The Carved Lions

My face fell, and I suppose Harriet saw it. She came closer to me and looked at me well, as if expecting me to answer. But for the first time since I had been in my new surroundings I felt more than bewildered – I felt frightened and lonely, terribly lonely.

"Oh, mamma," I thought to myself, "I wish I could see you to tell you about it. It isn't a bit like what I thought it would be."

But I said nothing aloud. I think now that if I had burst out crying it would have been better for me, but I had very little power of expressing myself, and Haddie had instilled into me a great horror of being a cry-baby at school.

In their rough way, however, several of the girls were kind-hearted, the two Smiths perhaps as much so as any. Harriet came close up to me.

"I'm only in fun," she said; "of course we'll be friends. I'll tell you how we'll do," and she put her fat little arm round me in a protecting way which I much appreciated. "Come over here," she went on in a lower voice, "where none of the big ones can hear what we say," and she drew me, nothing loth, to the opposite corner of the room.

As we passed through the group of older girls standing about, one or two fragments of their talk reached my ears.

"Yes – I'm sure it's the same. He's a bank clerk, I think. I've heard papa speak of them. They're awfully poor – come-down-in-the-world sort of people."

"Oh, then, I expect when she's old enough she'll be a governess – perhaps she'll be a sort of teacher here to begin with."

Then followed some remark about looking far ahead, and a laugh at the idea of "the monkey" ever developing into a governess.

But after my usual fashion it was not till I thought it over afterwards that I understood that it was I and my father they had been discussing. In the meantime I was enjoying a confidential talk with Harriet Smith – that is to say, I was listening to all she said to me; she did not seem to expect me to say much in reply.

I felt flattered by her condescension, but I did not in my heart feel much interest in her communications. They were mostly about Emma – how she tried to bully her, Harriet, because she herself was five years older, and how the younger girl did not intend to stand it much longer. Emma was as bad as a boy.

"As bad as a boy," I repeated. "I don't know what you mean."

"That's because you've not got a brother, I suppose," said Harriet. "Our brother's a perfect nuisance. He's so spoilt – papa lets him do just as he likes. Emma and I hate the holidays because of him being at home. But it's the worst for me, you see. Emma hates Fred bullying her, so she might know I hate her bullying me."

This was all very astonishing to me.

"I have a brother," I said after a moment or two's reflection.

"Then you know what it is. Why didn't you say so?" asked Harriet.

"Because I don't know what it is. Haddie never teases me. I love being with him."

"My goodness! Then you're not like most," said Harriet elegantly, opening her eyes.

She asked me some questions after this – as to where we lived, how many servants we had, and so on. Some I answered – some I could not, as I was by no means as worldly-wise as this precocious young person.

She gave me a great deal of information about school – she hated the governesses, except the old lady, and she didn't care about her much. Miss Broom was her special dislike. But she liked school very well, she'd been there a year now, and before that she had a daily governess at home, and it was very dull indeed. What had I done till now – had I had a governess?

"Oh no," I said. "I had mamma."

"Was she good to you," asked my new friend, "or was she very strict?"

I stared at Harriet. Mamma was strict, but she was very, very good to me. I said so.

"Then why are you a boarder?" she asked. "We've not got a mamma, but even if we had I'm sure she wouldn't teach us herself. I suppose your mamma isn't rich enough to pay for a governess for you."

"I don't know," I said simply. I had never thought in this way of mamma's teaching me, but I was not at all offended. "I don't think any governess would be as nice as mamma."

"Then why have you come to school?" inquired Harriet.

"Because" – "because father and mamma have to go away," I was going to say, when suddenly the full meaning of the words seemed to rush over me. A strange giddy feeling made me shut my eyes and I caught hold of Harriet's arm.

"What's the matter?" she said wonderingly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her again.

"I'd rather not talk about mamma just now," I said. "I'll tell you afterwards."

"Up in our room," said Harriet, "oh yes, that'll be jolly. We've got all sorts of dodges."

But before she had time to explain more, or I to ask her why "dodges" – I knew the meaning of the word from Haddie – were required, a bell rang loudly.

