"Indeed it's not, it's C-h-a-r-l-i-e. Why, even Jessie Ellis knows that."
"I've seen it C-h-a-r-l-e-y in a book," objected Sylvia, who meant to fight her own battles.
"Then it must have been a misprint."
"I believe you can spell it both ways," said Hazel, "just like Lily or Lillie."
"Then it's old-fashioned, and my way's the best," declared Marian, who loved to argue.
"Oh, get on and never mind!" cried Linda. "We want to hear the other telegrams. What does it matter how we spell them?"
At half-past seven a tray with glasses of milk and plates of bread-and-butter and biscuits was brought into the room, and, when supper was finished, Mercy Ingledew, the monitress, came to see that all went off to their bedrooms, going upstairs with them to help to plait their hair and superintend the due brushing of teeth and the tidy disposal of clothes. From the beginning it had seemed so new and strange and exciting that Sylvia had not yet found time for the tears which she had fully intended to shed, and it was only when she was in bed and the light turned out that she suddenly remembered how homesick she was. Even then the fresh events kept mixing themselves up with her regrets, and as she mopped her cheeks with her damp pocket handkerchief she thought: "It's much more interesting than I expected. I shall like Linda. But Marian Woodhouse needn't think she's going to teach me everything. I dare say I can learn lessons as well as she does. It would be lovely if I could be head of the class. I'm going to try and try just as hard as I possibly can, and then I could write to Mother and tell her I was top."
And with this meritorious resolution she fell asleep.
CHAPTER IV
A First Day at School
There were thirty-three girls at Heathercliffe House, and they were divided into four forms. Miss Kaye herself taught the first class, Miss Barrett the second, Miss Arkwright the third, and Miss Coleman the Kindergarten, while Mademoiselle took French and Needlework, and Miss Denby the music, a few elder girls, however, learning from a master, who came twice a week to give lessons.
Sylvia found that she very soon settled down into the ordinary routine of her new life. Miss Kaye was kind, and tried to make school seem as much like home as possible. There were a certain number of clearly defined rules, but on the whole the pupils were allowed a good deal of liberty, which she trusted to their sense of honour not to abuse. Four of the eldest girls were monitresses, responsible for the behaviour of the third and fourth forms, and the younger ones were encouraged to come to them with their troubles or difficulties.
"You see, telling a monitress isn't like telling a teacher," said Linda, "and Mercy Ingledew's so nice she never makes mischief. I'm glad she's on our landing instead of Kathleen Gilchrist."
To Linda Sylvia had been attracted at once, and when she found that her room-mate liked the same occupations and the same books as herself, had read Eight Cousins and The Little Duke and was just beginning Ivanhoe, she felt the friendship was sealed. Linda was certainly a very different companion from Effie and May or any of the other children whom Sylvia had known at home. She seemed so much older and more sensible, and was interested in many things which she was only too pleased to explain to her new friend.
"You must come and see our gardens," she said on the first morning, when lessons were over and the girls were amusing themselves in the grounds. "They're over here at the other side of the lawn. We may each have a small one of our own or share a double one. They don't look very nice now, because of course we couldn't take care of them in the holidays and the weeds grew so dreadfully, but it's getting time to dig them up and plant bulbs. This is mine. There isn't much in it now the annuals are over. If you like I'll give it up and join at a larger one with you."
"That would be jolly," said Sylvia, "if there's one to spare."
"Oh yes! Nobody has that big double one by the cucumber frame. Shall we begin now to weed, and on Saturday we can move out any plants we want and decide what we'll put in it. Come along for the gardening tools. I shall have to lend you mine."
The tools were kept in a shed at the back of the house. Linda had a dear little set of spade, rake, hoe, trowel, and basket, so the pair set to work at once upon the new patch of ground.
"Please dig carefully," said Linda, "in case we come across any treasures. This piece belonged to Ellie Turner and Sophy Hardman, and they may have left something in it. Yes, I believe that's a clump of daffodils. I remember they had some, and there was a root of forget-me-not in the corner if no one else has taken it away."
"Couldn't we do anything special with our garden?" asked Sylvia.
"What do you mean by special?" said Linda.
"Something that would be different from anybody else's. Couldn't we put our names in flowers?"
"We might sow them in mustard and cress in the spring."
"Yes, but now. Suppose we put Linda at one end and Sylvia at the other in white stones."
"Oh, that would be lovely! What a glorious idea! We'll borrow Sadie Thompson's wheelbarrow and do it at once. How did you think of such a jolly thing? I wonder where Sadie is. We'll go and look for her."
It was a vain search, however, for Sadie could not be found, and nobody appeared to know where she was; so after hunting for some time Linda gave it up.
