THE BRIGHT SIDE OF THE SCHOOL.
Mrs. Faithful had never before, in the whole course of her long years
as a school-mistress, pronounced herself a failure, but on this
occasion she did. She was an essentially honest woman. She told her
girls the truth, and what was far more to the point, she told _herself_
the truth. She took her character, so to speak, to pieces, and
wondered, as she did on the present occasion, where she could possibly
have gone wrong.
The two girls left in her charge were naughty girls--_very_ naughty
girls--but then she had had naughty girls before. Of course, these were
undoubtedly worse, more defiant in their characters, than any of the
various maidens who had visited Felicity and had gone through its stern
and yet withal its beneficial training; for the school was, as a matter
of fact, divided into two parts. There were the girls who needed sharp
correction, who required individual and most anxious care, and there
were the girls who, having successfully and victoriously passed this
ordeal, had entered the happy and bright portion of the school.
Here indeed, as far as the East is from the West, all things were
different; here, in those lovely rooms called Faith, Hope, Charity,
Joy, were laughter and mirth, were games and all pleasantness. There
was an intermediate room called Patience. In this room the girls as a
rule remained under a very diluted form of discipline for two or even
perhaps three months. During this time their hair was allowed to grow,
and their uniform was changed from dull grey and white to pale blue and
white.
When they entered the happy rooms above mentioned, they were altogether
different from those most unhappy girls who went through Penitence and
Discipline. There was no enjoyment denied to them, as long as they were
good and obedient. Obedience was required, discipline was maintained,
but over all the Sun of Love and Kindness shone.
In the summer they romped in the gardens and the paddocks. They forgot
the dismal, the awful period when Penitence and Discipline were their
portion. All went well with them, and Mrs. Faithful loved these pupils
dearly. She sent them back by-and-by to their homes completely changed
characters, earnest in their efforts, willing and anxious to work, with
a great deal of vanity and self-conceit, the ruin of so many girls,
completely knocked out of them.
Poor Miss Pinchin, as she was called--except by Dinah, who called her
Joan--had the painful charge of the first breaking in of these young,
wild creatures. Mrs. Faithful considered her an admirable woman for
the purpose. How was it that she so signally and completely failed with
Henrietta and Daisy?
Daisy was lying most dangerously ill. Henrietta was unmanageable.
Maureen was expected. She might arrive at any moment. She had said in
her telegram that she would come early, and the day of her arrival had
dawned.
Mrs. Faithful felt terribly unhappy; she knew that if Daisy got worse,
it would be her duty to wire to the Reverend Patrick O'Brien to beg of
him to come immediately to see his step-daughter. Her keen eyes had
perceived at a glance how ill her kinsman looked. She knew also that
he did not really love these girls, who were not his own. She bitterly
regretted now having yielded to her softer nature, and taken the girls
into the school at all.
Well, she had done it _on a condition_, and the condition was agreed
to. Maureen O'Brien was coming. This fact alone would have given
the poor lady untold delight, but for Henrietta's intemperate and
extraordinary remarks about her. She feared that Henrietta would
torment the child, so high-minded and noble in nature. She resolved,
however, on an expedient which she trusted might save her.
Maureen, whatever happened, must _not_ be unhappy. She was not coming
to the school as a pupil, but as a guest; Mrs. Faithful therefore
resolved to have prayers half an hour earlier than usual that morning
and then to give a short address to the girls--those girls who had
passed through the worst stage of discipline and were thoroughly
enjoying themselves at the school.
Amongst these was one called Margaret Devereux. There was also
another--Evelyn Ross. They were cousins, and had been at first most
troublesome, most defiant, most disobedient. They had now been four
years at Felicity, and no one would recognise them for the little
uncared-for wild imps whom their unhappy fathers had brought to the
school, begging Jane Faithful to do what she could for them.
