windows--nothing but the blazing sunlight that lay in hot patches on the
floor, and slowly baked blackboards and slates and desks. It was a very
long room, this "Great Hall," as they called it; half-a-dozen classes
were at work in it, with as many masters; and at the end, on a little,
raised platform, sat Mr. Burnham in front of his desk. He was looking
through the Euclid exercises of the fourth form, and his brow kept
criss-crossing with lines of annoyance at any noise,--the hot, slumbrous
air was quite enough to bear, without the occasional down-crashing of a
pile of slates or the upsetting of a form.
Then came the loud note of the locust--the whir-r-r, and pen-inimitable
sound of its wings, inside the room, not out. Who had dared to bring
one of the prohibited creatures into school, after the endless penalties
that had been imposed for the offence? Mr. Burnham scored a red line
through one of the exercises and stood up in his place, a heavy frown on
his face.
And at the same moment a very small shadow fell just inside the entrance
door at the far end of the room, and a very small knock sounded there.
Nobody said "Come in," though a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes went in
the direction with the swiftness natural to gratitude for any break in
the monotony of morning school. Then there stepped over the threshold a
little, slight girl,--a little girl with a very short, holland frock, a
great sun-hat, and no gloves; a little girl with a white, small face,
great frightened eyes shining strangely, and soft lips very tightly
closed. Up the long, long room she went, both little hands held tightly
together in front of her. No one could tell from the way she walked how
her poor little knees were shaking and her poor little heart was
beating.
For a minute Mr. Burnham's frown did not disappear--not till he noticed
how white her face was; he told himself he had never seen a child's face
so white in all his life.
"What is it, little girl?" he said, and really thought he made his voice
quite gentle and encouraging, though to Poppet it sounded terrible.
"I----" she said--"you----" Something rose in her throat that would not
be strangled away, her face grew even whiter, and her lips, white too,
twitched a little, but the words would not come.
He took her hand, the little trembling, shut, brown hand, and held it
between his own.
"There is nothing to be afraid of, my child; tell me what it is you
want"; he drew her closer to the desk, and sat down. He seemed less
formidable in that position than towering above her--his eyes looked
strangely kind; could it really be the terrible Mr. Burnham she had
heard so much about? The hand he held fluttered a minute, then her lips
moved again:
"Bunty didn't do it," she said in a whisper.
"Eh? what?" he said, mystified.
"He didn't do it--Bunty didn't do it--oh, indeed."
"But who is Bunty? and who are you, my little maid?" Mr. Burnham said,
with a smile that lit up his thoughtful eyes.
"He's my brother," she said in a voice that had gained a little
strength.
[Illustration: "'BUNTY DIDN'T DO IT,' SHE SAID IN A WHISPER."]
Then it struck her Bunty was not so called at school.
"His name's John Woolcot," she added, with downcast eyes; "I'm Poppet."
Then Mr. Burnham remembered everything, and his eyes grew stern as he
thought of the boy there had been so much trouble with; but they
softened as they fell again on the little, white, eager face.
"And his little sister is taking up his cudgels; thankless work, I'm
afraid--eh?" he said quizzically.
Poppet was calm now,--the worst part of the ordeal was over, and she had
actually gained the dread head master's ear; she must make the most of
her time.
"Won't you believe him?" she said; "indeed he didn't do it--oh, indeed."
"What?" he asked,--"break the window--tell a lie--anything? Why, my
little child, he owned to it."
"Yes," said Poppet, "he bwoke the glass, I know; and yes, he did tell
one story." Her face fell after the last sentence, and a little red
crept into her cheek. "But he didn't take the money--oh no, no!--oh,
Bunty wouldn't be a thief--oh, not for anything and anything--oh,
indeed."
The boys were staring at the little, white-faced girl at the head
master's desk, though they could not hear what was being said.
"Would you like to come and talk to me privately?" Mr. Burnham said.
And "Oh-h-h!" was Poppet's only answer; but the gratitude in her eyes
was so intense, he guessed a little what the ordeal had been to her.
Away down the long room she went again, only this time her hand was
being held in a firm, kindly grasp.
"Oh!" she said again, when near the door a great, slouching fellow with
a big head moved to help another boy with a blackboard.
"What?" said Mr. Burnham, when they were outside; he had noticed her
intense interest.