"What a nuisance!" she cried. "I shall take it out without asking her; we really can't wait. I don't suppose she'll mind. We shan't do it any harm." And she trundled the little barrow out of the shed and wheeled it to the farther end of the back carriage drive, where she thought they might find some stones.
Heathercliffe House had the most delightful garden. In front were two large lawns, an upper one used for croquet and a lower one for tennis. Between the two was a rosery where a great many beautiful roses were still blooming, although it was now October.
"On Miss Kaye's birthday," said Linda, "we always make her a garland and put it on her head. She laughs, but she wears it for a little while and it looks so nice."
The front carriage drive was well rolled and kept very neatly, but the back one was just like a country lane; there were thick trees on each side with grass and wild flowers growing between, and in a corner near the gate was a small disused quarry, with high, rocky sides covered with gorse bushes and long brambles. Linda could not have chosen a better place to find stones; there were any number lying about, and though they were not white ones, they were a very light grey colour. There were a few blackberries still remaining on the brambles, but the ripest hung far out of reach and were quite impossible to pick, though Sylvia scratched herself in a vain attempt.
"It's no use. I'd best give them up and stick to the stones," she said. "If we ever go down to the beach we might bring back some shells too. Do you find any here?"
"Yes, lots, at one particular place, pink and white and yellow ones. They'd look pretty as an edging, but it would take a fearful long time to fetch enough to go far. I expect we shall need a great many barrows of stones before we can make both our names. I wouldn't pick up too small ones if I were you. There, I can't possibly wheel any more, so we'd better start."
The barrow was heavy and they took it in turns. It seemed a long way all round the back drive, through the rosery, and along the apple-tree avenue till they reached their own garden and tipped the stones down in a heap. A very small pile it looked, too, only sufficient for about three letters, and they sighed to think of the number of journeys that would be needed before their great scheme was complete. Off they went again, however, to the quarry and refilled the barrow as fast as they could.
"There can't be very much time before dinner," said Linda, "though I haven't heard the first bell yet. We must get on as quickly as we can, because I don't know what I should do if there wasn't time to put Sadie's barrow away. We have to run in the very second we hear the bell, and wash our hands."
"It's full enough now," said Sylvia. "I'll start with it first. Don't jog me or I shall upset it."
"I think we might make a short cut," suggested Linda. "Instead of walking all round the drive and the avenue we'll go straight through the shrubbery, it will take off an enormous corner and save us the hill by the rosery. We're not supposed to go there, but no one will notice."
They plunged therefore under the trees, wheeling the little barrow with some difficulty over the grass and among the rhododendrons, and were just getting in sight of the lawn when Linda suddenly stopped and clutched Sylvia by the arm.
"Look!" she cried. "There's Sadie Thompson coming with Gertie Warburton. What will she say when she finds we've taken French leave with her barrow? She'll be ever so cross. Give it me quick and we'll rush over here amongst the bushes. Perhaps they won't see us."
She seized the handles from Sylvia's grasp and they scuttled as fast as they could under the over-hanging boughs of a particularly big rhododendron, which appeared to offer a safe retreat.
"Quick, quick, they're looking!" cried Linda, bending low to avoid the branches and scrambling farther under the bush. "Hullo! Why! Oh! I say! What's happened?" She might well exclaim, for to her extreme astonishment the wheelbarrow suddenly seemed to plunge into the ground, and she saw before her nothing but the tips of the handles standing out from among a quantity of dead and withered leaves.
"How very peculiar!" she said. "There must be a hole here. Why, it's a sort of pool, I believe. Look, it's all horrid black mud and water under the dead leaves. What a disgusting mess the barrow is in! How are we to get it out?"
"We've lost all our stones," said Sylvia, kneeling at the edge and breaking off a stick to poke into the muddy depths below. "What a queer place it is!"
"I don't mind the stones, because we can find some more, but I do mind the barrow. Even if we fish it out, how are we ever to wash it? Sadie will be most dreadfully angry, and we shall get into such a scrape. We aren't really allowed to borrow each other's things without asking, and if Sadie turns nasty, and tells, and Miss Kaye hears about it, I don't know what may happen."
"Can't we pull it out and take it to the back drive again, and bring a watering can to wash it with?" said Sylvia.
"We might, but it's so hard to get it. When I tug it only seems to flop in deeper."
"Let me try."
"You can if you like, but I think the stones are weighing it down."
"You go a little farther on then, and let me come to where you are, so that I can reach properly."
Linda crawled cautiously along, feeling her way as she went.
"It seems to be a kind of sunk tub," she said. "Look, the edges are made of wood, and it's filled up with water. Oh, do be careful, Sylvia!" she exclaimed as the latter leaned over to grasp the handles.