Jane Faithful, aided by her staff of teachers, did her best, and
sweeter, brighter girls than Margaret Devereux and Evelyn Ross it would
be difficult to find. They were neither of them exactly beautiful, but
there was a wonderful look of strength about them, like those who have
met Apollyon in the Valley of the Shadow--and have come out on the
other side. All the other girls were of varied intensity of character.
The remarkable thing about all these girls was that they _had_
characters, that there was nothing small about them. It was impossible
to reach the Halls of Faith, Hope, and Joy without having passed
through Conflict. This expression is seldom seen on a young face, but
when it is there, it has a specially ennobling effect.
Mrs. Faithful thought that a great deal might be done for Maureen by
means of Margaret and Evelyn, but she wanted all her band of bright
girls, all those who had passed through the Valley, to be kind and
interested in the newcomer. She therefore spoke about her very simply.
"I have a few words to say to you, girls," began the headmistress.
They were all in white on this summer morning, and as they were just
preparing to go into the large schoolroom to begin their accustomed
work, they paused and turned in some astonishment. Margaret, in
especial, clasped the hand of Evelyn Ross and squeezed it.
Now Evelyn and Margaret four years ago used to be the direst foes.
They were members of one household, but they could not live happily
together or with anyone else; hence the chief reason for their arrival
at Felicity.
"My dears," said Mrs. Faithful, who observed this affectionate
clasp, "I have some pleasant news for you all. I am expecting almost
immediately a young visitor. She is, I believe, fifteen years of age,
but although tall looks much younger than her years. I have heard of
her, but have not seen her. She will not be a pupil unless indeed she
wishes to join any special class. She will sleep in the Chamber of
Peace, and I want you, Margaret, and you, Evelyn, as my head girls,
to take special care of her, and to do all in your power to make her
happy. She has, I believe, a specially fine character which may be
partly accounted for by her birth, for she belongs to mixed races,
being French on her mother's side and Irish on her father's. Her name
is Maureen, her surname is O'Brien. Maureen, as perhaps you know, is
the Irish for Mary. She is greatly beloved by her uncle, and as far
as I can tell by most of those who know her. There is, however, an
exception, and I want you, Margaret, and you, Evelyn, to guard Maureen
O'Brien against that exception. You have not yet been introduced to
Henrietta Mostyn. Alas, alas! poor girl! It will, I greatly fear, be
some time before you make her acquaintance. She has lived in the same
house with Maureen, and cordially _hates_ her--I _fear_ because she is
good. How you know what an awful thing hatred is. We have banished it,
I hope, from the greater part of Felicity."
"We have--we have," said Margaret and Evelyn.
"I therefore ask you, my dear children," continued the headmistress,
"to be particularly good to Maureen O'Brien. She comes of a noble
stock. I wish you could have seen her father, Major O'Brien. He
belonged indeed to those gifted ones whom the Lord has blessed. He was
a soldier in the truest sense of the word. He died from the effects of
a wound in battle, when Maureen was a very little child. Her mother
had died before him. Major O'Brien died in saving a fellow-soldier who
was in desperate straits. He dragged him away from the range of the
enemies' guns. For this splendid action he got his V. C., and, although
he died of his wounds later on, he truly died covered with glory. Now,
my children, will you help me with regard to Maureen if she requires
your help?"
"We will--we will!" said one and all.
"We should love to!" cried Margaret.
"We just adore her already," remarked Evelyn.
At that moment the sound of wheels was heard approaching on the winding
gravel sweep.
"She has come," said Mrs. Faithful. "Go to your lessons, girls; you
will meet her at early dinner."
The girls went away, filled with the keenest excitement. Mrs. Faithful
had struck the right note. Patriotism and the love of country were in
their blood. Maureen, in their eyes, was a heroine before they saw her.
Mrs. Faithful had been quite sure she had done right as she went into
the centre of the hall, where Dominic and Maureen were standing.
The boy held out his hand; the girl struggled to speak, but her face
was very white.
