Soon after the incident of the canary, the three older girls went to
school. When her first home-sickness was passed, Henrietta enjoyed the
life. It was strict, but home had been strict, and there was much more
variety here. She was clever, and took eager delight in her lessons;
dull, stupid Miss Weston had found her beyond her.
She would have liked school even more if her temper had been under
better control. But at thirteen she had settled down to bad temper as a
habit. She did not exactly put her feelings into thoughts, but there was
an impression in her mind that as she had been out of it so much of her
life she should be allowed to be bad-tempered as a consolation. This
brought her into constant conflicts, which made no one so unhappy as
herself.
She had two great interests at school, Miranda Hardcastle and Miss
Arundel. Miranda was the kind of girl whom everybody is always going to
adore, very pretty, very amusing, and with much cordiality of manner.
Henrietta fell a victim at once, and Miranda, who drank in all
adoration, gave Henrietta some good-natured friendship in return.
Henrietta fagged for her, did as many of her lessons as she could,
applauded all her remarks, amply rewarded by Miranda's welcoming smile
and her, "I've been simply pining for you, my child; come and hear me my
French at once, like a seraphim."
This happy state of things continued until unfortunately Henrietta's
temper, over which she had kept an anxious guard in Miranda's presence,
showed signs of activity. The first time this occurred Miranda opened
her large eyes very wide and said, "What's come over my young friend,
has it got the hydrophobia? I shall try and cure it by kindness and give
it some chocolate."
Henrietta's clouds dispersed, but she was not always so easily restored
to good-humour; and Miranda, with the whole school at her feet, was not
going to stand bad temper, the fault on the whole least easily forgiven
by girls. Henrietta had a heartrending scene with her: at fifteen she
liked heartrending scenes. Miranda was too fond of popularity to give
Henrietta up entirely, so the two remained friendly, but they were no
longer intimate.
Miss Arundel was the head-mistress's sister, and undertook all the
serious teaching that was not in the hands of masters. She did not have
many outward attractions of face and form, but schoolgirls will know
that that is not of much importance. She was adored, possibly because
she had a bad temper (bad temper is an asset in a teacher), which was
liable to burst forth unexpectedly; then she was clever and
enthusiastic, and gave good lessons. She marked out Henrietta, and it
came round that she had said, "Etta Symons is an interesting girl, she
has possibilities. I wonder how she will turn out." It came round also
that Miss Arundel had said, "I only wish she had more control and
tenacity of purpose," but this sentence Henrietta put out of her head.
The first sentence she thought of for hours on end, and set to work to
be more interesting than ever; in fact for some days she was so affected
and exasperating that Miss Arundel could hardly contain herself. Still,
even Miss Arundel's sarcasm was endurable, anything was endurable, after
that gratifying remark.
When Miranda ceased to be her special friend, she transferred her whole
heart and soul to Miss Arundel. She waylaid her with flowers, hung about
in the passage on the chance of seeing her walk by, and waited on her as
much as she dared. Some teachers apparently enjoy girl adorations, and
even take pains to secure them. Miss Arundel had had enough of them to
find them disagreeable. She therefore gave out in the presence of two or
three of Henrietta's circle that she thought it was a pity Etta Symons
wasted so much of her pocket-money on buttonholes which gave very little
pleasure to anyone, certainly not to her, who particularly disliked
strong scents; she thought the money could be much better expended.
Jessie Winsley repeated this speech to Henrietta, little thinking what
anguish it would cause. Henrietta had very little pride, very little
proper pride some people might have said; she did not at all mind giving
a great deal more than she got. But this speech, which was not, after
all, so very malignant, drove her to despair. She went to Miranda, who
hugged her, and said: "Old cat! barbaric old cat! Never think of her
again, she isn't worth it. Try dear little Stanley, he's a pet; men are
much nicer." Stanley was the drawing-master.
But after all one must have a little encouragement to start an
adoration, and as Henrietta never could draw, she got none from Stanley.
Besides she was constant, so instead, she brooded over Miss Arundel. She
had not been so unhappy, when she had her Miranda and her Arundel. Now
she had lost them both. Miss Arundel, with her cool, unaffectionate
interest, had, of course, never been "had" at all, but Henrietta had
imagined that when Miss Arundel said "Yes, quite right, that's a good
answer," it was a kind of beginning of friendship. She, Henrietta, small
and insignificant, was singled out for Miss Arundel's friendship; that
was what she thought. She did not realize that it was possible to care
merely for intellectual development.
