"Thirteen," said Christian.
"When will you have a birthday?"
"In three months' time."
"Mary Hillary, pray note in the archives of this society that the new victim, Christian Mitford, is thirteen years and nine months of age."
Mary, who was standing by a sort of little desk, opened it, took out a paper volume of most disreputable appearance, opened it, made an entry, with a sort of giggle, and then stood silent.
"It is your penalty, Christian Mitford, to put into the wooden bowl that lies at your feet a large caramel,fondant, or chocolate for each month of your life. Who will solve the riddle of the months of Christian Mitford's life?"
Star immediately cried out:
"One hundred and sixty-five months."
"To that great age have you attained, Christian Mitford, and your penalty is that, having lived so long in the world, you must place upon the altar of our friendship a lollypop or other sweet for each of your months. You do this for the good of the community. The penalty is slight, and not at all in accordance with the offense."
"But I can't imagine what the offense is," said Christian suddenly. "As to having lollypops, there is a large box in my bedroom, and you are all welcome to have them if you like."
At this minute Star rose, and turning to Lucy, Jane, and Angela, motioned to them to follow her. The four girls came forward in single file, and each dropped on one knee before Christian and laid a box of chocolates at her feet.
"We are proud to be your ministers on this occasion," said Star, "and we have brought the penalty which you in your ignorance knew nothing about."
"I don't call that at all fair," cried Susan. "We all know that if a girl can't offer the necessary confectionery she has to give another forfeit of a different nature, and that forfeit is often of greater value to the society. But there!" she added, seeing that Star frowned, "if we must submit, I suppose we must. Be thankful to your ministers, therefore, Christian Mitford. Take up the sweets and deposit them in the bowl, but be sure you have the right number. Be sure you have one hundred and sixty-five sweetmeats—one for each month of your life."
Christian took up the boxes and unfastened them. Several girls crowded round as she reckoned them out and placed them in the bowl. Susan stood by counting with her lips as Christian deposited the sweets in their receptacle.
"So far so good," she said. "The fact of your having paid this forfeit exonerates you from other unpleasantnesses which certainly would have been your lot had those four girls, Star Lestrange, Lucy Norris, Jane Price, and Angela Goring, not come to the rescue. But now we have other matters to attend to. You know—or, if you don't know, you must be told—that any girl who comes to Penwerne Manor and doesn't enter into our secret society is outside in every sense of the word. She may be loved by her teachers—such a thing is quite possible—but she certainly will not be loved by the girls. She will not be allowed to share in any of the real conviviality of the school—the secret banquets, for instance. Now, girls, can any of you give a description of what the secret banquets are really like?"
Star jumped to her feet and began to speak eagerly.
"They're very naughty," she said. "They are conducted without our teachers knowing anything about them. They occur once a month—here. We generally assemble about half-past ten at night, and go back to our rooms about half-past eleven. We collect during the month for the expenses of the banquet. Our food is generally brought in by means of a basket and a rope through the attic window. The fun of the thing is to do it secretly. We try not to be too naughty, but we certainly have a gay time."
"It sounds interesting," said Christian, who felt that she could enjoy it; "but does Miss Peacock know?"
"Does Miss Peacock know?" suddenly exclaimed Maud Thompson, raising her voice for the first time, and giving Christian an angry look. "I'd like to see the girl who would tell Miss Peacock. Jessie knows; but then nobody minds Jessie. The other teachers don't know, and I trust never will. Mademoiselle is an old horror. We have to keep it from Mademoiselle, whatever happens."
"Now, you, Christian Mitford," continued Susan, "can, if you like, remain outside the society; but of course you will not."
"No, Christian," said Star; "you must join."
"And having joined, you must adhere to the rules," said Susan. "Now, to make the ceremony of membership of value, we always tattoo a tiny mark on the arm of a new member. We do this with nitrate of silver, a small bottle of which is kept up here. It hardly hurts at all, and if the victim objects——"
"Certainly, if you object, Christian, it is not to be done," said Star; "but," she added, with a laugh, "you had much better submit."
"I don't mind a bit," said Christian. "I have gone through worse things than that," she added.
Susan's eyes brightened and grew suddenly big. She fastened them on the young girl's face.
"I haven't the least doubt," she said, "that you will be an acquisition. You seem to have courage. Some girls get in such a funk."
"But I won't join," said Christian firmly, "until I know what it means."
"It means that we are to stick to each other through thick and thin; that you are never to tell; that when the members of the committee—I am one, Star Lestrange is another, Angela Goring is another, and Janet Bouverie is another—that when we decide on a certainmode of action all the members have to adhere to it. They have to follow in our lead and submit to our dictum. Fresh members are elected on the committee every half-year, and on that day, the ceremony is very important indeed. The girls greatly like the present set—don't you, girls?"
There was a loud cheer, particularly in the neighborhood of Star Lestrange. Susan looked round her and slightly frowned.
"Each member has to subscribe something out of her own private pocket-money once a week to the funds of the society," said Susan; "and if possible she ought to begin with a handsome donation. What can you afford, Christian Mitford? You look as though you had plenty of money. I hope you will be able to put a good sum into the funds."
"A shilling is the usual thing," called out Star across the room.
"It would be better for you to give more," said Susan, gazing at Christian uneasily.
"I will give five shillings."
"Naughty, naughty little t'ing," said Star's ventriloquist voice over Christian's head.
"You really can't be allowed to break the rules in this fashion, even if you are a member of the committee, Star Lestrange," said Susan. "We shall be glad of five shillings, Christian. You don't seem to be such a formidable person nor so badly behaved as I expected. We will now, if you please, perform the ceremony of initiation."
The girls crowded round. Susan came forward.
"On this occasion," she said, "you, Maud Thompson, will perform the ceremony on Christian's arm."
Christian bared her arm, and Maud, with a tiny caustic pencil, wrote the word "Penwernian" in verysmall letters just above her elbow. The caustic smarted slightly, but the pain was nothing to speak of.