"I'm all right. I've got them quite firmly. Now I'm going to give one good tug and a shake to get rid of the stones and then I expect it will come."
"Shall I hold your dress?" asked Linda, looking on with a shiver of apprehension.
"No, don't touch me! There, I can feel the stones go. It's coming! It's coming!"
And so it was, but far more suddenly than Sylvia had calculated; the unexpected jerk completely overbalanced her, and before she had time even to clutch at one of the rhododendron boughs she had fallen together with the barrow into the pool. Luckily it was not deep, and she was in no danger of drowning, but the mud was thick and black at the bottom, and as she scrambled hastily out she looked as if she had been dipped into an inkpot.
"Oh! Sylvia!" cried Linda, "What are we to do? We can't possibly help everyone finding out now. What a frightful mess you're in!"
"So I am," said Sylvia, looking ruefully at her spoilt clothes, and trying to wipe off some of the mud with her hands. "I didn't get the barrow up either."
"Oh, never mind the barrow; we can't stop for it now! There's the dressing bell. We shall have to go and tell somebody. You're simply streaming with mud, and we shall both be late for dinner."
Feeling very guilty, the pair crept out from under the bush and tried to dash across towards the side door, on the chance that Sylvia might be able to reach the bathroom and remove at least some of the traces of her dipping before anyone caught her. It was a vain hope, for in turning the corner they ran almost into the arms of Miss Coleman, who had come out to look for a missing member of her small flock.
"Sylvia Lindsay," she cried in horror, "you naughty child! Where have you been? And what have you done to yourself?"
"I don't know," replied Sylvia, dissolving into tears, which made white trickles down her dirty cheeks like little rivers on a map; "I fell in somewhere, and it was all mud, and it's cold, and please may I go in and change my things?"
"Come with me to the bathroom this minute," said Miss Coleman, abandoning her search for Dolly Camden, and hustling Sylvia before her with much indignation. "Linda, go and tidy yourself! Miss Kaye will have to hear of this. It is a very bad beginning, Sylvia, for your first day."
Sylvia was soaked to the skin, and was obliged to take a hot bath and put on a whole fresh set of clothes, while Miss Coleman stood grimly by and asked questions till she had drawn all the facts of the story. They were so late for dinner that they only arrived in the dining-room at the pudding course, and Miss Coleman, after a few quiet words of explanation to Miss Kaye, made Sylvia sit with her at a small side table instead of going to their proper places. Miss Kaye glanced at Sylvia but made no remark, and one of the servants brought their plates of meat and vegetables. They were half-cold, and Sylvia could not enjoy anything when she thought of the scolding that was to follow. She caught Linda's eye from the other side of the room, but did not dare to turn again in that direction, because Miss Coleman was looking at her. She knew so little of school life that she had no idea what punishment would be inflicted for such crimes as borrowing a barrow without leave and tumbling into a tub full of muddy water. In none of the books she had read did the girls do any such things.
"They generally cheat at lessons, or read the examination questions beforehand, or copy each other's essays," thought Sylvia. "And this is quite different. Even Sara Crewe never fell into a tub, nor any of the girls in Gertrude's Schooldays. I wonder what Miss Kaye will say!"
Miss Kaye lingered over pudding, evidently with the intention of allowing the latecomers a few extra minutes, then, rising and saying grace, she announced:
"Linda Marshall and Sylvia Lindsay will come to my study at a quarter to two," and left the room.
"We're in for it now," said Linda, clasping Sylvia by the hand as they met in the passage. "Oh, why did we ever get those wretched stones? And we've left the barrow at the bottom of the pool! We shall have to tell about that. Was Miss Coleman very cross?"
"She was rather. She kept hurrying me on, and saying 'Be quick!' all the time. You can't think how terribly the mud stuck. I had even to wash part of my hair. It's not dry yet."
"Let us go into the classroom. I don't want to meet Sadie; I'm afraid she'll ask about it. It's nearly a quarter to two now. I'm beginning to shake in my shoes."
It took a good deal of screwing up of courage before the two culprits ventured to give a faltering tap at the door of the study.
"Come in!" said Miss Kaye's brisk voice.
The children looked at each other and entered with much the same feeling as they would have experienced at a visit to the dentist's. Miss Kaye was seated at her desk, which was covered with papers, and merely glancing up for an instant said: "I am busy, so sit down till I have leisure to attend to you," and, taking no further notice of them, went on with her writing. Linda stole quietly to the sofa, and Sylvia sank on to the nearest chair, where she sat very still, looking with eager eyes round the prettily furnished room. She had a warm appreciation for artistic things and she gazed with delight at the beautiful Burne Jones engravings, the old oak cupboard with its blue china, the silver bowl of roses on the side table, and the bookcase full of richly bound volumes. Miss Kaye herself, she thought, made part of the picture. She liked her brown eyes, her clear, fresh complexion, and her abundant auburn hair.