Instantly the hubbub ceased, and there began a sort of silent scramble – the elder girls collecting books and papers and hurrying to their places; the younger ones rushing upstairs to the other schoolroom, I following.

In a few minutes we were all seated round the long tables. It was a sewing afternoon, and to my great delight I saw that Miss Fenmore, the pretty governess whom I had taken such a fancy to, though I had not yet spoken to her, was now in Miss Broom's place.

Mamma had provided me with both plain work and a little simple fancy work, but as my things were not yet unpacked, I had neither with me, and I sat feeling awkward and ashamed, seeing all the others busily preparing for business.

"Have you no work, my dear?" said Miss Fenmore gently. It was the first kind speech I had had from a governess.

"It isn't unpacked," I said, feeling my cheeks grow red, I did not know why.

Miss Fenmore hesitated for a moment. Then she took out a stocking – or rather the beginning of one on knitting-needles.

"Can you knit?" she asked.

"I can knit plain – plain and purl – just straight on," I said. "But I've never done it round like that."

"Never mind, you will learn easily, as you know how to knit. Come and sit beside me, so that I can watch you."

She made the girls sit a little more closely, making a place for me beside her, and I would have been quite happy had I not seen a cross expression on several faces, and heard murmurs of "favouring," "spoilt pet," and so on.

Miss Fenmore, if she heard, took no notice. And in a few moments all was in order. We read aloud in turns – the book was supposed to be a story-book, but it seemed to me very dull, though the fault may have lain in the uninteresting way the girls read, and the constant change of voices, as no one read more than two pages at a time. I left off trying to listen and gave my whole attention to my knitting, encouraged by Miss Fenmore's whispered "very nice – a little looser," or "won't it be nice to knit socks for your father or brother, if you have a brother?"

I nodded with a smile. I was burning to tell her everything. Already I felt that I loved her dearly – her voice was as sweet as her face. Yet there were tones in the former and lines in the latter telling of much sorrow and suffering, young as she was. I was far too much of a child to understand this. I only felt vaguely that there was something about her which reminded me of mamma as she had looked these last few weeks.

And my heart was won.

CHAPTER VII

GATHERING CLOUDS

After that first day at Green Bank, the remembrance of things in detail is not so clear to me.

To begin with, the life was very monotonous. Except for the different lessons, one day passed much like another, the principal variety being the coming of Sunday and the two weekly half-holidays – Wednesday and Saturday. But to me the half-holidays brought no pleasure. I think I disliked them more than lesson days, and most certainly I disliked Sundays most of all.

Looking back now, I think my whole nature and character must have gone through some curious changes in these first weeks at school. I grew older very rapidly.

There first came by degrees the great disappointment of it all – for though I am anxious not to exaggerate anything, it was a bewildering "disillusionment" to me. Nobody and nothing were what I had imagined they would be. Straight out of my sheltered home, where every thought and tone and word were full of love, I was tossed into this world of school, where, though no doubt there were kind hearts and nice natures as there are everywhere, the whole feeling was different. Even the good-nature was rough and unrefined – the tones of voice, the ways of moving about, the readiness to squabble, though very likely it was more a kind of bluster than anything worse, all startled and astounded me, as I gradually awoke from my dream of the delights of being at school surrounded by companions.

And there was really a prejudice against me, both among teachers and pupils. A story had got about that my family was very, very poor, that father had had to go abroad on this account, and that my schooling was to be paid for out of charity. So even my gentleness, my soft way of speaking, the surprise I was too innocent to conceal at much that I saw, were all put down to my "giving myself airs." And I daresay the very efforts I made to please those about me and to gain their affection did more harm than good. Because I clung more or less to Harriet Smith, my room-mate, and the nearest to me in age, I was called a little sneak, trying to get all I could "out of her," as she was such a rich little girl.

I overheard these remarks once or twice, but it was not for some time that I in the least knew what they meant, and so I daresay the coarse-minded girls who made them thought all the worse of me because I did not resent them and just went quietly on my own way.