"Now," continued Maud, "you belong to us, Christian Mitford—or at least you very nearly do. You have still to write your name in blood in this book. Don't be startled; just prick your finger. Here's the needle we always use for the purpose. Shall I do it for you?"
Before Christian could reply Maud made a sharp prick on her first finger, and a large drop of blood appeared. The pen was then put into Christian's hand, and she wrote her name in the members' book.
"Now you belong to our secret society," continued Maud. "You know what we know; you do what we do. Through thick and thin you will be faithful to us; through trouble and joy you belong to us. You would sooner have your heart cut into little bits than betray us. Very well, that is all right. Now begins the real pleasure of the evening. Girls," continued Maud, turning and facing the other girls as they crowded round her, "it is permitted, in honor of the new member, that the caramels, fondants, etc., put into that wooden bowl should now be divided. Long life to the new member. Christian, you as fresh member are permitted to eat one month of your life."
"Really," said Christian, laughing, "this sounds very formidable. I don't know that I want to eat away any part of my life."
She thought the ceremony had come to an end, and was rather relieved than otherwise; but her happiness was short-lived, for Susan came over and said calmly:
"Now then, be as quick as you can and give us an account of why you were unavoidably detained. Your unavoidable detention has been the talk of the school for the last fortnight. Now, we want to learn all aboutyou; for understand, it is absolutely necessary that each member of our secret society should have the full confidence of all the other members. The sooner, therefore, you begin to tell us your life's history the better."
Susan now, with quick, deft movements, removed the candles from their places by the wall, and placed them round the wooden bowl, which no longer contained any fondants, for they had all been devoured by the greedy Penwernians. The candles were arranged in a circle, and the girls were invited to seat themselves in a wider circle just beyond. Christian alone was so placed that the light from the candles should fall on her face.
"Now begin, please," said Susan; "all about your unavoidable detention first. And don't prevaricate; the soul of truth is the leading motive of our society. We scorn to conceal anything; we just speak the simple truth on all occasions."
There was a pause. For a minute it seemed to Christian as though she heard the beating of her own heart. She was quite still, and it was not until a small sharp voice sounded at the back of her ear: "It is the first step that costs"—that she found her voice.
Really Star was too trying, but she had the effect of stimulating the young girl into a terrible effort to control herself.
"I am very much obliged to you all for being so anxious to know about me," said Christian, "and I will tell you about my past life from time to time if you really desire it; but I don't intend to mention why I was kept from school. That is my own secret, and I intend to keep it."
"Naughty new member; that will never do," cried several gay voices.
"Hush!" said Susan in an imperative tone. "We all know what happens when members of this society refuse to obey the committee. But we will speak of that later on. Tell us just what you wish to tell us now, Christian."
"I will tell you a story," said Christian suddenly, "and it's all about myself."
"A story—that's good!" cried Agnes Temple, a look of satisfaction crossing her commonplace little face. "I love stories about people." Then, fixing her eyes on her companion's face, she said, "I like Christian Mitford—don't you?"
"Please don't talk any more in that whisper," suddenly exclaimed Star. "Now then, Christian, we will not compel your confidence to-night. It might have been," she continued, glancing round at her fellows, "anything. It might mean an accident to the head or to the heart, in which case it would be extremely dangerous to press for an explanation. You shall tell us just what you like, Christian," she continued, "only don't draw on your imagination if you can help it."
"What I tell you will be true," answered Christian, "only I don't suppose any of you will believe me. I am an only child. All my days I should have been terribly lonely but for my attic."
"Oh, dear!" cried Maud Thompson; "perhaps she has belonged to other secret societies. She would have been very lonely but for her attic. Please tell us all about your attic."
"I will," said Christian, "if you won't interrupt."
She then proceeded to give a vivid picture of her early days. She described her life so that the girls who listened no longer interrupted with silly words orsarcastic remarks; they were so interested that they forgot themselves. Christian spoke of her doll days, then of her fairy-story days, and last of her heroic days. When she got to the subject of Joan of Arc it seemed to the girls that no history had ever been so thrilling.
"It was one dreadful dark day," she continued, suddenly rising to her feet and forgetting about everything but that picture of the past which was rising up in her mind. "There was snow outside, and I thought and I thought, and it seemed to me that I was Joan and in prison. I thought I would put on the armor which was to be my undoing. I saw myself in it, and I was glad and not at all afraid. And then—and then—there came the trial. Oh! it lasted so long, and I seemed to live through it all. I was condemned to death. I saw myself; I was there. I was burnt, and I did go through it all."
"Oh, nonsense!" here cried Mary Hillary. "Your head must be affected."
"No, no; I did go through it all in imagination," said Christian. "I made it, too, as realistic as possible. There was an old, old bedstead, and one of the posts was broken. I bound myself to the post—yes, with real chains, too; they belonged to a dog we used to keep in a kennel. They were rusty, but that did not matter. And I piled up papers round me, all torn up in great pieces; and I had some red paper to imitate the color of the flames. I made the paper come higher and higher, and I fancied I saw a crowd, and I was burned."
"Oh, dear! you are an extraordinary girl," said Angela Goring. "Don't you think that sort of thing is very bad for you?"
The others were silent. Christian dropped down again on her seat.
"I have no more to tell you to-night," she said. "It takes it out of me to feel like that. I wouldn't tell you, but if we are Penwernians that means that we are comrades—and comrades must understand each other. If you all will be friends with me I will be your friend. Oh, I hope you will; I was a little afraid of you to-day, but I don't really think I will be afraid any longer."
"I, as a member of the committee, declare our meeting is now dissolved," said Star Lestrange suddenly. "It is time for us to go to our bedrooms. Go softly, everyone. Jessie wouldn't tell, but the other mistresses are no end of tell-tale-tits. Good-night, Christian."
"Christian," said Janet Bouverie suddenly, "I'm glad you have come to the school, and I hope you will be friends with me."