"She's good-looking," reflected Sylvia. "Not at all horrid and old and sour. I dare say she could be rather stern, yet she looks as if she could laugh too. I like her eyes, they are so dark and quick and shining. They seem to take one all in at once. I wonder if she's going to be very angry."
Miss Kaye looked up just at that moment and met Sylvia's gaze with an expression which seemed to say: "Well, what do you think of me?" But, seeing the child flush scarlet, she folded her letter, placed it in the envelope, and stamped it; then, ringing the bell, handed it to a servant and told her to take it at once to the pillar box in time for the afternoon post.
"Now I am ready," she said, turning at last to her little pupils. "Linda and Sylvia, you have been in trouble, and I wish you to tell me yourselves what has occurred."
It was hard to begin, since everyone had a natural awe of the headmistress; but once the plunge was made they found themselves relating their tale fairly connectedly, with the help of a few questions. Miss Kaye listened gravely.
"This is what comes of borrowing without leave and going where you are forbidden," she said. "The tub is used by the gardener for storing water, and no doubt with the rainy days we had in September it has accumulated a good deal of mud as well. I will take care that the wheelbarrow is recovered and washed, and I shall expect you both to apologize to Sadie. It is one of the rules of the school that the girls should respect each other's property. You may go now, but do not let this happen again."
Rejoiced to escape so easily, the children fled, eager to describe their adventure to the rest of the class, who were brimming over with curiosity after the hurried account which had been whispered by Linda at dinner and passed on by the next girl with so many variations that the general version was that Sylvia had taken a ride in the gardener's barrow and fallen down a well. There was scarcely any time before afternoon school, but they managed to give a proper explanation and thoroughly enjoyed the telling and the effect it produced. Marian Woodhouse might turn up her nose and call them babies, but she listened all the same, and, Sylvia could not help thinking, was just a little jealous to find them the centre of so much interest.
Sylvia wrote her first letter home that evening after tea, and found she had such an amount to put in it she hardly knew how to begin. It ran thus:
"Heathercliffe House,
"October 5th.
"My darling Mother and Father,
"I am much happier than I expected. This morning I fell into a tub full of mud and spoilt all my clothes. Miss Coleman is going to have my new dress washed, but she does not think it will ever look nice again. I am wearing my green merino. I like Linda immensely. She has read the sequel to Eight Cousins although it is a love story and she is only eleven. I wish I might. We are going to have a garden together. Will you please send me some bulbs to plant in it. Marian Woodhouse said I did not know how to spell last night, but I only had three mistakes in dictation this morning and she had four. Miss Arkwright says my writing is bad. She has given me a new copybook. Miss Coleman took my box of toffee away and locked it up in a cupboard. She says I may have some on Saturday. I hope Dicky is well. Please do not forget to give him his groundsel. There is a black kitten here with white paws and a white tip to its tail. I send kisses to everybody.
"Your loving daughter,
"SYLVIA."
CHAPTER V
Rivals
Sylvia quickly discovered that life at school was a totally different affair from what it had been at home. She had now very little opportunity of ever being alone. The solitary readings and pretendings with which she had been wont to amuse herself were impossible, for every hour of the day seemed so well filled with work, walks, and games, and even in recreation time the other girls constantly claimed her attention. By the end of a week she had already learnt several very necessary facts; that orders had to be promptly obeyed without either dawdling or arguing, that strict punctuality was the rule, and it was a terrible thing to be even a minute late for classes or meals; that she was by no means the only important person in the school, because everybody else thought herself of quite as much consequence, and some rather more so; that schoolgirls had scant sympathy for bumps, bruises, tears, headaches, or any other minor woes, and only said "You baby!" if she complained; and lastly, that, though it seemed most peculiar to have no one to make a special fuss over her, on the whole there was so much fun going on that it was a great deal more interesting than doing lessons by herself with Miss Holt.
The girls of the third class, all of whom could write their ages with two figures, felt themselves very superior and grown-up in comparison with the little ones in the Kindergarten. There were seven of these children, whose ages ranged from six to nine, and as they shared the playroom with the third form it was the fashion to pet them and take notice of them. Dolly Camden, Connie's younger sister, was a merry little soul with the family failing for continually getting into mischief, and was the chief anxiety of Miss Coleman's life, having a capacity for spilling water, inking her fingers, tearing her clothes, and losing her books unequalled by anyone else in her division.