When she was prepared for Confirmation, there were serious talks about
her character. The Vicar, whose classes she attended, was mostly
concerned with doctrines, and Mrs. Marston with what one might call a
list of ideal vices and temptations which pupils must guard themselves
against. Miss Arundel talked to her about her untidy exercise books,
her unpunctuality, her loud voice in the corridor, and her round
shoulders, and explained very properly that inattention in these
comparatively small matters showed a general want of self-control. She
did not speak about bad temper, for Henrietta was much too frightened of
her to show any signs of temper in her proximity. Miss Arundel did not
give her an opportunity of unburdening herself of the problem that
weighed on her mind, not that she would have taken the opportunity if it
had occurred, not after that speech about the buttonholes. This was the
problem: Why was it that people did not love her?--she to whom love was
so much that if she did not have it, nothing else in the world was worth
having. There had been Evelyn, it is true, but now Evelyn did lessons
with a little friend of her own age, and she and the friend were all in
all, and did not want Henrietta in the holidays. Henrietta reflected
that she was not uglier, or stupider, or duller than anyone else. There
was a large set at school who were ugly, stupid, and dull, and they were
devoted to one another, though they none of them cared about her. Why
had God sent her into the world, if she was not wanted? She found the
problem insoluble, but a certain amount of light was thrown on it by one
of the girls.
She had been snarling with two or three of her classmates over the
afternoon preparation, and had flounced off in a rage by herself. She
felt a touch on her arm, and turning round saw Emily Mence, a rather
uncouth, clever girl, whom she hardly knew.
"I just came to say, Why _are_ you such an idiot?"
"Me?"
"Yes, why do you lose your temper like that? All the girls are laughing
at you; they always do when you get cross."
"Then I think it's horrid of them."
"Well, you can't be surprised; of course people won't stand you, if
you're so cross."
"Won't they?" said Henrietta. "And the one thing I want in the world is
to be liked."
"Do you really? Fancy wanting these girls to like you; they're such
silly little things."
"I shouldn't mind that if only they liked me."
"_I_ like you," said Emily. "Do you remember you said Charles I.
deserved to have his head cut off because he was so stupid, and all the
others gushed over him?"
"Did I?"
"I don't like the other girls to laugh at you; that's why I thought I
would tell you."
They walked up and down the path and talked about Charles I. Here there
seemed the beginning of a friendship, but it was nipped in the bud, for
Emily left unexpectedly at the end of the term. Henrietta received no
further overtures from any of the girls.
Emily's words had made an impression however, and for six weeks
Henrietta took a great deal of pains with her temper. For this
concession on her part she expected Providence to give her an immediate
and abundant measure of popularity. It did not. The Symons family had
not the friend-making quality--a capricious quality, which withholds
itself from those who have the greatest desire, and even apparently the
best right, to possess it. The girls were kind, kinder, on the whole,
than the grown-up world, and they were perfectly willing to give her
their left arms round the garden, but their right would be occupied by
their real friends, to whom they would be telling their experiences, and
Henrietta would only come in for a, "Wasn't it sickening, Etta?" now
and then. She was disappointed, and she relaxed her efforts. She had
missed the excitement of saying disagreeable things. The day had become
chilly without them. By the middle of the term she was as disagreeable
as ever.
She very rarely received good advice in her life, and now that she had
got it, she made no use of it. If she had, it might have changed the
whole of her future. But from henceforth, on birthdays, New Year's Eves,
and other anniversaries, when she took stock of herself and her
character, she ignored her temper, and would not count it as a factor
that could be modified. There were others as lonely as herself at
school, there are always many lonely in a community; but she did not
realize this, and felt herself exceptional. She imagined that she was
overwhelmed with misery at this time, but really the life was so busy,
and she was so fond of the lessons, and did them so well, that she was
not to be pitied as much as she thought.
It was clear she was to be lonely at school and lonely at home. Where
was she to find relief? There was a supply of innocuous story-books for
the perusal of Mrs. Marston's pupils on Saturday half-holidays,
innocuous, that is to say, but for the fact that they gave a completely
erroneous view of life, and from them Henrietta discovered that heroines
after the sixteenth birthday are likely to be pestered with adorers. The
heroines, it is true, were exquisitely beautiful, which Henrietta knew
she was not, but from a study of "Jane Eyre" and "Villette" in the
holidays, Charlotte Bronte was forbidden at school owing to her excess
of passion, Henrietta realized that the plain may be adored too, so she
had a modest hope that when the magic season of young ladyhood arrived,
a Prince Charming would come and fall in love with her. This hope filled
more and more of her thoughts, and all her last term, when other girls
were crying at the thought of leaving, she was counting the days to her
departure.