A great many other girls came up and shook hands with Christian. She had scored a success. One by one, like little frightened shadows, the Penwernians stole to their separate rooms. Fortunately for Christian, hers was not far off, as the White Corridor was the nearest to the celebrated front attic.
She was glad to see a bright fire burning in the grate, but she started very violently when she saw standing by the fire no less a person than Miss Jessie herself.
"Come in, dear," said Miss Jessie. "I know all about it, of course. If I were a teacher I should be obliged to tell; but I am not a teacher, and dear Lavinia gives me a good deal of liberty. I do not feel that I am obliged to make mischief. As long as you girls keep up your little mystery and don't do anything wrong, I don't feel called upon to make you unhappy. Don't tell me, dear, what has happened; I'd much rather not know. But come to the fire; you look quite blue and cold."
"Oh, in some ways I have had a splendid time," said Christian.
"I am relieved to hear it, my love. To tell the truth, I have been a little anxious about you, Christian."
"Why?" asked Christian.
"Because your face has a strange expression—just as though you felt things too much."
"I am naughtier than most girls; that is why," said Christian.
"My dear child, let me assure you that you are nothing of the kind. I know a lot about girls, living here as I do. Even dear Lavinia can't see them as I do, for they are always on their best behavior with her, and they don't mind little Jessie in the very least. But now, dear, I came to your room on purpose to tell you that your real life here begins to-morrow. You will, like everyone else, have your hardships; you will also have your period of discipline, and I earnestly beg of you, Christian, not for the sake of a purely quixotic motive to get yourself into hot water by telling something which never happened in the school. In regard to this remember, my dear, it is your duty to be guided by the superior judgment of dear Lavinia Peacock."
Christian made no answer. Miss Jessie looked into her eyes.
"You are over-anxious, dear. I trust you will sleep. Is your fire all right? Ah! I see it is. I wish I could give you this little luxury every night, but it is against our rules. We have a fire once a week in each bedroom, just to keep it warm and aired, but that is all. Now I will put on two additional lumps of coal. You will be quite happy, dear. The great gong will wake you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning; you are expected to be down at half-past seven. At eight wehave breakfast, and then prayers. You will soon know all the routine. And now, love, good-night."
Christian stood for a few minutes by the fire. It certainly was cheerful, and the little room snug. She felt that she might soon be happy at school. As to being interested, she had never felt so intensely interested before. The girls were so naïve, so fresh. Even those who terrified her aroused her interest. She did not like Susan Marsh, but even Susan had something fascinating about her. Then, as to Star, was anybody ever before so gay, so bright, so willful?
"And she was good to me," thought the child—"really good. She helped me when I was frightened. She showed me how I might take a proper place in the school. I love her already. I shall love her well. How strange it is that I should be supplied with a sort of bodyguard! Star and Lucy and Jane and Angela. I can't say that they did much for me while I was going through the initiation, but still they were there. I suppose they acted rightly in not making their presence too much felt. Star said they were to be a sort of invisible bodyguard, ready to help me in times of real difficulty and danger, but as a rule allowing me to get out of my own scrapes, when I don't absolutely require their assistance."
Christian removed her dress and looked at her arm. It still smarted a little from the initial ceremony.
"How ridiculous all this is!" she said to herself. "Father and mother would smile over it; and yet it didn't seem ridiculous up there."
She wondered what her father would say if he ever heard of that evening's event. Then, having knelt for a minute or two in prayer, she got into bed.
But Christian's adventures for that night were by no means over; for, just as she was getting drowsy andwas dropping off to sleep, the door of her room glided open noiselessly, and Susan Marsh stood before her.
"I have come," said Susan, "to say something. I shan't take up much of your time, but I think it only right that you should know. You are sleepy, but you must not go to sleep until I have had my talk out. By the way, what a snug room! And a fire, too. Dear me! do you think you deserve all these luxuries?"
"Certainly, if my parents choose to pay for them," replied Christian.
She found herself speaking in a pert voice, but her heart was beating and the old terrors were returning.
"How grand we are!" said Susan mockingly. "I wonder if the parents know what the dear young only girl is up to. Now, Christian, please note that I am in the position to assure you calmly, simply, but at the same time firmly, that you are in my power."
"I in your power?" said Christian. "What do you mean?"
"This: I happen to know all about that unavoidable detention. I know what it consisted of. I know the full particulars. I know all about that wicked, wicked running away from home, and the name of the little girl who went with you, and the slum where you went, and the room that you slept in, and the reason why you were not allowed to return to the school for ten days. I can tell that story to the whole school; and I will, too, if you don't make it worth my while to be silent."
"I will never make it worth your while to be silent," said Christian. "I can't imagine how you learnt it, but you have learnt it by dishonorable means. Anyhow, I am not going to be afraid of you."
"Aren't you?" said Susan. "There is plenty of firelight; that is a good thing. A fire is nice, andwe are quite alone—absolutely safe and comfortable—so we will just argue this matter."
"You may say anything you like," replied Christian very stoutly, "but I am not going to be afraid of you."
Her attitude and manner, and even the look on her face, impressed Susan. She was evidently astonished.
"Why does Miss Peacock say that you were unavoidably detained?" was her next remark.
"You must ask Miss Peacock that yourself," replied Christian.
"Very well; I must now tell you the simple truth, Christian Mitford. You can take whatever attitude you please on this occasion. You may pretend to be indifferent, but you don't know what it means. It lies in your power to tell the school or not."
"That is what I intend to do," said Christian.
"Is it? Well, we'll see. If you do it you will imagine yourself a sort of heroine, no doubt; you will think yourself extremely brave. But wait for the result. How do you think your schoolfellows will take it? You spent the night, for instance, in the slums. We don't any of us—we lady girls who live in this school—know what the slums mean, but you do. Then you were fearfully wicked and disobedient. The girls who are not wicked and who are not disobedient will be afraid of you. In short, I may as well assure you, Christian, if you tell this thing, if it is known in the school, you will be sent to Coventry. Do you know what Coventry means?"