The Camdens were all handfuls, even Rosie, who was sixteen, and might have been chosen a monitress if she had been more sedate, and thirteen-year-old Stella, who enlivened the second class with practical jokes. There was a story in the school that Miss Kaye had once written to Mrs. Camden to say that Rosie was unmanageable, and that Mrs. Camden had written back to say that she was very sorry, but she had never been able to manage any of her daughters herself and would Miss Kaye please try again. Whether this were true or false, Miss Kaye proved capable of keeping the unruly four in order, and was about the only person, except their father, of whom they really stood in awe.
Sadie and Elsie Thompson were two puny, motherless little girls of nine and six. They had been brought up by an aunt who was not at all kind to them, and they found Heathercliffe House such a happy exchange that they almost dreaded the holidays, when they must go back to the home that was so unhomelike. Their father was a sea-captain, who came to visit them about twice a year, when he returned from his voyages, and brought them presents from foreign places. He did not forget them either when he was away, and often sent them postcards of strange countries, which had to travel many thousand miles before they reached England. Margie Wilson was a fat sturdy child with an original mind and a stubborn temper. She had a habit of speaking her thoughts which was apt to be rather disconcerting.
On the first morning after her arrival, May Spencer, who was monitress on her landing, went into her bedroom, and told her it was time to get up. Margie raised herself slowly in bed with the clothes drawn round her neck, and fixed her black eyes on the intruder. "What's your name?" she enquired briefly.
"May Spencer."
"Oh! I don't like you, May Spencer. You've got a snub nose. I shan't get up." And with that she retired under the bedclothes, and absolutely refused to stir until poor May had to fetch Miss Coleman to enforce discipline and uphold her authority.
Edna Lowe was a rather silly little thing, who had been much spoilt at home, and was still surreptitiously petted by her sister Lily in the second class, who occasionally had a battle on her behalf with Miss Coleman, who saw no reason why Edna should be treated differently from the others, and rewarded good behaviour or inflicted punishments with an impartial hand. Nessie Hirst, a nervous child, who had been sent to Aberglyn for the benefit of the sea air, was a favourite with the third class, her pathetic, wistful, grey eyes, long rich-brown hair, and the beautiful and elaborately embroidered frocks which her mother worked for her, gave her a somewhat distinguished appearance, and among the girls she often went by the nickname of "Little Vere de Vere". The prettiest of all, however, was Greta Collins, a small, golden-haired, blue-eyed rascal, who attached herself promptly to Sylvia like a limpet, sitting on her knee, clinging round her neck with kittenish fondness, and making herself very charming with her coaxing manner.
"It's only because you're somebody fresh," said Marian Woodhouse. "She does this to every new girl. You should have seen the fuss she made of me when first I came. She'll have quite got over it in a fortnight, and will hardly look at you."
"You won't; will you, darling?" said Sylvia indignantly, hugging the child closer, for she was much flattered at being the object of so much adoration.
"No, I'll love you always. Better than any of these horrid girls. Tell them to go away! I don't want anybody but you." And she clasped her arms round Sylvia's neck, and kissed her again and again.
"I know you will," declared Sylvia. "So we'll just take no notice of them. You're my special baby, and I mean to keep you."
"All right, you'll soon find out, and then don't say I didn't warn you!" returned Marian, laughing.
In spite of both Sylvia's and Greta's protestations to the contrary, Marian's words proved to be exactly true. For almost a week the little girl's affection kept at red heat; on the seventh day it began to show signs of flagging. It was in vain that Sylvia tempted her with stories, cajoled her with sweets, or even presented her with one of her lovely new paintbrushes; Greta was tired of her fancy, and though she accepted anything that was offered her, she only gave a half-hearted peck of a kiss in return, and ran back promptly to play with Nessie Hirst. Poor Sylvia was terribly distressed. She had been fascinated with Greta's pretty pink-and-white face, and big blue eyes; she liked to curl the long, golden ringlets round her fingers, to fasten the clean pinafores, or do any other small services for her, and especially to feel that the child clung to her in preference to anybody else. To be thus suddenly deserted was a blow, and it was particularly galling to have Marian Woodhouse say "I told you so." All her efforts at winning back her fickle admirer were absolutely useless. Greta refused to be coaxed, and at the end of a fortnight fulfilled Marian's prophecy by pushing away her former friend and even smacking her, which brought matters to such a crisis that Sylvia, after a storm of tears in private, gave up the attempt and resigned herself to the inevitable.