What I did want from Harriet was sympathy; and when she was in the humour to pay attention to me, she did give me as much as it was in her to give.

I shall never forget the real kindness she and Emma too showed me that first night at Green Bank, when a great blow fell on me after we went upstairs to go to bed.

Some one had unpacked my things. My night-dress was lying on the bed, my brushes and sponges were in their places, and when I opened the very small chest of drawers I saw familiar things neatly arranged in them. But there seemed so few – and in the bottom drawer only one frock, and that my oldest one, not the pretty new one mamma had got me for Sundays or any special occasion.

"Where can all my other things be?" I said to Harriet, who was greatly interested in my possessions.

"What more have you?" she said, peering over my shoulder.

I named several.

"And all my other things," I went on, "not clothes, I don't mean, but my workbox and my new writing-desk, and the picture of father and mamma and Haddie" – it was before the days of "carte-de-visite" or "cabinet" photographs; this picture was what was called a "daguerreotype" on glass, and had been taken on purpose for me at some expense – "and my china dog and the rabbits, and my scraps of silk, and all my puzzles, and, and – " I stopped short, out of breath with bewilderment. "Can they be all together for me to unpack myself?" I said.

Emma, the most experienced of the three, shook her head.

"I'm afraid," she was beginning, when the door opened, and Miss Broom's face appeared.

"Young ladies," she said, "I cannot have this. No talking after the last bell has rung. My dear Miss Smith, you are not usually so forgetful. If it is you, Miss Marchant, it is a very bad beginning, disobedience the very first evening."

"She didn't know," said both the girls. "It isn't her fault." "And if she had known," Harriet went on, "she couldn't have helped it. Miss Broom, somebody's took such lots of her things. Tell her, Gerry."

Under her protection I repeated the list of missing articles, but before I had got to the end the governess interrupted me.

"You are a most impertinent child," she said, "to say such a thing. There are no thieves at Green Bank – what a mind you must have! Your things are safely packed away. Such as you really need you shall have from time to time as I or Miss Aspinall think fit. The frock you have on must be kept as your best one, and you must wear the brown check every day. You have far too many clothes – absurd extravagance – no wonder – " but here she had the sense to stop short.

I did not care so much about my clothes.

"It's the other things I mind," I began, but Miss Broom, who was already at the door, again interrupted.

"Nonsense," she said. "We cannot have the rooms littered with rubbish. Miss Aspinall left it to me. You may have your Biblical dissected maps on Sundays, and perhaps some of the other puzzles during the Christmas holidays, but young ladies do not come to school to amuse themselves, but to work hard at their lessons."

I dared not say anything more. There may have been some reason in putting away a certain number of my treasures, for dear mamma, in her wish to do all she possibly could for my happiness, had very probably sent more things with me than was advisable. But I was not a silly spoilt child; I had always been taught to be reasonable, and I would have given in quite cheerfully if Miss Broom had put it before me in any kindly way.

I was not left quite without defence, however.

"I don't see but what you might let her have some things out," said Emma. "Harry and I have. Look at the mantelpiece – the china figures and the Swiss châlets are our ornaments, and there's quite room for some more."

But Miss Broom was by this time at the door, which shut after her sharply without her saying another word.

"Horrid old cat," said both the Smiths.

I said nothing, for if I had I knew I should have burst into tears. But after I was ready for bed and had said my prayers, I could not help the one bitter complaint.

"I wouldn't mind anything else if only she'd let me have papa and mamma's picture," I said.

"Of course you should have that," said Emma. "I'm sure Miss Ledbury would let you have it. I think even Miss Aspinall would. Don't be unhappy, Gerry, I'll see if I can't do something for you to-morrow."

And with this consolation I fell asleep. Nor did Emma forget her promise. The next day I found my daguerreotype installed on the mantelpiece, where it stayed all the time I was at school.