"I have heard of it, but I should like to have your version," said Christian.
"You are very smart and courageous in your conversation now, but you won't be when you feel the full pinch of Coventry life. Just picture to yourself whatit will feel like never to be spoken to by your companions, to be without friends in the midst of a lot of girls, to be publicly expelled from the Penwernians."
"Oh, I don't mind that," said Christian.
"You haven't the remotest idea what it means or you wouldn't say so. Your mistresses may continue to like you, but there isn't a good, nice girl in the school who will dare to be seen speaking to you. You will live on here year after year, and not until all the present girls leave the school will you have any chance of becoming popular. Now, naturally you would be popular; you are just the sort of girl. That power of yours of telling stories is an immense attraction. It might win the heart of nearly every girl in the place. But after your sin is known no one will listen to you. And why, do you think? Because the committee of the Penwernians will forbid it. Now, of course, the mistresses have great power in the school; but, although they would not like to own it, their power is nothing at all compared to the power of our secret society. If you, who have just been made a member of it, were at once expelled because of conduct which makes it impossible for us to have anything to do with you, you would be in a sorry position. You can think the thing over. I don't want to press you, but my advice to you is to take advantage of Miss Lavinia Peacock's kindness and not to tell what you have done."
Susan's words came out slowly. She made a pause now and then, and these pauses were very effective. Her ugly face was full of deep shadows in the firelight. Her eyes were scarcely visible at all. It was only her white teeth that gleamed now and then. As she stood she herself made a great shadow, and it seemed to Christian that Susan was a bad girl, and that she hated and, alas! feared her.
"If I could only speak to Star," she thought. "What am I to do?"
"What I say to you is in absolute confidence," continued Susan, who knew that she was at last making an impression. "For your own sake you ought really not to tell. It doesn't matter to me. If you do tell you will find it distinctly—yes, dreadfully—unpleasant. Miss Peacock must have known that fact when she so wisely resolved not to acquaint the girls with the truth."
"But I don't care to live under a lie or to sail under false colors," said Christian slowly.
"You are a little goose," replied Susan; and now she changed both her attitude and manner, and coming close, she laid her hand upon the bed. Christian's hand was lying outside the counterpane, and Susan caught it and held it firmly.
"You are one of us," she said, "and of course we all want to like you. I for one feel that I could adore you. It is because I pity you that I speak."
"But how did you know? It is a secret from the whole school. How did you manage to get possession of it?" said Christian.
"Ah! that is my affair. I can only say now that I am in possession of it, and can give you full particulars of your great adventure. The name of your little runaway friend is Rose Latimer; and another horrid girl called Judith Ford was implicated in the affair. Now, are you satisfied?"
"I see that you know, but I can't make out how you know."
"Be satisfied with that knowledge, for more you will not be told. Now, you have almost made up your mind, have you not, that you will not tell?"
"You have frightened me very much. I will think it over."
"Do, and to-morrow we will meet again. I won't stay with you now, for I know you are sleepy. Of course you will pay me."
"For what?"
"For my silence, dear—my silence. What you give me I shall spend on fondants for the next meeting of the Penwernians. Have you got any money handy?"
Poor Christian! A bright new sovereign lay on the dressing-table. At that very moment Susan's eyes fell upon it.
"Why, here's the very thing," she said. "It will keep me silent for a while. You will be happy and have a right good time, for I can see to that. Thank you so much! Good-night."
She snatched up the money and put it into her pocket.
"No, no; come back, please—come back!" called Christian.
But Susan gave a low laugh and a gesture of warning, and disappeared from the room.
It was long before Christian could sleep. After the relief that the meeting had given her, to come face to face with such a terrible obstacle as Susan Marsh made her feel almost wild with apprehension. She had no one to turn to, for she did not dare to betray Susan. What was to be done?
"If I do the right thing," thought the poor girl, "Susan Marsh will be my enemy, and I dare not tell the mistresses. Oh, I wish—I wish father and mother had never sent me to this terrible school!"
Two or three days after the events related in the last chapter, Susan Marsh might have been seen pacing up and down with her chosen friend Maud Thompson. Maud, compared to Susan, was rather a pretty girl; and under other influences she might have been a good girl. She had taken a fancy to Christian, and was telling Susan of this fact.
"Like her as much as ever you please," said Susan, "but remember she is my prey."
"Your prey, Susan! Whatever do you mean? Sometimes you don't talk at all nicely."
"Lower your voice a little, my love," said Susan; "we don't want the others to hear us. We have a whole quarter of an hour, and I have a plan in my head."
"You always are planning things. But I do want to talk about Christian now. I can't think why you call her your prey."
"Of course, I have no secrets from you, Maud; you are my chosen friend, and would not dare to betray me, even if you wished to do so. But the fact is, I have got hold of the poor dear's secret."
"Christian Mitford's secret?"
"Yes; the true story of her unavoidable detention."
"I wonder she won't tell us about that. She never will. It rather surprises me," said Maud.
"Rest assured, dear Maud, that she is never likelyto tell you. She would be a mighty great fool if she did."
"And you know all about it?"
"I know all about it, sweet? Oh, yes."
"You look very queer, Susan. I wish you would not have that——"
"That what, Maudie?"
"That sort of pleasure in seeing people unhappy. It isn't nice."
"Oh, isn't it, Maud? What about the kind friend who gets others out of their troubles. You know——"
"You needn't go into that," said Maud, coloring and then turning white.
"Ah! but I thought I'd just remind you, dear. But to return to our beloved Christian. She really is a very noble specimen of her name—very conscientious and all that—but, notwithstanding, I think we shall get her to do pretty much what we like; and all and entirely by means of that little secret of hers, which she must never tell except, to your humble servant."
"But why—why—why?"