Luckily there were plenty of fresh interests to help to put Greta out of her thoughts. Though she had studied fairly hard with her governess at home she had never before entered into competition with other girls, and it was a new experience to work in class. As Miss Holt had expected, she was forward in some subjects and backward in others; but she was gifted with an excellent memory and found she could learn with little trouble what many of the others found impossible tasks. Except for French with Mademoiselle and nature study with Miss Kaye, all the lessons were taken by Miss Arkwright. Sylvia could never quite make up her mind whether she liked her or not. She was tall and slim, with large teeth, and a nose that moved about like a rabbit's when she spoke, and she wore her hair brushed very plainly back from her high forehead. She was a conscientious teacher but not a very interesting one, and she somehow lacked the charm which attracted the girls so much to their headmistress.
"Miss Kaye seems to like to know each one of us separately, and all about our friends and our homes," said Marian one day, "and I don't believe Miss Arkwright cares in the least about us out of school, so long as we know our lessons in class."
Children are very quick to feel sympathy, and, though Miss Arkwright did her duty thoroughly, most of her pupils respected her more than they loved her, and while she was not disliked she was never popular.
It was a revelation to Sylvia, who in her work with Miss Holt had never troubled whether she did exceedingly or only moderately well, to find that at Heathercliffe House a little extra effort made all the difference. At the end of every week the marks of each girl were balanced up, and on Monday morning at nine o'clock Miss Kaye would march into the classroom to read out the list and add a few comments of praise or blame. The girls sat in school for the week according to the order in which their names occurred on the balancing list, and it had been a point of great pride with Marian Woodhouse to come out top, a position which hitherto no one had troubled to dispute with her.
Sylvia had arrived on a Wednesday, so that the first week she was only able to obtain part marks, though in two days she had gained enough to place her half-way up the class, above Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie Ellis and even Nina Forster. The second week was a duel between herself and Marian. Both worked hard and steadily and seemed fairly equal, for what Sylvia lost by her bad writing she gained through her more accurate memory, and some of Marian's most venturesome guesses happened to turn out wrong, though she could beat Sylvia at arithmetic. The books in which they wrote their exercises were always looked over on Saturday by Miss Kaye, who marked them both for matter, style, writing, and general neatness; so the girls could not tell until these were returned what was their total for the week. It was very exciting on Sylvia's second Monday morning when Miss Kaye entered bearing the pile of exercises and prepared to read out the list of marks. It was her custom always to begin with the bottom girl, and to-day she proceeded as usual.
"Jessie Ellis. 29. Your history is especially weak, and I noticed there were sixteen mistakes in your dictation. If you cannot keep up with the class I shall be obliged to send you down again.
Gwennie Woodhouse. 34. I believe you have tried, Gwennie, as it is more than last week, but there is still much room for improvement.
Connie Camden. 38. I expect better things from you, Connie. You can learn quite well when you apply yourself properly, and I consider it a disgrace that you should have a bad mark for arithmetic. If I find it again you will have to stay in on Saturday afternoon and learn your tables.
Nina Forster. 39. You have had a bad cold, so I will excuse you this week. Your writing is beautifully neat, though I should like to see higher marks.
Linda Marshall. 45. You have done well in grammar, but failed utterly in geography. Your map is very inaccurate.
Hazel Prestbury. 50. Excellent in spelling and composition, but rather weak in arithmetic.
Marian Woodhouse. 60. Very good and conscientious work. Your exercises show great care and neatness.
Sylvia Lindsay. 63. I am pleased, Sylvia, to find you have done so well, and hope you will continue with such a good record. I should like to see improvement in your writing, and you must make that your chief care. In every other respect your work is highly satisfactory. Girls, take your places!"
It was a proud moment for Sylvia when she stepped above Marian Woodhouse to claim her seat at the top of the class. Marian held her head down and looked as black as thunder; Linda could scarcely conceal her delight; Connie Camden was nudging Nina Forster; and Gwennie's eyes filled with tears at the sight of her sister's humiliation. She had no ambition for herself, but she had always gloried in Marian's success.
"It's a shame!" she whispered to Jessie Ellis. "That new girl has no right to get top. I'm sure Miss Arkwright must have favoured her."
Miss Arkwright looked as surprised as anybody, but her conscience was clear of all favouritism, she was strictly impartial, and Miss Kaye herself had marked the exercises. She made no comment, however, and lessons began as usual.
The eight girls were seated in a row on a form opposite their teacher's desk, and were expected to sit with shoulders erect, hands folded, and feet neatly placed together. Sylvia, who had rather fidgety ways, and was apt to wriggle when answering a question, found it hard to keep this prim position, and, in the agony of recalling the principal tributaries of the Yorkshire Ouse, she almost unconsciously seized a handful of pens from the box which lay on a chair by her side and began to finger them nervously.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire," she said, counting each with a pen.
Marian put out her hand and drew the pens firmly away.
"Two more," suggested Miss Arkwright.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire——" repeated Sylvia desperately, missing the pens and feeling as if she could not go on without them.
