chairs, a little writing-table, and a couple of footstools. Star had a fire whenever she particularly wished for it. It was blazing brightly that evening. The electric light made the room as bright as possible. Star was standing by the fireplace.
"Why have you sent for us?" said Lucy Norris. "Here we all are, but what is the matter?"
"All" consisted of Lucy Norris herself, Angela Goring, Jane Price, Philippa Dawson, and Louisa Twining. The two Sixth Form girls appeared last. Star did not answer. When Philippa entered the room she just nodded to her to close the door. Star as a rule was the gayest of the gay; her laugh was the merriest in the whole school. She was about the most popular girl at Penwerne Manor. She always had a little following of girls, and although she herself was not yet promoted to the Fifth Form, she led girls even of the Sixth. Louisa Twining and Philippa Dawson both looked anxious as they came into the room.
"Here, Louisa," said Star, pointing to what might be considered the place of honor; "will you seat yourself here? And will you, Philippa, take the other chairexactly opposite? Now, girls of the Fourth, establish yourselves where you like. I have something important to say—something that I must say now or forever after hold my peace."
"This is all very dramatic," said Philippa; "but I really want to know what it means. We have your very best interests at heart, Star; and I am sure I can say, both for myself and Louisa, that we would follow you to the world's end. But why were we disturbed just when we were enjoying a special supper with Miss Forest and Mr. Frederick? Mr. Frederick had promised to play Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique for us after supper. Well, what is it?"
"Of course, the occasion is important," said Star. "I have something to say—something dreadful, which hurts me," said the little girl, and her lips trembled. "I have a complaint to make, and I must make it to you. I wish to say in the presence of you all that I want to have nothing whatever to do in the future with Christian Mitford."
Now, Louisa knew very little of Christian. It is true she had taken her in hand during her first day at school, but being very far removed from her in class and at play, she had more or less forgotten her existence.
Philippa, however, raised her dark brows and looked full at Star.
"I have noticed Christian," she said. "She seemed to me to be a particularly nice and well-behaved girl—the sort of girl that you would be sure to take up, Star, for you always know a thoroughly nice girl when you see her."
"I did think I had that penetration," said Star; "but it seems I was wrong. I took a fancy to Christian; I repent of my fancy. I was mistaken; I wish to say it now in the presence of you all."
"It seems an extraordinary thing to send for us to consider," said Louisa, speaking again.
"And I wish further to say," continued Star, "that I believe you, Lucy; you, Angela; you, Jane; and I myself are all doing wrong to have anything to do with the Penwernians. I know, Louisa, that you and Philippa have not joined our great secret society; but of course you have heard of it."
"Oh, yes," said Philippa; "I am quite aware of its existence. I think everyone in the school knows about it."
"Even Miss Peacock herself," said Louisa.
"Yes, even Miss Peacock herself," continued Philippa. "But Miss Peacock sees no harm in it. If she did she would put a stop to it. She once said to me:
"'I don't consider it part of the duty of a head mistress to interfere with the girls as long as they do no wrong. A little secret and mystery is as the breath of life to a schoolgirl, and I shall not interfere as long as nothing wrong is done.'"
"Ah!" said Star, "that is just it. I used to adore mystery," she continued, with a sigh. "I used to think it quite delicious, but I have changed my mind; I no longer think it delicious. I hate and loathe mystery as much," she continued, speaking with vehemence—"as much as I hate and loathe Christian Mitford."
"But what has the poor child done?" said Louisa Twining. "It must be something very bad, Star, for you to behave in this peculiar way. Are you going to tell us?"
"No, I won't tell you, for you would not be interested, and you need not know. She had better beware, however, for if she goes on with her evil practices I shall tell Miss Peacock."
"Perhaps you forget," said Louisa, speaking a littlesternly, "that the poor child is practically an orphan, both her parents being at the other side of the world."
"I don't forget it," said Star; "I remember it quite well. I know Miss Peacock is interested in her; she has spoken about her several times. But Miss Peacock does not know her. She does not belong to Miss Peacock's set in this school. I shall watch her. I thought I would tell you about her, but I won't; I will give her another chance. But if she goes on as she has been doing lately I shall certainly tell. I don't mind what she thinks; she belongs to the Susan Marsh set."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Philippa, "I am amazed at that."
"It is true; I have sent for you to let you clearly understand that Christian Mitford belongs to one set of girls in the school, and that I belong to the other; and I don't care whether you think me right or wrong. And I have given up the Penwernians. Lucy, Angela, and Jane, you must represent the committee in future, for I have given up the Penwernians."
"Well," said Lucy, "I will have nothing to do with it if you don't."
"I am glad to hear that."
"Nor I," said Angela Goring.
"Nor I," said Jane Price.
"Very well; I believe you all are right. They are going to have a meeting in a few nights, and we will attend and give in our resignations. After that we shall have nothing whatever to do with the society."
Louisa rose. "I consider this meeting rather unprecedented and, if I may add it, uncalled for," she said. "No girl has a right to accuse her schoolfellow, as you have accused Christian Mitford to-night, without the gravest reason. If you will tell me, and allow me as the head girl of the school to give you a little advice, Ishall consider what you say absolutely sacred; but as it is you bewilder me."