"Oh, inquisitive one. Your desires are not to be gratified. But now to turn to other matters. I propose that we shall have a very great feast in the front attic, to which all members of the Penwernian Society are to be invited, on the second Saturday in February. That is exactly one fortnight from now. We must have a real supper, and everything in first-rate style; and Florence Dixie and her two friends, Ethel and Emma Manners, are all to be invited."
"What nonsense! You know quite well we can't invite strangers to the front attic. It is bad enough to have these feasts at all, as it were, in the dark, and with Jessie knowing all the time."
"Jessie will never tell. And don't you know by thistime, Maud, that Miss Peacock—the dear, blessed, saintly Lavinia—winks at our little peccadillos? She could find out if she chose to, but she is too wise, bless her, the darling! Well, of course, neither Jessie nor Miss Peacock is to know of this. I have spoken already to Florence Dixie and to the two Manners girls, and they are wild to come. They want to join the society, but of course that can't be entertained; I do draw the line at that. We shall get them in by means of a ladder put up to the window. Won't it be splendid?"
"It certainly will," said Maud. "How daring you are, Susan! Do you think Star and Lucy and Angela will join us?"
"Do I think ducks will swim?" was Susan's remark. "But now, my dear love, in order to have these girls we must have funds. What do you think of this?"
As Susan spoke she thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a whole beautiful golden sovereign.
"Why, Susan," said Maud, in astonishment, "however did you get it?"
"From the dear, the precious young Christian. The price of her detention, you understand."
"Oh, you are not blackmailing the poor child? How wrong of you! How cruel!"
"You use very ugly words, Maud; you forget yourself. Now, the fewer questions you ask the better. This sovereign will buy a grand supper, and we shall have a jolly time."
"But if we are found out. You know how furious Miss Peacock would be at our introducing outsiders into the school."
"We won't be found out; we shall be far too careful for that. But please understand, Maud, that what I have told you is in strictest confidence; you must notbreathe it to another soul. Meanwhile you may be as nice as you like to Christian. Go and talk to her now, poor child! She is standing over there by herself, looking desolate and gazing out to sea."
"I won't go to her," said Maud. "Some of the things you do, Susan, make me wretched. I do wish you'd be straight and nice and honorable like Star. I am sure she has no end of fun in her, and is most daring, but she would never stoop to your sort of things."
"Really, Maud, I don't know what to make of you. If you go on like this I shall have to get some other girl to be my special friend; and then, dear little love, look out for squalls, for don't you remember——"
Susan bent and whispered into Maud's tiny, shell-like ear. Maud colored.
"Go and look up your lessons," continued Susan, pushing her away with a contemptuous motion; "your French was not specially creditable to-day. I will approach Christian and have a chat with her."
Maud ran off at once. Susan looked after her. Susan's overhanging brows gave a decided scowl to her face.
She approached Christian Mitford softly, and when she came within a short distance, said in a mincing voice, and in the tone of a person drawling out a hymn:
"Come hither, little Christian,And hearken unto me;I'll tell you what the daily lifeOf a Christian child should be."
"Come hither, little Christian,And hearken unto me;I'll tell you what the daily lifeOf a Christian child should be."
Christian turned at once angrily. "I don't want to speak to you," she said.
"But you must, love; you really must. We aregoing to have such a lovely time in the attic on Saturday fortnight—the best we ever had—and you are to be present, and we are all to wear our white dresses. We will look like so many cherubs, won't we? And there's to besucha supper—got out of your sovereign, darling."
"Susan, I can't give you any more money. I only had two sovereigns when Miss Neil left me; she said they were to last until——"
"How long, dearest? Until you ran away again?"
"Oh, don't!" said Christian. "How cruel you are! I have almost made up my mind——"
"What, Christian? To what have you made up your mind?"
"That I won't stand this. It would be much—much braver to me to tell. I'll consult Star; she will know how to advise me."
Now, this was the very last thing that Susan wished. Although she was quite certain that she herself could so manage matters as to send Christian to Coventry if she did tell, she also knew that if Star discovered the truth, she (Susan) would be the person reduced to that uncomfortable position.
"It would be madness for you to tell Star," she said, changing her tone to one of great sympathy. "She's a very upright, honorable sort of girl; she would be shocked—absolutely shocked."
"Are you sure? She always seems so kind; although of late somehow she has not taken much notice of me."
Susan laughed. "Take my advice," she said, "and keep your own counsel. Tell no one except your own Susy, who, of course, won't repeat anything. I have nearly done getting what money I want from you; and isn't it better to be a little short of funds than to behated by everybody? Come, now; let's take a walk and have a cozy-pozy time together."
Susan's "cozy-pozy time" was scarcely enjoyed by Christian, who was learning to dislike her companion more and more day by day. The young girl often wondered at the intense feeling of hatred that was growing up in her heart for this disagreeable and wicked girl.
"How little I knew when I ran away what it would all mean!" thought the poor child. "Oh, dear! if only father and mother were in England I might consult them. But there is no one—no one to go to for help."
Susan did not find her companion very agreeable, and after informing her of this fact in no flattering terms, ran off to seek more congenial friends.
The girls always had an hour to themselves in the early part of the afternoon, when they might do exactly as they liked. They need not walk, they need not study; they might wander in the grounds, or they might sit by the comfortable schoolroom fires, or they might visit the boudoirs.
Amongst the special attractions to be found at Penwerne Manor were the boudoirs. These consisted of a number of small rooms, beautifully furnished, very bright, very cheerful, and specially devoted to the girls of the school. Each class had a room to itself, but a girl belonging to one class could invite a friend to have tea with her in another boudoir or classroom, provided the invitation was given for this special hour. At other times each class was expected to keep strictly to its own boudoir.
Christian had long rejoiced in the fact that she was in the same class as Star Lestrange, and equally was she delighted to know that Susan, a much bigger and older girl, was two classes lower down in the school.Susan would never have dreamt of bullying so clever a girl as Christian but for the rare chance of having discovered her secret.