"Next!" said Miss Arkwright, who never waited long for anybody.
"Calder and Don," finished Marian promptly, replacing the pens in the box, which she popped on to the desk behind, whispering to Sylvia as she did so: "You're not fit to be top!"
"Marian Woodhouse and Sylvia Lindsay each lose an order mark," said Miss Arkwright, at which they both looked sober, though neither minded very much since the other had the same.
"You needn't have pulled the pens from me just when I was answering," said Sylvia to Marian afterwards. "You put everything straight out of my head."
"If you can't answer without something to play with," retorted Marian, "you'd better go to the baby class and learn kindergarten drawing on a slate. No one would think you were nearly eleven."
It was certainly trying for poor Marian to find a younger girl occupying the position which she had come to regard as her own special property, and she could not yield with a good grace. Fate seemed determined to call her failure into notice. In the afternoon, when singing was over, Miss Denby turned to dismiss the various forms back to their schoolrooms.
"Class Three will go out first," she said. "Balancing order. Now girls be quick! Come, Marian, where are you?" For Marian, with a very red face, had not stepped forward as usual to take her place at the head of the line.
"I'm top!" said Sylvia, who found it impossible to conceal her triumph, and she led the way with the feeling of a rival claimant who has suddenly and unexpectedly been raised to the throne, enjoying Miss Denby's astonishment as much as Marian's confusion.
After that it was a continual struggle between the two children for the coveted seat. Sometimes one gained it and sometimes the other, and one week they were exactly equal, a difficulty which Miss Kaye solved by deciding that Marian was to be head in the mornings and Sylvia in the afternoons. No one else in the class seemed able to dispute it with them, though Hazel Prestbury occasionally won high marks. Linda, a bright enough child to talk to, and fond of reading, had not a very good memory, Connie Camden was incorrigibly lazy, Nina only worked by fits and starts, and both Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie Ellis were of course out of the question.
Sylvia certainly did not find school life all plain sailing. Among other things Miss Arkwright was a totally different person from her former governess. Miss Holt, anxious to develop her pupil's powers of general intelligence, had allowed her to ask continual questions, and would even argue a point with her in order to encourage her to think clearly upon a subject. Miss Arkwright, on the contrary, did not allow any girl to have opinions in opposition to her own, and Sylvia got into sad trouble if she ventured on original ideas. Once in the geography class she was asked to give the capital of Tuscany.
"Firenze," she replied promptly.
"Next," said Miss Arkwright.
"Florence," answered Marian with a toss of her head.
"Firenze is the proper Italian name for Florence," corrected Sylvia. "Father and Mother were staying there last Easter, and they said everybody called it that, and didn't understand what you meant if you said Florence."
"We are having our geography lesson in English, not Italian, so we will call the places by the English names which are given in the book," said Miss Arkwright, glaring at her; and Sylvia lost a mark, much to her indignation.
Another time the class was reading Marmion, and repeating the notes which were given at the end of the cantos. Now Sylvia had revelled in so many historical stories that she understood thoroughly all about a portcullis and a drawbridge and a donjon keep, and instead of simply saying the note she volunteered an explanation of her own. It was what Miss Holt would have encouraged, but Miss Arkwright kept strictly to the lesson.
"I did not ask for your opinion, Sylvia," she said. "The notes given in the book are quite sufficient, and you may confine yourself to them."
On the whole Miss Arkwright was fair, but on one occasion Sylvia felt herself really to be the object of a great injustice. A very difficult grammar lesson was in progress, which most of the girls found extremely hard to understand. Miss Arkwright had asked many questions round the class, and now addressed one to Sylvia, who was top. She missed, and the teacher turned to Marian, who sat next. Just at that moment the bell rang, and, without waiting for Marian's reply, Miss Arkwright closed her book and opened the register. Now that last wrong answer had given Sylvia a bad mark, and she felt it was not just that she should have had one more question than any of the other girls.
"I don't believe one of them knew it," she said to herself, "and if the question had gone on they would all have missed too."
"Oh, Miss Arkwright, it's not fair!" she added aloud, getting up with flaming cheeks at the sting of the thought that half a minute had saved Marian's mark and lost her own. "I oughtn't to count that last miss."
"Sylvia, if you speak to me like that again I shall order you to leave the room," said the mistress, who prided herself on her good discipline. "I think you must have forgotten yourself."
"It was mean of her," said Linda, trying to console her friend afterwards. "When we were in Miss Coleman's form, and the bell rang when a question was only halfway down the class, she always said: "Don't count the last turn," because it wasn't fair unless we all had the same chance of missing. But you did say it in such a cheeky way, I think that was why she was so angry. It's no use trying to get her to take it off now; when she's once said a thing she sticks to it and nobody but Miss Kaye could make her alter it; and we shouldn't dare to ask her; and if we did it wouldn't be worth it, because Miss Arkwright would be twice as cross afterwards. You'll just have to grin and bear it."