My happiest days were those of our French lessons, for then Miss Fenmore was the teacher. She spoke French very well, and she was most kind and patient. Yet for some reason or other she was not much liked in the school. There was a prejudice against her as there was against me: partly, because she did not belong to that part of the country, she was said to "give herself airs"; partly, I think, because she was quiet and rather reserved; partly, I am afraid, because some of the elder girls were jealous of her extreme loveliness. She was as kind to me as she dared to be, but I had no lessons from her except French, and she has since told me that she did not venture to show me anything like partiality, as it would only have made my life still harder and lonelier.

The remembrances which stand out the most clearly in my mind will give a fair idea of my time at Green Bank. The next great trouble I had came on my first Sunday there.

It had been settled that I was to write to mamma once a week – by every mail, that is to say. The usual day for writing home was Wednesday, the half-holiday, but as the South American mail left England that very day, mamma had arranged with Miss Ledbury that I should be allowed to add a little on Sundays to my letter, as otherwise my news would be a whole week late before it left.

So on the first Sunday afternoon I got out my writing things with great satisfaction, and when Miss Broom asked me what I was going to do, I was pleased to be able to reply that Miss Ledbury had given leave for a Sunday letter. Miss Broom said something to Miss Aspinall, but though they both looked very disapproving, they said no more.

I wrote a long letter. This time, of course, it had to be a complete one, as I had only come to Green Bank on the Thursday. I poured out my heart to mamma, but yet, looking back now and recalling, as I know I can, pretty correctly, all I said, I do not think it was exaggerated or wrong. I tried to write cheerfully, for childish as I was in many ways, I did understand that it would make mamma miserable to think I was unhappy.

I was just closing the envelope when Miss Broom entered the room.

"What are you doing?" she said. "Dear, dear, you don't mean to say you have been all this afternoon writing that letter? What a waste of time! No, no, you must not do that. Miss Ledbury will seal it."

"It doesn't need sealing," I replied. "It is a gumming-down envelope."

But she had come close to me, and drew it out of my hand.

"No letters leave this house without being first read by Miss Ledbury or Miss Aspinall," she said. "Why do you stare so? It is the rule at every school," and so in those days I suppose it was. "If you have written nothing you should not, you have no reason to dread its being seen."

"Yes, I have," I replied indignantly. Even the three or four days I had been at school had made me months older. "I have," I repeated. "Nobody would say to strangers all they'd say to their own mamma."

I felt my face growing very red; I pulled the letter out of the envelope and began to tear it across. But Miss Broom's strong hands caught hold of mine.

"You are a very naughty girl," she said, "a very naughty girl indeed. I saw at once how spoilt and self-willed you were, but I never could have believed you would dare to give way to such violent temper."

She dragged the letter out of my fingers – indeed, I was too proud to struggle with her – and left the room. I sat there in a sort of stupefied indifference. That day had been the worst I had had. There was not the interest of lessons, nor the daily bustle which had always something enlivening about it. It was so dull, and oh, so different from home! The home-sickness which I was too ignorant to give a name to began to come over me with strides; but for my letter to mamma I felt as if I could not have lived through that afternoon. For even the Smiths were away. They were what was called "weekly boarders," going home every Saturday at noon and staying till Monday morning.

The indifference did not last long. Gradually both it and the indignation broke down. I laid my head on the table before me and burst into convulsive crying.

I do not think I cried loudly. I only remember the terrible sort of shaking that went through me – I had never felt anything like it in my life – and I remember trying to choke down my sobs for fear of Miss Broom hearing me and coming back.

Some one opened the door and looked in. I tried to be perfectly quiet. But the some one, whoever it was, had seen and perhaps heard me, for she came forward, and in another moment I felt an arm steal gently round me, while a kind voice said softly, very softly,

"My poor little girl, what is the matter?" and looking up, I saw that the new-comer was Miss Fenmore.

"Oh," I said through my tears, "it's my letter, and she's taken it away – that horrid, horrid Miss Broom."

And I told her the whole story.