Feeling cold and chilly now, the young girl crossed the wide hall, went down the corridor where the boudoirs were situated, and opened the door of the fourth class boudoir and entered. This room went by the name of the Hall of Good Nature. It was one of Miss Peacock's curious fancies to call the boudoirs after virtues; Charity Hall, Hope Hall, Kindness Hall, were to be found in the little group. The name of each room was carved in white over the lintel of the door, and now as Christian entered she raised her eyes to look at the words.
"The Hall of Good Nature," she said to herself.
She uttered a deep sigh. She wondered if there was any real kindness left in the world. She felt terribly lonely and depressed. But for Susan, and but for her own wrong-doing, how happy she would be here! For she could not help confessing to herself that the life was beautiful; all its days were planned out with such true common-sense and such broad ideas with regard to all that was necessary for the growth of young and sensitive girls, that happiness could not but be the result. There were strong interests, too, in the school, and Miss Lavinia herself was so delightful that to obtain a kind word from her or a smile from her face was sufficient incentive for any amount of hard work.
But Christian was not happy. She was doing well; her lessons were a mere nothing to her. But for the sake of Star she would have made violent efforts to get into the fifth class, but she liked Star and did not wish to leave her. Nevertheless, strange as it may seem, Star took very little notice of her of late; she ratheravoided her than otherwise, and this seemed the last drop in Christian's cup of bitterness.
She was thinking now of all these things, puzzling over them, and wiping away a tear which would now and then start to her eyes, when the door was opened somewhat noisily, and Star Lestrange, accompanied by Angela Goring, dashed into the room.
"Oh, bother!" she said aloud when she saw Christian, and then she stopped short and was about to go away.
But Christian rose quickly.
"Don't go, please, Star," she said. "I was resting just for a minute or two; I am all right now. I will go and have a walk round the grounds before lesson-hour."
"But you mustn't; it is so cold," said Angela. "Why, what is the matter, Christian?"
For Angela had caught sight of Christian's face, and had noticed the large tear-drop on her cheek which rolled down and disappeared even as she spoke.
"I'm all right, really. Please don't go away," said Christian. "Why shouldn't you stay?"
Star suddenly changed her mind.
"You belong to us, Chris, don't you?"
"I thought so—I hoped so," was Christian's answer.
There was a note of hope in her voice.
"We have been rather puzzled about you, all the same," said Star, sinking into a chair and spreading out her hands to the blaze. "Angel, sit down by my side and warm yourself, pet. We have been rather amazed that you have taken up with Susan Marsh. Don't you know—— Oh, of course, I mustn't say a word; it wouldn't be gentlemanly; and whatever happens, Iwillbe a gentleman. I'd hate to be a lady. Agentlemanly girl is my ideal of the perfect girl, and I hope I am that, so I won't speak against a schoolfellow. But, all the same, she's not your sort—not really."
"I know. Do you think I like her?"
"Actions speak louder than words, my dear. You are with her always, sniggering in corners, and looking so mysterious; her hand in yours, and her arm round your waist. Faugh! it makes me sick. Doesn't it you, Angel?"
"Perhaps Christian can explain," said Angela, who had a very kind face and read trouble in Christian's eyes.
"Do explain, Chris; there's a darling," said Star. "We want to be nice to you, both Angel and I, but we can't cotton to your friend, and that's a fact. Now tell us, why do you go with her? Why are you always following her about, or she following you about? You are so absolutely unlike the sort of girl who ought to be with her that it is more or less, the talk of the school. You'll tell us, won't you?"
"I'm afraid, I can't. I wish I could."
"Oh, then," Star's sweetness suddenly left her.
She became her old, somewhat severe, satirical little self once more.
"She won't be bold and tell us, the charming young thing!" she sang out, letting her voice drop from the ceiling almost into Christian's ears.
"Oh, Star, can't you understand? I am unhappy. Oh! I daren't say another word; only the fact of your not liking me makes me miserable. I was never away from home before. Do be kind to me, Star."
"I will if you tell me the truth; but I won't if you keep up the mystery. So now you can choose. Give me your confidence and I'll get you out of your worries, whatever they are."
Just at that minute a head was poked round the curtain and the face of Susan Marsh appeared.
"Wherever have you hid yourself, Christian? You are wanted immediately. Maudie and I and Mary Hillary are all waiting for your Royal Highness."
"Come in, Susan," said Star suddenly.
Susan advanced into the room. Notwithstanding all her would-be indifference, there was a slightly alarmed expression in her eyes.
"You have done something to this poor girl," said Star. "You have frightened her, and we want her to tell us. It is most unaccountable your being friends with the sort of girl Christian Mitford is."
"What?" said Susan; "is she too good for me?"
"She is different from you," said Star boldly. "She isn't a bit your sort, and you know it. Why are you so chummy with her? Will you tell us the reason?"
"She had best tell you herself; I give her leave," said Susan.
She stood and faced Christian with a daring, impish expression on her face. Her eyes beneath their thick brows seemed to dart as though they would pierce through the young girl's soul; their expression was altogether too much for Christian.
"I can't tell," she said. "I suppose it is all right. I'll go with you, Susan, if you want me."
"Yes, you had better," said Star rudely, "for we don't care for the Susan Marsh sort of girls here."
"Jessie," said Miss Lavinia Peacock, turning to her little friend, "I want you to sit here, to make yourself thoroughly comfortable, and allow me to question you freely."
"But, please, dear Miss Peacock——"
"I gave you leave to call me Lavinia."
"Please, dear Lavinia——"
"You would rather not be questioned?"
"I would much, much rather not. You understand that in my position. Oh, yes, you gave me permission, as you expressed it, to be eyes behind your back, to do what I could to make comfort and happiness in the school, and yet to allow a certain amount of liberty. You gave me to understand—you really did, Lavinia—that I might shut my eyes when there was no real mischief ahead."