"You are tired, darling," said Mrs. Faithful.
"She is--she's beat out," said Dominic.
"Dom--you know I'm not beat out." The clear, rather slowly pronounced
words, which were some of Maureen's peculiarities, dropped from her
pretty lips. "I've come here--indeed, I have--just to be useful and to
make _no_ trouble."
"Ha! Ha! Naughty one--_I_ know you!" suddenly shouted a voice, and a
fiery head was poked over the staircase, and Henrietta clapped her
hands. "You make yourself useful, indeed! I like that."
There was an evident tussle between Henrietta and a grave, sweet,
elderly woman, who was dragging her back.
"Thou shalt not--thou shalt not!" cried the naughty girl. "She's my
enemy--she has come! Let me alone, Dinah, with thy 'thees' and thy
'thous.' _I'll_ get at her; nothing will keep me back."
"Thee wilt come with me immediately to thy excellent breakfast," was
Dinah's response.
"Ah, my poor tummy, it _is_ empty," exclaimed Henrietta. "Well, I'll
feed up a good lot, and get all the stronger, because of that which
lies before me. Canst thee tell me, Dinah, where old Pinchin kept her
birch-rod?"
"I could tell thee, child, but I will not. Eat this delicious honey and
this fresh bread and good butter, and drink this rich creamy milk, and
forget that wicked thing called Hatred."
"I'll gobble hard, thou mayst be sure," remarked Henrietta, "but thou
mayst also be sure, that NOTHING will induce me to give up my darling
hatey-hate! Fancy thee and me--two Quakers--and I doing the hatey-hate
for both. It's pretty strong, Dinah duck. Oh, Dinah, Dinah, I wish thou
wouldst _sometimes_ laugh."
"How can one laugh with a sore, sore heart," was Dinah's response. "Ah,
Henrietta, poor babe, thou dost not guess the sorrows that await thee."
Meanwhile Mrs. Faithful took her young guests into her own
sitting-room, where she gave them an excellent breakfast, and told
Dominic that there was a very nice hotel quite close, where he could
stay for the day if he liked, and could come and see his cousin in the
afternoon.
"Yes, do, Dom," said Maureen.
"I will, if you wish it, Maureen."
"It's all settled about Uncle Pat now, so you can stay," said Maureen.
"Then I will stay for one night," answered Dominic. "What is the name
of the hotel, Mrs. Faithful?"
"I will send one of my men with your things there, my boy," said Jane
Faithful. "You can come back here again to dinner. We dine at two."
"I think I will go with the man at once," said Dominic. "I am tired and
dirty. We travelled right through, and the way was long."
"The hotel is called the Rose and Honeysuckle," said Mrs. Faithful.
"Ring that bell three times, Dominic."
Dominic obeyed. One of the grooms appeared. He was given brief
directions, and the man and the boy started off to the Rose and
Honeysuckle, the man wheeling Dominic's little suitcase on his barrow.
He was much taken by the Irish lad.
"And now, please, tell me everything," said Maureen to the
headmistress. "Where are they? how are they?"
"Oh, Maureen, my darling, you are barely in time. I have only bad news
for you--bad news! Poor little Daisy is most dangerously ill. We went
the wrong way to work with them both."
"You tried perhaps the way of _fear_," said Maureen.
"Yes! I am afraid we did."
"Henrietta seems as determined as ever," said Maureen; "but what has
made Daisy so ill?"
"It is a long story, Maureen, but I will tell it you in as few words as
possible. I know the school--and when I say the school, I speak of the
girls who have passed through their time of Penitence and Rebellion and
through Discipline and Patience, and have learnt the joys which await
those who follow _His_ Commandments. These girls, and there are many
of them in the school, will receive you, Maureen, with rejoicing. But
you look very, very tired. Had you not better come to your chamber and
sleep?"
"I--sleep?" said Maureen. "No; I want to work."
"But it would not be right for you to see those wild girls at present."