"You are not more bewildered than I am," said Star; "not more bewildered nor more disappointed. But as to telling you, there is no use, Louisa. I would if I thought it would make any difference, but it won't; she is past curing."
"No one is past curing," said Louisa. "I am extremely sorry for you, Star. I think you have taken up a wrong notion altogether."
Star said nothing. Philippa and Louisa a few minutes afterwards left the room, and the four girls who had considered themselves Christian's bodyguard were alone.
"Why shouldn't you tell us?" said Angela. "It is very odd to call us together like this, and to draw two of the Sixth Form girls into the matter, and then not to confide in us."
"If I told you, you could not live in the same school with her, so I won't tell you," said Star. "I will give her just a chance, although I will have nothing to do with her; but if she goes on with her bad ways I shall certainly tell Miss Peacock."
Meanwhile a pale girl was walking swiftly down the corridor. The white chamber where Christian slept was near Star's room. Angela Goring slept in the room next to Christian's; Star's room came next, and then Jane Price's. Christian entered her room now and shut the door. It felt cold and desolate. The fog had been followed by a cold night; there was a slight frost. Christian did not even trouble to turn on the electric light; she went straight across the icy-cold chamber and flung herself, dressed as she was, on the bed. There was a warm eider-down quilt on the bed, but she did not trouble to wrap herself in it. She lay still, and the cold pierced through her body, and the iron of adversity entered intoher soul. She was too much stunned, too miserable, too frightened to care. She felt as though someone had tied her up in chains that she could never get rid of again; she could never extricate herself.
There come times when such trouble visits the human heart that it can scarcely realize what has befallen it. Such a time had come to-night to Christian. Susan had got her into her trap, and those girls whom she had believed to be her friends had turned against her. She had seen Star in the distance when the girls entered the refectory for supper, and the look on Star's face, as her bright eyes fixed themselves for one moment on Christian was one which the poor child could never forget. It was impossible for Christian to eat. She could not attend to her lessons; the headache which she had endured during the early part of the day was so bad that she was glad to ask Jessie's permission to retire earlier than usual.
As she lay on her bed she heard a sound, and looking up, she noticed that she had not fastened her door properly when she entered, and that it was now a little ajar. There was a rustle of dresses as the girls went by, and then she heard the well-known, beautiful voice of Angela Goring saying:
"I never should have thought it of her, and if anyone else except Star had told me, I should not have believed her."
"But Star, with all her wildness, never exaggerates," said Lucy Norris. "Dear, dear! whowouldhave thought it?"
"They are speaking of me," thought Christian. "I can't live through this; I can't endure it. What is to be done?"
They had scarcely gone to their own rooms before the door was opened and little Jessie entered. In atwinkling there was a change of scene. She turned on the electric light. She glanced toward the bed, and the flushed face and tear-stained eyes of the girl she loved best in the entire school met her gaze.
"This will never do," thought Jessie.
She put a match to the fire, which was already laid in the grate, and soon the crackling of the wood and the cheerful light of the blaze transformed the room. Then she went up to the bed.
"My child," she said, "how cold you are! Let me just put this eider-down over you."
She wrapped it around Christian, who shivered with a sort of forlorn sense of comfort.
"My poor, dear child, you are ill."
"My head aches," said Christian. "It has been aching all day."
"What can be wrong, darling?"
"Everything, Miss Jessie."
"Oh, we often feel like that when we have headaches. But come; you must get into bed. I will undress you; then I will bring you a cup of something hot, and after that you will sleep."
Christian was so thoroughly miserable that Miss Jessie's ministrations were gratefully received. She allowed the little woman to take off her things and to lay her between the sheets, to wrap the eider-down over her, and then put her cool, firm hand on the burning forehead.
"I'll be back in a minute, darling," she said. "You took no supper this evening. That is the worst way in the world to treat a headache of your sort. I'll be back immediately."
In a very short time Miss Jessie returned with a little tray containing a cup of hot coffee and some bread and butter.
"Now you must eat, Christian," she said; "you must eat and drink. Afterwards you shall sleep."
Christian did eat and drink. It was wonderful how the food revived her, how altogether less miserable the world seemed when she had finished her little meal.
"And now you won't guess what I have got for you," said Miss Jessie.
"No, Jessie, I can't. And you can't have brought me anything—anything at all that I should care for."
"Yes, but I have. What do you say to two letters?"
"Letters?" said Christian, the color rising to her cheeks.
"A foreign letter—I think it must come from your father or mother—and a letter from London. Here they are. Put them under your pillow. It is too late for you to read them to-night; or if you would really rather——"
"Give them to me," said Christian. She looked at the writing. "Yes, from father," she said; "and from my dear old nurse. I won't read them to-night," she continued. "I don't think I could understand them. Jessie, the most dreadful thing has happened, and I can never, never be happy again. I don't deserve anything good, for I have been a naughty, bad girl, and I am, oh, so miserable and unhappy!"
"I tell you what it is, Christian," said Miss Jessie: "if you don't go to sleep, and in the morning tell me all about it, I will take you straight to Miss Peacock. That I will, for though I am an easy-going woman, when my blood is up I can be as despotic as the greatest virago in the land."