"I certainly did do so," replied Miss Lavinia gravely; "and I have no intention of going back on my word. Amongst so many girls one must expect differences of disposition. There will always be the girl of varieties; there will always be the thoughtless, heedless, mischievous girl. Now, I have sympathy with the variety girl, and with the daring, the ambitious, the frolicsome, the mischievous girl; but I have no sympathy—none whatever—with the wicked girl. And if such a girl is in this school, and is exercising her malign influence upon my pupils, out she goes. You mustclearly understand that you allow no liberty when the wicked girl appears on the scene."
"But I am certain—I am quite positive—that there is no such girl in the school," said poor Miss Jessie, who, although she did not like Susan Marsh, could not be brought to think her anything but just a thoughtless, rather daring specimen of humanity; not exactly a nice girl, but as to being wicked!—oh no, poor little Miss Jessie could not even entertain the idea.
"I promise you," she said after a pause, "that if there is anything wrong I will let you know. For the rest you must trust me."
"What about the front attic?" said Miss Peacock suddenly.
"You allowed me liberty with regard to that. Nothing goes on that I don't know of. If there is anything distinctly disobedient, any act of open rebellion, I promise that you shall be told at once."
"All right, Jessie," said Miss Peacock with a sigh. She rose as she spoke, and going up to the glowing fire, put a pretty pointed foot on the brass fender and warmed it luxuriously.
"I cannot exactly tell you why," she said at last slowly, "but since that young girl, Christian Mitford, came to the school—it is nearly a month now since she arrived—I have not felt quite at my ease. There is something about the child that haunts me quite uncomfortably. Are you sure she is happy?"
"I am not," said Miss Jessie.
"But why should she be unhappy?"
"I can't exactly tell you, except——" Miss Jessie sat very still for a minute. "I do hope one thing, and that is that you will strongly dissuade Christian from telling the school at large about her adventure before she came here."
Miss Peacock was silent.
"I am absolutely sure," continued Miss Jessie, "that you would be doing the child irretrievable mischief and injury by allowing the story to get abroad in the school. Schoolgirls are only schoolgirls; they cannot read motives, and they cannot judge of the depth of repentance. To these carefully nurtured, carefully brought-up children the story of Christian's running away and of losing herself, if only for a few hours, in the slums of London would seem altogether horrible. Her repentance would quite fade from their view in comparison with the enormity of her sin. The fact is this, dear Miss Peacock, and I know I am right"—here Miss Jessie's eyes filled with tears—"the good girls of the school would turn away from Christian, and the naughty and troublesome ones would render her life a burden to her. She would never hear the last of her sin. You oughtn't to do it. I am sure—I am certain I am right."
"You go a little too far, Miss Jones," said Miss Peacock. Over her face there swept a wave of resolution, mixed with pain.
Jessie looked as though someone had struck her. To be called "Miss Jones," and by that beloved voice!
"You make a mistake in counseling me. I yield to you in a great deal, but in matters of conduct I am paramount. It is my intention to counsel Christian Mitford totell, and for that reason I am going to see her to-night."
"Oh, it will be cruel! I cannot help saying it," continued Miss Jessie, and she burst into tears.
Miss Peacock laid her hand on the other's shoulder.
"Dear," she said, "I don't wish to be unkind, but is this your school or mine?"
"Oh, yours, of course. Oh, I mustn't say a word, butI think every teacher in the place would agree with me."
"Have you talked this matter over with the teachers?"
"No, indeed; not a soul knows at present except myself. Poor Christian! she often looks so pale and distressed. She is practically an orphan; her parents are so far off."
"I will deal with her, Jessie; but when a girl has common sense and also a brave and noble thought, I will not have it crushed because of any possible tyranny on the part of the schoolgirls. Send Christian to me now, and believe that I will act for the best."
Miss Jessie went out of the room. She walked very slowly; she felt thoroughly unhappy. She certainly did not agree with Miss Peacock. Christian's manner, the expression on her face, her want of appetite, and her lack of interest in her daily life had been remarked on with great fear and distress by Miss Jessie. She could not guess at the truth, however, for she little suspected that Susan Marsh knew poor Christian's story.
Christian was sitting by herself in the boudoir belonging to the fourth class. She was sitting by a table, a book open before her. Whether she was reading it or not Miss Jessie could not guess. But when she said, "Christian, you are wanted," the young girl jumped up, and then Miss Jessie saw, with a start, that the story-book was upside down.
Christian must indeed be in trouble.
"Oh, my darling!" said Miss Jessie.
Before the girl could prevent her, she ran up to Christian, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her impulsively several times.
"Christian, I am with you in everything. Be brave, dear; keep up your courage."
"What does this mean?" said Christian. "Has anything happened? Oh, Miss Jessie, you are good to me."
"I try to be, darling, for I love you. The fact is—don't be frightened, but Miss Peacock wants you. You are to go to her at once, I hope and trust this may—— I mustn't—I daren't say any more."
"I am very glad that I can see Miss Peacock," said Christian.
Her tone was bright. She did not wait to say another word to Miss Jessie, but left the room.
Christian's tap at Miss Peacock's door was answered immediately by that good lady.
"Come in," she said; and when she saw the young girl, and noticed her pale face, she said in a particularly kind tone:
"Come here, Christian dear. You and I must have a cozy chat. I like to know all I possibly can of my pupils. Sit in that easy-chair. Is it too near the fire? Well, here is a screen. Now I will take this chair, and we shall enjoy ourselves."
Christian smiled. "Your room reminds me of mother's boudoir at home."
"Ah! I should like to know about your mother. You love her very, very much?"
"I feel being parted from her," said Christian somewhat evasively.
"And your father? What sort of man is he?"
"I think he is very noble," answered Christian; and now her eyes brightened and the color came into her cheeks.
"I rather guessed he must be, Christian. I felt certain that your people must be of the very best. Your father ought to have the highest morals, for he has inherited them. You have a wonderful likeness to yourgrandmother. Whenever I see you I seem to be back in the old days when I loved her so truly."