"Yes, it would be quite right," said Maureen. "Please pardon me, Mrs.
Faithful, but I have come here principally to ask their forgiveness. I
did them a very terrible wrong."
"Maureen, do I hear you aright? Your uncle said that the girl called
Daisy tried to poison your horse."
"Yes--and I--oh I must not talk of it, except to them. I _will_ find
them--I _must_ find them. May I go to my room just for a few minutes
and wash and put on something white, and then I will go to them both."
"I am certain, my child, the doctor will not allow you to visit Daisy."
"Well, may I at least see the doctor when he comes?"
"You certainly may do that. As a matter of fact, I expect him at any
moment."
"Then I will go to my room, if you will take me."
Mrs. Faithful conducted the girl to the Chamber of Peace. Maureen
looked round her, and her lovely eyes grew bright.
"Oh, how exquisite," she said. "And a bath-room and all. Give me barely
ten minutes. Please remember that I must see the doctor."
In almost less than the time mentioned a grave-looking girl in pure
white, her thick brown hair neatly arranged, her soft brown eyes full
of a sort of divine love, her lips slightly tremulous, but nevertheless
firm and sweet, stood outside the Infirmary, where Daisy Mostyn tossed
from side to side on her little bed, while the cruel fever, like a
consuming fire, burnt her slender life away.
Dr. Halsted went in and saw the patient. He came out again shaking his
head.
"We must have a consultant," he said to the nurse. "The symptoms are
most alarming. Why, _who_ is this young lady?"
"I am Maureen," was the girl's quiet reply. "I want to go to Daisy--I
have known her for some time. She and I lived in the same dear home in
Ireland. There is something I want to say to her and afterwards to her
sister, Henrietta. I promise most faithfully not to make her worse. May
I go to her?"
"Yes, child, go," said the doctor.
He looked at the nurse and said:
"Is that an angel or a human being? Alas, alas, I fear there is little
hope. I shall get Dr. Duncan immediately, but let that little white
angel do what she can."
Henrietta had been peeping about. Henrietta was speechless with rage.
She set to work tearing her clothes and upsetting everything she could
in Dinah's neat room.
Dinah, although the soul of gentleness, could be very firm when she
liked. She deliberately got a strong cord and fastened Henrietta into
a chair in such a position that, struggle as she might, she could not
move.
She made the remark, after fastening her victim securely into the chair
of punishment, "Thee art full of mischief, and thee wilt stay here
until I choose to unfasten thee. Weep away, poor sinner; no one will
hear thee in _my_ room. Thou wouldst have killed thy sister had I not
caught thee in time."
"But the enemy is with her--_the enemy_!" shrieked and sobbed Henrietta.
"Dost thou indeed call that most beautiful, spiritual young creature
an enemy? Ah, well, the Lord God, He hears--the Lord God, He hearkens.
I will pray for thee, Henrietta, while thou art in thy chair of
punishment, and where thou art now, thou canst not smack me on the
cheek. I promise faithfully, and where I promise I fulfil, that thou
wilt stay in that chair until the Spirit tells me to untie thy cords."
"Hypocrite, horror," shrieked Henrietta; but Dinah was already on
her knees, her dove-like eyes were closed, her lips were moving very
slowly--not a sound could Henrietta catch.
She went on looking at Dinah and hurling every ugly word she could
think of at that noble and patient head. The Quakeress went on praying.
After a time there seemed to come over Henrietta a sort of awe. She
even preferred Miss Pinchin and the _rod_ to this. The silence was so
intense. The position of the praying woman, in spite of the girl's own
recklessness, was awe-inspiring.
At last, after quite an hour, Dinah rose from her knees, her eyes wet
with tears.
Henrietta said softly, "Take my hanky-panky--I can't get at it--and
wipe away those drops. Thou art a very pretty Quakeress. I will
certainly join thee, for thou hast a marvellous effect upon me."