Miss Fenmore was very wise as well as kind. I have often wondered how she had learnt so much self-control in her short life, for though she then seemed quite "old" to me, I now know she cannot have been more than eighteen or nineteen. But she had had a sad life – that of an orphan since childhood. I suppose sorrow had done the work of years in her case – work that is indeed often not done at all! For she had a character which was good soil for all discipline. She was naturally so sweet and joyous – she seemed born with rose-coloured spectacles.

"Dear child," she said, "try not to take this so much to heart. I daresay your letter will be sent just as it is. Miss Broom is sure to apply to Miss Aspinall, perhaps to Miss Ledbury. And Miss Ledbury is really kind, and she must have had great experience in such things."

But the last words were spoken with more hesitation. Miss Fenmore knew that the class of children composing Miss Ledbury's school had not had a home like mine.

Suddenly she started up – steps were coming along the passage.

"I must not talk to you any more just now," she said, "I came to fetch a book."

After all, the steps did not come to the schoolroom. So after sitting there a little longer, somewhat comforted by the young governess's words, I went up to my own room, where I bathed my eyes and smoothed my hair, mindful of Haddie's warning – not to get the name of a cry-baby!

Late that evening, after tea, I was sent for to Miss Ledbury in the drawing-room. It was a very rainy night, so only a few of the elder girls had gone to church. Miss Ledbury herself suffered sadly from asthma, and could never go out in bad weather. This was the first time I had seen her to speak to since I came.

I was still too unhappy to feel very frightened, and I was not naturally shy, though I seemed so, owing to my difficulty in expressing myself. And there was something about the old lady's manner, gentle though she was, which added to my constraint. I have no doubt she found me very dull and stupid, and it must have been disappointing, for she did mean to be kind.

She spoke to me about my letter which she had read, according to her rule, to which she said she could make no exceptions. I did not clearly understand what she meant, so I just replied "No, ma'am," and "Yes, ma'am." She said the letter should be sent as it was, but she gave me advice for the future which in some ways was very good. Could I not content myself with writing about my own affairs – my lessons, the books I was reading, and so on? What was the use of telling mamma that I did not like Miss Aspinall, and that I could not bear Miss Broom? Would it please mamma, or would it make school-life any happier for me to take up such prejudices? These ladies were my teachers and I must respect them. How could I tell at the end of three days if I should like them or not?

I felt I could tell, but I did not dare to say so. All I longed for was to get away. So when the old lady went on putting words into my mouth, as it were, about being wiser for the future, and not touchy and fanciful, and so on, I agreed with her and said "No, ma'am" and "Yes, ma'am" a few more times, meekly enough. Then she kissed me, and again I felt that she meant to be kind and that it was wrong of me to disappoint her, but somehow I could not help it. And I went upstairs to bed feeling more lonely than ever, now that I quite understood that my letters to mamma must never be anything more than I might write to a stranger – a mere mockery, in short.

There was but one person I felt that I could confide in. That was Miss Fenmore. But the days went on and she seemed to take less instead of more notice of me. I did not understand that her position, poor girl, was much more difficult than mine. If she had seemed to pet me or make much of me it would only have made Miss Broom still more severe to me, and angry with her. For, as was scarcely to be wondered at, Miss Broom was very indignant indeed at the way I had spoken of her in my letter to mamma. And Miss Fenmore was entirely at that time dependent upon her position at Green Bank. She had no home, and if she brought displeasure upon herself at Miss Ledbury's her future would look very dark indeed.

Yet she was far from selfish. Her caution was quite as much for my sake as for her own.

CHAPTER VIII

"NOBODY —NOBODY."

The history of that first week might stand for the history of several months at Green Bank. That is why I have related it as clearly as possible. In one sense I suppose people would say my life grew easier to me, that is to say I got more accustomed to it, but with the "growing accustomed," increased the loss of hope and spring, so I doubt if time did bring any real improvement.

I became very dull and silent. I seemed to be losing the power of complaining, or even of wishing for sympathy. I took some interest in my lessons, and almost the only pleasure I had was when I got praise for them. But that did not often happen, not as often as it should have done, I really believe. For the prejudice against me on the part of the upper teachers did not wear off. And I can see now that I must have been a disagreeable child.