Christian gave a restless sigh.
"I shall never be like my grandmother," she said after a pause.
"But why so, dear? Why shouldn't you be just as great and noble? Believe me, Christian," continued Miss Peacock, "these days are the grandest days women ever lived in. The woman of to-day can be anything; she can dare anything. She has splendid opportunities; all doors to the highest and best work are flung open to her. Riches need not retard her, nor poverty. The girl of the present day ought to be educated right nobly in order to meet that grand future."
"I do not care for the girls of the present day," said Christian.
"But do you know many of them?"
"I know some of the girls here."
Miss Peacock looked very attentively at her young pupil; then she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. A servant appeared.
"Bring tea, Agnes—tea for two—and those special cakes that I like."
The maid withdrew, and returned in a few minutes to lay on the little table a lovely silver tea-equipage and the most charming, dainty china Christian had ever seen. By and by the tea itself appeared. Miss Peacock poured out a cup for her pupil and another for herself. Christian ate the cakes and drank the hot, fragrant tea, and, it must be owned, felt comforted.
"You like coming to tea with me, do you not dear?"
"Oh, very, very much!"
"I think you and I could be good friends, Christian."
"If I knew I was worthy we could be good friends—at least I could love you," said Christian.
Her eyes brightened perceptibly and the color deepened in her cheeks.
"Well, now, my dear," said Miss Peacock, "I want you and I to be friends. There are some girls here who seem to be specially in touch with me. There are others, again, most excellent girls—splendid, brave, devoted to their work and their duties—with whom I have nothing in common. That is always the way in life: certain characters appeal to us; others, again, fail to do so. You and I are beyond doubt in touch."
"Oh, thank you!" said Christian in a fervent voice.
"I take an immense interest in your career, Christian. You seem to me, after a fashion, to be left to me as a sort of legacy. I should like you to confide in me; I see plainly that you are unhappy."
Christian bent her head.
"Will you tell me all about it?"
The bent head was slightly shaken.
"You cannot?"
"I cannot."
"Noblesse obligeforbids?"
"Yes, yes; perhaps so. Anyhow, I cannot tell you. Don't notice me, please, Miss Peacock. Let me be happy during my short time with you."
"I want you to be happy, and in the best possible way, by removing the cause of your trouble; for I can see, and so can Jessie—and so, I fancy, can many of your companions—that you are not happy, Christian. I am about to write to your father, and I should like to be able to tell him with truth that his dear daughter feels at home with me, and is preparing for that noble womanhood which he has set his heart on her possessing."
The expression of Christian's face changed; thesoftness went out of it. She kept staring straight before her.
"We agreed, did we not, Christian," said Miss Peacock, "not to say anything with regard to the special trouble which took place before you came to Penwerne Manor?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Before you came, I must own that I was as much distressed at the thought of the other girls knowing as at the grave misdemeanor itself. I resolved not to tell the girls. To my astonishment, you, Christian, begged of me to allow you to tell all the school exactly what had happened. Neither Jessie nor I approved of the plan, knowing, as we do, what schoolgirls are—how they love to tease, to torment and worry, sometimes even to bully. I can scarcely think that any girl in my school would willfully bully another, but of course I am not sure."
Miss Peacock looked hard at Christian as she spoke; but Christian's face, now absolutely pale, revealed nothing.
"The final arrangement was that you were to tell, if you still wished it, at the end of a month. The month has expired; you are now at liberty to stand with me before the entire school and tell your story. And when your story is finished, I am at liberty to tell the school why I counseled you to keep it a secret, and how much I admire your bravery in revealing it. Thus I stand between you and the school as a shield. I put the school on its honor not to worry you, not to reproach you, not to bring up the past. That is the present position. Are you still of the same mind, Christian? Do you wish to take the bull by the horns—to once and for all explain to the school what you have done? Would not this, after all, be the best way out of your troubles?To each noble heart in the school your conduct must appeal, and each girl worth anything must love you all the better for your courage."
When Miss Peacock had finished speaking, Christian rose and stood before her mistress, and said in a low voice:
"And you now counsel me to tell?"
Miss Peacock looked at her thoughtfully.
"I do," she said. "Yes, on the whole, I emphatically do."
Christian did not speak at all for a minute; then she said:
"When do you wish me to tell?"
"Ah, my dear, you do not take a right tone," said her governess. "This is not a question ofwhen; it is a question ofyour own desire. Is it your own desire?"
"I will be—guided by you."
"But is it your desire?"
"It is not my desire any longer."
"Then, Christian, something has happened."
Christian was silent.
"You would rather keep this thing to yourself?"
"Yes."
"But why this change in your views?"
"I was brave—yes, I think I was; now I am afraid."
"Afraid! You have not the face of a coward."
"I am afraid," continued Christian.
"You would rather the thing was unknown, buried, forgotten?"
"You told the school that I was unavoidably detained: let them continue to believe this."
"But you are not happy."
"Cowards are never happy. May I say good-night now, Miss Peacock?"
Miss Peacock drew the young girl towards her.
"What am I to do with you, Christian? You make me unhappy by your present attitude. Is it possible that you will not confide in me? What can I do to make you give me your confidence?"
"I can never give you my confidence. The only thing you can do—the only really kind thing—is to let me alone. I am not a good girl any longer, and I am a coward; and I will not tell, for it isn't in me to do anything brave or noble."
"Then you are very unlike your grandmother."
"I am sorry for poor—father. Miss Peacock, I daren't stay another minute."
Christian struggled to get away, but Miss Peacock drew her still closer.
"Some day," she said, "you may feel like telling me. When that day comes I will give you my careful attention—my undivided attention—and my most lenient judgment. Do you understand?"
"Yes; you are good."
"If your trouble becomes unbearable you will know, therefore, whom to appeal to."
"Oh, you are very good!"
"I see you will say no more now. Well, good-night, dear; I can at least pray for you."
Christian left the room.