CHAPTER VI
Squabbles
By the time Sylvia was thoroughly settled in the Third Class another trouble began to distress her. She had formed a great affection for Linda Marshall, and as the two shared a bedroom it seemed only natural that they should be bosom friends. Linda was very willing to consider Sylvia as her special comrade; they were almost the same age, and had so many likes and dislikes in common that there was not the least occasion to quarrel over anything, and they were never so happy as when they were alone together. That, however, Hazel Prestbury was by no means ready to allow. Although she slept with Connie Camden she had hitherto considered Linda her friend, and was very indignant that Sylvia should have stepped between them.
Hazel was a girl about whom Miss Kaye often felt some uneasiness. The eldest in her class, she was also old for her age, and she had brought a good many notions to school with her that were not at all in accordance with the simple ideas which were encouraged at Heathercliffe House. She thought far more of dress and position than she had any business to do, criticized the other girls' clothing, compared the value of her birthday presents with those of her schoolmates, and was apt to boast of her abundant pocket money. She was also not always as open and truthful as might have been wished, and though it could never be exactly defined, she somehow kept up a slight spirit of hostility against the mistresses, and would never respond heartily to any kindness from headquarters. Miss Kaye thought she was not altogether a wise friend for Linda, who, being a whole year younger, was likely to be easily influenced, and it was on this account that she had not allowed the two to share a bedroom.
Linda was an affectionate little girl; she did not notice the faults in Hazel's character, and would have been delighted to include both her companions in a triple friendship. But that did not content either, and though Sylvia had the advantage at morning and evening, Hazel generally triumphed during the day.
Sylvia would watch with jealous eyes as the pair walked arm in arm down the avenue or played draughts together in the recreation hour. She tried to console herself with reading, but somehow the books did not seem nearly so absorbing as they had done at home, and she sat with one ear open to hear what Linda was saying. She did not care to make friends with any of the other girls, though Nina Forster proffered a few advances, and Connie Camden was always "hail fellow well met" with everybody.
One wet afternoon the Third Class and some of the members of the Fourth were sitting round the playroom fire indulging in oranges, which Miss Kaye had given as a special treat.
"I like to suck mine with a lump of sugar," said Gwennie. "If you do it carefully you can get every scrap of orange out without breaking the peel."
"I can't eat orangeth," sighed Sadie Thompson pensively. "They alwayth make me thick."
"Make you thin, I should think," laughed Marian. "You're the skinniest little creature I ever saw."
"I don't mean fat, I mean thick—ill."
"Oh, sick! Then why don't you say so?"
"Becauthe I can't help lithping," replied Sadie, who was rather proud of her accomplishment, and did not make any great effort to overcome it.
"I wish I lisped," said Connie Camden enviously. "I'd have such fun with Miss Arkwright in the reading lesson. She'd stop for five minutes worrying over one word. Don't you remember when I pretended I couldn't say 'meritorious'? I'm going to cut my orange in half if anybody will lend me a penknife."
"Where's your own?"
"Lost it long ago. I never can keep them. I got one in my Christmas stocking and another on my birthday, and I had a new one at the beginning of this term, but they're all gone. My pencil wore down to such a perfect stump yesterday I couldn't finish my sums, and I daren't borrow, because Miss Arkwright said she'd give a bad-conduct mark to the first girl who spoke one word. I tried to signal to Nina, but she wouldn't look. Hazel, lend me yours!"
"No thanks!" replied Hazel. "Not to cut oranges. It's a new one and you'd spoil it."
"Oh, you mean thing! Who'll be generous?"
"You may have this if you like," said Sylvia. "I don't much mind if you keep it; it's only an old one, and I have another in my pencil box."
"You dear, I'd love it! I shall have to give you something in exchange, though, or else it will be unlucky. What will you have?" And Connie turned out the very miscellaneous contents of her pockets, displaying various stumps of lead pencil, a much worn indiarubber, a buttonhook, two or three dominoes, a walnut shell, some acorn cups, a stone with a hole in it, a whistle, a sticky piece of toffee, and a calendar.
"I don't want any of them," said Sylvia, shaking her head.
"But you must. Knives cut love, and we shall quarrel if you don't. The calendar's not much good; it's last year's, and I only kept it for the picture of the dog on the back. But have this," pressing one of the pencils into her hand. "It's the longest piece I have, and rather a nice soft one."
"Let us try putting our pips in the fire," said Nina. "You name one after yourself, and another after someone you like, and then say: