The Little School-Mothers

“She would have made me strong,” thought poor Jane. “She is never a scrap afraid. Now I am always afraid. Perhaps it will be better for me at school if Harriet is not there. Of course I am fond of Harriet: I ought to be, for she and I are chums; and a girl must be a mean sort to forsake her chum. But still – oh! she does make me feel wicked! I almost wish I had not earned that five pounds. I don’t think it will bring any luck to Bobbie and Miriam.”

Jane tried to force her thoughts to dwell upon the very shabby condition of her little brother and sister; but, notwithstanding all her efforts, she could not manage to do this. Miriam’s lack of nice clothes, and Bobbie’s lack of shoes and socks could not appeal to her, for were not their consciences quite contented and calm and happy? After all, was there anything, anything so nice in the whole world as a contented conscience?

The next day, when all the children went back to Sunshine Lodge, Jane was greeted by a letter from the aunt who had charge of little Miriam and Bobbie. It was a wonderfully cheerful letter. The aunt – Polly by name – assured Jane that the children were particularly well, and that a kind lady had taken a fancy to them and had given them a lot of clothes. These clothes belonged to some of her own children who had outgrown them, but they were of such good quality and so well made that both Bobbie and Miriam looked almost stylish in them. Bobbie had got shoes, and Miriam pretty frocks; and, in short, for a time at least, the little ones wanted for nothing.

Jane felt as she read this letter that she quite hated it. It seemed to take the ground from under her feet. Her five pounds could have been done without. Ralph’s life need not have been risked, and Jane herself need not have been so fearfully deceitful, and need not have told a lie.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she said to herself. Her face looked so comical in its distress that Vivian Amberley, who was standing near, asked her if anything was the matter.

“Oh yes,” said Jane; “I have had a letter about the children.”

“Are they ill?” asked Vivian.

“No, no,” answered Jane. “They never were better; and they have got such a lot of beautiful clothes – oh dear, oh dear!”

She gave a deep sigh, and went away.

“Well,” said Vivian, turning to her companion; “I never heard of such a funny reason as that for Jane to be so dismal. The children are well, and have got a lot of new clothes! What can be up?”

“It’s something to do with Harriet, of that I am sure,” said Frederica.

Vivian lowered her voice. “I can’t make out what is wrong,” she said.

“There is something wrong: we all feel it,” said Patience. “Why, look at Robina.”

Robina was not present, so no one could look at her. Patience went on excitedly:

“From the very first, there has been something up with Robina, and she looks worse than ever now. You know what a thoroughly jolly girl she is. She won’t tell us why, but she is not enjoying herself.”

“I suppose she is excited,” said Frederica, “about Mr Durrant’s decision. He is quite certain sure to choose her as school-mother for Ralph.”

“Quite certain sure?” repeated Patience. “You know very little when you say that. I am equally certain that he won’t choose her. Anyhow, we are all to know to-morrow morning. This is Tuesday: he will tell us what he has decided after breakfast to-morrow. It is exciting, isn’t it?”

“Well,” said Rose, “I do love Mr Durrant, but I think he’ll be an awful goose if he chooses that Harriet to be Ralph’s school-mother.”

“She is very brave, whatever she is,” said Vivian. “She was magnificent that time when she got into the dangerous current and tried to save Ralph. That sailor said it was touch and go, and that although he brought them back to shore, Ralph might have been drowned but for Harriet.”

“Yes, it was brave enough,” said Frederica then; “but somehow I don’t like the state of things. There’s something up with Jane, there’s something up with Harriet. Now I don’t care twopence either for Jane or Harriet, but there’s something up with Robina, and I love Robina.”

“We all love her! Who could help it?” said the others.

“There is one good thing,” said Rose; “if by any chance she is not elected to be Ralph’s school-mother, she will be back with us at Mrs Burton’s school next term. How splendid it would be if Harriet was not always making mischief! How queer Harriet is!”

Just then, Harriet herself appeared. She was walking with Jane by her side. Whether it was her immersion in the sea, and the excitement of Jane through which she had lived, or whether it was that she was really feeling things more than she cared to own, she looked paler than ever, her blue eyes lighter, and the shadows under them more intense: her long straight hair seemed to grow longer and more lanky, and her narrow figure taller. She hardly glanced at the other girls, but went past them, accompanied by Jane.

“There they go,” said Frederica: “they are going to have a big confab now somewhere. Why will Harriet never join the rest of us and be jolly and merry? We are meant to have such a beautiful time at Sunshine Lodge, but she really takes the fun out of things: her queer melancholy face and her odd ways of going on would depress any party. I know Mr Durrant feels it, and that he is dreadfully puzzled what to do.”

“Oh! Here is Robina!”

These words were uttered by two or three of the girls who ran up to Robina at that moment. Robina also was looking ill at ease, but her face by no means wore the expression which characterised either Jane’s or Harriet’s. The frank look could never leave her grey eyes. She always held herself very erect, and her fine young figure, in consequence, showed on every occasion to the best advantage. She wore a pretty white frock now, and her fine brown hair fell in masses far below her waist.

“Dear Robina!” said Rose, running up to her and taking her hand. “Do sit down and be cosy with us all. Isn’t it nice to be back again at Sunshine Lodge! We have ten more happy days to spend here before school begins.”

“I haven’t,” said Robina, gently; “I am going away to-morrow.”

“You are going away to-morrow!” cried several voices; while others said, “What?” and others again exclaimed: “Oh Robina! what do you mean?” and yet others cried, “No, no, we can’t stand this, we are no: going to allow it; we couldn’t live without you, Robina!”

“You are all sweet,” said Robina, “and I love you very much; and perhaps – I am not quite sure what may happen now – but perhaps I may meet you again at Abbeyfield. But that is not the point. I am leaving here to-morrow: I am going home.”

“But Robina, Robina, why? tell us why.”

“There is no special secret,” said Robina. “I did not mean to say anything about it to you – at least, not quite so soon; but as I have met you, I may as well say I have made up my mind – I love Ralph very dearly, but I am not going to be his school-mother. I mean,” she added proudly, “that I shan’t compete. I haven’t the slightest doubt that the decision will be made against me, but now, whether it is made for or against me, I shan’t compete. I am just going to tell Harriet that she need not have any fear, and then I shall speak to Mr Durrant and I will ask him to let me go back to father and mother. I can’t explain any more than that. It – it isn’t exactly my fault: I am puzzled a good deal; and perhaps if I were one of you, I could do differently, but being myself, there is nothing for it but to withdraw.”

“But there is something for it,” said Patience Chetwold. “You are withdrawing because you know something, and because you won’t say it, and is that right or fair either to Mr Durrant or Ralph? Robina, before you leave us, you have got to answer one question, and to answer it truthfully.”

“Well, what is it?” said Robina.

“You have never told a lie, and you know that,” said Patience.

“I don’t think I ever have,” said Robina, thoughtfully. “No, I am sure I never have told even the tiniest little half lie.”

“Very well,” said Patience, in a voice of triumph; “you will tell the truth now.”

“Or be silent,” said Robina.

“Oh well, we will take your silence for what it is worth. Anyhow,” said Patience, “have I the permission of the rest of you girls to ask Robina a question in all our names?”

“Certainly, certainly!” they said; and they crowded round Patience, who placed herself in the middle of the group.

Patience was a tall, fair-haired girl with a great deal of quiet power and dignity in her own way.

“This is a question which appeals to all us school-mothers,” she said. “We all feel ourselves more or less responsible for little Ralph. Mr Durrant put him, as it were, under our charge when he brought him to Abbeyfield School. Ralph chose Harriet to be his favourite school-mother. Then we all know what happened, and Harriet, as we hoped, repented, and we were glad; and you, Robina, were chosen as the real school-mother, and you won the pony, and we were glad of that too. But now things are changed. Still that fact does not alter the other fact that we are still Ralph’s school-mothers, and that we are bound, if necessary, to protect him.

“Mr Durrant is one of the nicest men in all the world, and he has asked us here for love of Ralph, and has given us the most glorious time, and has done all that man could for our pleasure; and is this the return we will make him – to allow him to choose a girl like Harriet to be school-mother to Ralph? for of course we know – and he has said so – that the choice lies between you, – Robina, and Harriet; and now you, just before the moment of decision, back out of the whole thing and say you won’t be Ralph’s school-mother, and that you are going home. The rest of us think that a very cowardly and wrong thing to do: therefore we demand from you, as being ourselves Ralph’s school-mothers, an answer to our question.”

“Yes, yes!” here interrupted the others. “You have put the case very well, Patience; and the question you are about to ask ought to be answered.”

“Our question is this,” said Patience, raising her voice a little. “Are you, or are you not, prepared to say that Harriet, as far as you know, will be a kind and truthful and honourable school-mother to Ralph? Are you happy in giving Ralph up yourself to Harriet’s care? or do you know anything against her?”

“I can’t say, and I won’t say,” replied Robina, turning very red. “There are things that even a girl placed in my position cannot do.”

“Very well,” said Patience, “you have answered. You can go now, Robina, and tell Harriet your decision. But between now and to-morrow morning, when the great decision is publicly made, we, the rest of the school-mothers, will have something to say with regard to the matter.”

Robina immediately left her companions. Her head was aching; her heart was throbbing hard. Nevertheless, her mind was fully made up. She found Jane and Harriet walking side by side in the neighbourhood of the round pond. She approached quite close to them before they heard her. She did not want to listen to their conversation.

“I eavesdropped once,” she thought, “unintentionally of course; nevertheless, I did such a horrid, such a mean, such a despicable thing, and oh! how I have suffered in consequence! But I won’t eavesdrop again – not if I know it.”

Nevertheless, as she came close to the other girls, she had time to look at the pond, and to notice the exact position of that willow bough along whose slender branch little Ralph had crept in order to gather the water-lilies. The water-lilies were there still in great abundance with all their delicate wax-like cups closed, for it was the time of their slumber. The pond, too, looked still and glassy on its surface, except when the duck-weed, and many parasites of the pond threw an unwholesome glamour over its depths. Robina seemed to realise the whole scene that had taken place there – the child who had dropped into the water, the immediate power of the clinging weeds, the impossibility for the little fellow to swim in his clothes. She saw again Harriet rushing to the rescue, and she well guessed the storm of devotion which she had aroused in the heart of the brave little child. But since that scene, which, without its explanation, sounded innocent enough, another had taken place – one that Robina herself had witnessed. Could she ever forget the agony of that moment when, almost out of her depth, she had longed in vain for the power to swim out to save Ralph! Would she at such a moment have thought of any possible reward except that most divine reward of all – that of giving up her very life for his?

Robina shook herself as though from a day-dream, and it was at this instant that Harriet and Jane, turning, saw her standing in the path.

Jane’s round face was quite pale, and there were tears in her black eyes. She had been letting off some of the soreness of her heart to Harriet, and Harriet had been the reverse of sympathising. Harriet had said once or twice:

“All right, Jane: if you don’t want the five pounds, you need not have them. I can assure you it is an immense sacrifice on my part to give you so much money; but when I make a promise, I keep it. You haven’t done much for me, so don’t you think it: but I promised you five pounds. My birthday will be this week: god-mother never forgets me. When the five pound note comes, it will be handed over to you: you can take it or leave it.”

Why was it that the last words of Harriet’s sentence were wafted to Robina’s ears? “When the five pound note comes, you can take it or leave it.” Harriet turned pale and drew herself up abruptly.

“Well,” she said, “have you been eavesdropping again?”

“No,” said Robina, stoutly. “I came to speak to you as I heard that you and Jane were walking in the shrubbery. I did hear your last sentence; I heard you say to Jane, ‘When the five pounds comes, you can take it or leave it.’ I haven’t an idea what that sentence means, nor does it concern me. I want to speak to you, however, Harriet. Will you kindly listen, please.”

“Hadn’t I better go?” said Jane, who felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

“No,” said Robina; “unless Harriet greatly minds, I should prefer you to stay, Jane. You are her special friend, and you ought to witness what I am about to say to her. I don’t think that you, Harriet, and you, Jane, have many secrets from each other.”

The two other girls were silent, but they both felt uncomfortable.

“What I have to say,” continued Robina, “can be said in a very few words indeed. I have just to tell you this, Harriet. I have made up my mind to withdraw from the competition which was set to all the school-girls who came to this house, but which was especially intended to be a competition between you and me. I do not now wish to be Ralph Durrant’s school-mother: you will therefore have no difficulty to-morrow morning, for there will be no one to compete with you. I am now going to tell Mr Durrant what I have decided.”

“But I say,” cried Harriet, “you must have some reason for this!”

“I have my reasons, but those I am not prepared to give,” said Robina.

“I know,” continued Harriet, speaking in great excitement; “you nasty, horrid spitfire! You find that you have utterly failed – that you have not a chance of getting the position that you so covet; therefore you think you will make an imposing appearance if you withdraw from the competition. But let me tell you, that is monstrously unfair! You ought not to withdraw at the eleventh hour.”

“That is my affair,” said Robina. “Even if I were elected school-mother to-morrow, I should not accept the position.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” said Harriet. “It is so fine to hear you talking in that way; you know perfectly well that you would just give your eyes for it.”

“If that is your opinion, you are welcome to keep it,” said Robina. “But anyhow, my mind is quite made up.”

She was turning to go, when Harriet ran after her.

“Robina,” she said, “do you mean – that is, you will go without saying anything?”

“Ask me no questions; when you are made school-mother, I suppose you will be content: and I suppose – at least I hope you will be good to little Ralph.”

Robina’s lips quivered. Before Harriet could utter another word she had pushed her brusquely aside, and disappeared in the direction towards the house.

Book Two – Chapter Fourteen

Patience Interferes

It was now early in September, and although the weather was quite warm, the days were of course shortening considerably. Mrs Burton’s school was to re-open on the fifteenth of September. It was now the fourth day of the month; there was, therefore, practically ten days’ holiday still remaining for the girls.

These last few days, as all school-girls know, are very precious: each one, as it arrives, seems more valuable than its predecessor. More and more pleasures seem to crowd into these last hours, more and more things are there to talk about, more and more matters to arrange. There is at once pain and pleasure mingled in each young breast: the pain of parting from the beloved friends who have been with one during the long summer vacation, the pain of giving up pleasure for discipline, of giving up freedom for a certain amount of restraint. But the girl who really longs to do her best in life does not go back to school with unmixed sensations of regret. Healthier feelings than these visit her heart. She will accomplish much in the weeks that lie before her. She will get to the other side of this and that difficulty. She will take an honourable place in the report which is sent to her parents at the end of the term. She will enjoy the healthy life of routine and wholesome discipline.

The young girls who were inmates now of Sunshine Lodge were all of them, with the exception of Harriet Lane and Jane Bush, healthy-minded. They liked their pleasant school life: they were devoted to their parents and guardians: but they were also devoted to Mrs Burton and to the teachers in that delightful home of culture, Abbeyfield School. They therefore talked much of their future as they wandered about now in the dusk before coming in to late supper; and for a time even Robina and Harriet and Jane and little Ralph were forgotten.

Had not Patience to make the very most of her last term at school? and how soon would Cecil Amberley be moved from the third to the sixth form? What would be the big prize to be competed for next Christmas? What would the new French Mademoiselle be like? and would their dear old Fräulein return once more to the school? Such and such questions occupied them: but by-and-by it was time to go indoors to dress for supper, and when they entered the house a shadow seemed to fall over their bright young spirits and they looked one at the other questioningly.

“How selfish I am?” whispered Patience Chetwold to her sister. “I forgot in the excitement of our chat all about poor Robina. Girls, we must stick to our promise and worry out this thing to the very bottom.”

“But if Robina has spoken to Mr Durrant, what is there to be done?” remarked Rose. “Mr Durrant is a very determined man, and hates anything that he considers small and mean: he will not like our interfering. You see,” continued Rose, “we have been out of this matter from the very first; the whole thing has rested between Harriet and Robina.”

“Yes,” said Patience; “and very, very cleverly has Harriet played her cards. Well, all that I can say is that if I can circumvent that horrid sly creature in favour of poor dear true-hearted Robina, I shall do so. But now, let us run upstairs and get tidy for supper. This may be Liberty Hall, girls, but Mr Durrant likes form and ceremony as much as anyone I know; and if the girls of Sunshine Lodge – as he calls us – don’t make a presentable appearance at the last meal in the day, he is always somewhat annoyed.” The different girls went off immediately to their rooms, where they arrayed themselves in pretty evening dress. The shortness of the evenings by no means took from the pleasure of being at Sunshine Lodge; in fact, of late, the evenings had been almost the most delightful part of the day. With such a host as Mr Durrant it was quite impossible to be dull. He was the best story teller and the best comrade in the world. He had a way of making every child with whom he came in contact feel perfectly at home with him. But, at the same time, that child would not dare to take an undue liberty. He expected the child to be happy – very, very happy – but he also expected and insisted on instant obedience.

“When I put my foot down, it is down,” he was heard to say; “when I order a thing to be done, that thing is to be done; there is no walking round it, or squeezing out of it, or circumventing it in any way whatsoever. My object is the pleasure of all these young people; but I am the captain of this ship – if I may be permitted to use the simile – and the general in this battlefield. The captain must be obeyed, or the ship founders; and the general must give his orders, or the battle is lost.”

The girls knew all these things, and the very fact that there was unseen discipline at Sunshine Lodge gave the final zest to their enjoyments. Ralph would not have been the charming boy he was, but for this admirable trait of his father’s. Ralph, from his earliest days had obeyed at a word, at a nod. When he was told to go to bed, he went. He was never heard to plead for one minute or two minutes more. When he was ordered to get up, he rose. When he was expected to attend to his lessons, he did so. All the same, Ralph felt himself free as a little bird in the air, and happy as any child will be who clings to his beloved father’s hand. Even when parted from his father, Ralph had metaphorically clung to that strong brown hand. When he found things difficult in his little life, he remembered it, – how firm it was, how supporting. Even when his father was not present, he did instinctively what that father wished.

The happy little party at Sunshine Lodge came downstairs on this special evening with a certain feeling of expectancy. The Chetwolds and the Amberleys were very much concerned to know if anything decisive had yet taken place; if Robina had met Mr Durrant and had told him her decision, if Harriet knew, and if when they all met – first of all in the pleasant drawing-room and then in the still more delightful dining-room – they would see Robina’s proud calm face looking a little prouder and a little more resolved than usual, and Harriet’s queer pale face somewhat triumphant in its expression and Jane looking queer and frightened and worried as she had always done of late.

But when they all did come downstairs, the first thing they noticed was that although Robina was in the room, and Harriet and Jane, Mr Durrant was absent. Robina was seated in a distant corner where the electric light fell full on the pages of her open book. She wore a white frock, but had not taken otherwise much pains with her appearance. Robina did not even look up when her companions entered the room. Harriet, dressed in all the finery she could lay hands on, was standing by a table talking in a low tone to Jane. Ralph, who, as a rule, never sat up to supper, was also present on this occasion. He was dancing about in that radiant fashion he had, flying excitedly from one object of interest to another.

“Oh, what do you think, Patience?” he said. “I’s got to sit up to supper to-night!”

“Have you, indeed, Ralph?” replied Patience in some surprise, “but it’s rather late for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not at all too late,” said Harriet, just raising her eyes and glancing defiantly at Patience and then turning to Ralph. “In the absence of your father, Ralph, I give you leave to sit up,” she said.

“Sankoo, Harriet,” said Ralph, taking her hand, and giving it a most affectionate squeeze. “Oh! I is glad!” he said. “I feel quite a grown-up person to-night.”

Robina did not take the slightest notice, but Frederica now enquired eagerly if Mr Durrant were really absent.

“Yes,” said Jane; “when we came in, expecting to find him here as usual, we were told that he was obliged to go suddenly to London, but would be back here by a very early train in the morning.”

“John told us,” continued Harriet, “that Mr Durrant will return in time for breakfast; we must spend this evening as best we can without him.”

Here she glanced at Robina. Ralph, who had been pulling excitedly at Harriet’s hand without receiving any attention, now left her and ran up to Robina.