"Was that Bull-dog Hawkins--the fellow that told?" she said.
He smiled somewhat; Hawkins was not a favourite of his, and the fitting
name sounded odd on the little girl's lips.
"His name is Hawkins," he said; "and yes, he gave the information; but
that has nothing to do with it, my child. Now, tell me what it is you
have to say."
He had taken her into a little room the walls of which were lined with
books; he drew up a chair for himself, and one for her, but she
preferred standing against his knee.
Almost she convinced him, so great was the belief in her shining eyes,
so utterly unshaken her trust. She told him everything, and he listened
patiently and attentively even to the smallest detail, asking a question
here and there, but for the most part letting her tell her story in her
own way.
When she told of the kiss by the staircase window, she broke down a
little; but he slipped his arm round her waist, and she shed her tears
on his coat sleeve,--how Bunty would have stared! She showed the dirty
scrap of paper, and he read it thoughtfully.
"If only he had never told a lie before," he said, "then perhaps----"
Oh, if only she could have flung back her head and said, "He has never
told a lie in his life, sir; never--never!"
Shame at not being able to do so made the dear, curly head droop a
little, and two more tears forced their way from under her eyelids and
fell sadly down her cheek.
"I'm sure he never will again!" she said, with sorrowful hopefulness.
"But, oh, sir, he couldn't be a thief! Oh, how _could_ he?"
"Well, I don't see how he could be altogether bad with such a little
sister," he said slowly. "What sort of a boy is he at home? Is he good
to you?"
"Oh yes," said Poppet,--"oh yes, indeed!"
And it is a fact that not a single act that disproved this came to the
little girl's mind. She remembered nothing but the times he had been
good to her.
"Twice I was sent to bed without tea, and he bwought me all his pudding
in some newspaper," she said eagerly; "and when I had difeeria, and they
wouldn't let him in, he used to climb up the creeper when no one was in
the room and smile at me through the window. An' another time I was ill
he sat on the mat outside the door all night; Meg found him in the
morning asleep with his head on the oilcloth. An' when it was my
birthday--I was nine--and he had no money, so he sold his guinea-pigs to
one of the fellows--and he liked them better than anything he'd got--and
he went and bought me a doll's pwambulator, 'cause Peter smashed mine
with filling it with stones. Oh, and lots and lots and lots of things!
He was _vewy_ good to me--oh, indeed!"
Such a flushed, little, eager face it was now--such a fluent little
tongue that told of Bunty's goodness! The child's beautiful trust,
affection, and courage had quite touched the head master's heart.
He took a bunch of keys from his pocket.
"You are a dear, brave, little girl, Poppet," he said. "By the way,
haven't you a prettier name than that?"
"Oh, it's Winifred, of course, really," said Poppet.
"Something in a name," he said, half to himself. Then aloud:
"Well, Winifred, then, just because you have believed in your brother
and done this for him, I am going to reward you in the way I know will
gladden you most."
He unlocked a tin box on the table, and counted out five sovereigns,
while the surprise in Poppet's eyes deepened every minute.
"Have you a purse?" he asked.
"No," she said in a very low tone. It made her feel fit to cry to think
he should give her money, even such a large, beautiful amount, for doing
this.
"Because I want you to give this to Captain Woolcot," he continued, "and
tell him I have had reason to doubt whether John was guilty, and until I
am perfectly sure it is not fair to the lad to take it."
How Poppet's eyes shone, albeit the tears were not dry! how her lips
smiled and quivered! and how the glad, warm colour rushed all over her
little, sweet face! Not a word of thanks she said, and he would not
have had it; only she clung very tightly to his arm for a minute, and
hid her face. When he saw it, he felt he had had more than thanks.
And that was not all he did. He took her back with him to the
schoolroom, and walked up to the raised platform, and held her hand all
the time.
"Boys," he said, in his clear, far-carrying voice, "I have reason to
believe that John Woolcot is not guilty of the theft that you have all
heard of. I wish you all to give him the benefit of the doubt, since he
is not here to clear himself. For my part, I believe him innocent."
How the boys cheered! It was not that Bunty was a special favourite,
though he had his own friends; but they felt it was expected of them,
and it was another break in the monotony to be able to do so. Besides,
they felt a vague pity and admiration for the little girl standing
there, with such a smiling, tear-wet face.
After that Mr. Burnham took her all the way home to Misrule himself.
Meg and Nellie went into the drawing-room to see him, and Poppet slipped
away. He told them what the child had done, praised her high courage
and simple faith. "If," he said, as he took his leave an hour
later,--"if all my boys had such sisters as little Poppet is, my school
would be a better place, and later, the world."
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*ONE PARTICULAR EVENING.*
"O world, as God has made it! All is beauty,
And knowing this is love, and love is duty."
It was Peter who first noticed Meg's face one particular evening. He
and Poppet were doing, or making a pretence of doing, preparation for
the next day, and Nellie was reading a novel in the only armchair the
nursery held.
Meg came in at nine o'clock--nearly an hour past the usual time to send
the little ones to bed. "Thust look at Meg'th fathe!" Peter said, and
rounded his eyes at her. Of course every one looked instantly.
It was like a blush rose. A delicate, exquisite flush had crept over
it, her eyes were soft and dewy, her lips unsteady.
"Peter dear, come to bed; now, Poppet," she said; and even in her voice
there was a new note.
Nellie laid down her book and looked at her sister in surprise. She had
only just discovered she was beautiful. Hitherto it had seemed to be
tacitly allowed that she herself had monopolised the good looks of the
family; so to discover this sudden beauty in Meg rather amazed her.
She looked to see if it had anything to do with her dress; no, she had
worn it scores of times before. It was a muslin, pale blue, rather
old-fashioned in make, for the body fitted plainly with the exception of
a slight gathering at the neck. The skirt was very long, and ended in a
crossway frill at the hem,--how graceful it made her look! In her
waistband she had stuck some cornflowers vividly blue.
And her hair! Nellie devoted a surprisingly long time daily to the
erection of an elaborate coiffeur on her own beautiful head; but surely
Meg's had a grace of its own, from its very simplicity. It was drawn
back loosely that it might wave and curl as it pleased, and then was
twisted into a shining knot halfway down her head.
And that exquisite pink in her cheeks!
"Oh, Meg!" Nellie said, half guessing, half shy.
"Dear Peter--oh, Poppet, do come!" Meg entreated. The pink had deepened,
her eyes had grown distressful. Both children rose and followed her
without a word; they had the native delicacy that every unspoiled child
possesses.
But Nellie had lost interest in her book,--what was a fictitious tale of
love, when she might hear of one in real life within these very walls?
She went downstairs and into the drawing-room. "Who's in the study,
Esther? I can hear voices," she said sharply.
Esther was reading, lying on the sofa, her dark, beautiful head against
the yellow, frilled cushions. She turned a leaf before she replied.
"Oh, only father and Alan Courtney," she said, with a studiously
matter-of-fact air.
"I _thought_ so!" Nell exclaimed, with a deep breath; then she sat down
at the foot of the sofa and looked at Esther.
"Well?" Esther said, feeling the gaze before she reached the end of the
next page; then she smiled.
"Is he really asking father?" Nell asked breathlessly.
"I'm not at the keyhole," Esther replied.
"And I wish I was," Nell said with fervour.
Then they looked at each other again, and again Esther smiled. "How
pretty she looked to-night!" she said meditatively.
"Very, very," Nell answered eagerly; "why, I couldn't help staring at
her."
"I'm very fond of Alan myself; he's a thoroughly good fellow. I think
they are excellently suited," the young stepmother said.
Nellie was silent a minute. "I wish he looked older," she said; "thirty
is the proper age for a man, _I_ think. And I'd rather he had a long,
fair moustache; his eyes are not bad; but I wish he wouldn't rumple his
hair up straight when he gets excited."
Esther smiled indulgently at Nellie's idea of a hero.
"As long as he makes her happy," she said, "I'll forgive him for being
clean-shaved. Why are you looking at me like that, Nell?"
"I was thinking how very pretty you are yet, Esther," was the girl's
answer, spoken thoughtfully. Esther's beauty did strike her on occasion,
and to-night, with the dark, bright face and rich, crinkly hair in
relief against the cushions, it was especially noticeable.
"Yet," repeated Esther, "I'm not very old, Nell, am I? Twenty-five is
not very old." Her eyes looked wistfully at the very young lovely face
of her second step-daughter.
"Oh no, dear--oh no, Esther," said Nell, quick to notice the
wistfulness; "why, of course it is very young; only--oh, _Essie_!"
"What?" said Esther in surprise.
"How _could_ you marry father?" She crept up closer, and put her
shining head down beside the dark one. "Of course I don't want to hurt
your feelings, but really he is so very middle-aged and ordinary; were
you really in _love_, Essie?"
But Esther was spared the embarrassing answer by the entrance of the
Captain and Alan.
You all saw Alan last five years ago, when he used to go on the river
boat every morning to his lectures at the university. His face is even
more earnest and grave than before; life is a serious business to this
young doctor, and the only relaxations he allows himself are football
and Meg.
His eyes are grey, deeply set; his patients and Meg think them
beautiful. His dark hair has a wave in it, and is on end, for of course
he has been somewhat excited.
The Captain does not look unamiable.
Alan has only just begun to practise, certainly; but then he has three
hundred a year of his own, and his prospects are spoken of as brilliant.
Still, he has the air of having grudgingly conferred a favour, and he
goes out to smoke his cigar and think it over.
"All well?" ask Esther's arched eyebrows. And "All is well" Alan
answers with a grave, pleasant smile.
"Dear boy, I _am_ so glad," she says. There is a moisture in her dark
eyes as she gives him her hand, for Meg is very dear to her.
[Illustration: "HE BENDS HIS TALL, BOYISH-LOOKING HEAD SUDDENLY, AND
KISSES THE HAND HE HOLDS."]
He looks at her in silence for a minute; then he bends his tall,
boyish-looking head suddenly, and kisses the hand he holds.
"I am glad too," Nellie whispers, with something like a sob in her
throat; she too holds out her hand.
"Dear little Nell!" he says; and such a happy light is in the eyes that
look down at her that she quite forgives his lack of good looks. "Dear
little Nell!"
He does not kiss _her_ hand--it is too little and childish, he
considers; but he stoops and takes a first brotherly kiss from the soft
cheek nearest to him, and though she blushes a little, she is impressed
with the dignity that attaches to a future brother-in-law.
Then he goes. Meg has refused to be visible again to-night to him, and
Nellie flies up the staircase.
"_Dear_ Meg," she pleads at the door--it is locked, and doesn't open for
a minute.
But the tone turns the key, and the sisters are in each other's arms.
Just the room you might expect Meg to have. It is fresh, simple, and
daintily pretty. The floor is covered with white China matting; the bed
hangings have loose pink roses on a white ground; the pillows have
hem-stitched frills. There is a bookcase on one wall, in which the
poets preponderate; the dressing-table is strewn with the pretty odds
and ends girls delight in; there is a writing-table that looks as if it
is used often; and in the window stands a deep wicker chair with
rose-pink cushions double frilled.
On the walls there are some water-colours of Meg's own, pretty in
colouring, but shaky as to perspective. Two lines she has illuminated
herself,--
"Lord, help us this and every day
To live more nearly as we pray."
The gold letters are a little uneven, perhaps; but she wears them in her
heart besides, so it does not matter. There is an engraving in an oak
and gold frame--"Songs of Love"; Meg loves the exquisite face of the
singer, and the back of the sweet little child. There is a long
photo-frame with a balcony rail: here is Essie all dimpled with her
sauciest smile; Poppet and Peter's heads close together like two little
bright-eyed birds; Nell, a little self-conscious with the camera so
close; Esther looking absurdly girlish; Pip in his cap and gown when
they were delightfully new. Bunty always refused to put on an engaging
smile and submit himself to the photographer, so he is not represented.
And over the mantelpiece, in an ivory frame, is an old, fading likeness
of a little thin girl with a bright face and mischievous eyes, and
rough, curly hair--Judy at ten.
It had taken all the time you have been looking at the room for the
girls to kiss each other and say little half-laughing, half-crying
words. Then Nellie forced Meg into the wicker chair, and knelt down
herself, with her arms round her sister's waist.
"You darling," she said. "Oh, Meg, how glad I am! Dear, dear Meg, I do
hope you'll be happy--impossibly happy."
It was the first connected sentence either of them had spoken.
"I couldn't be happier," was Meg's whisper.
"But always, always, dear--even when your hair is white, and there are
wrinkles here and here and here." She touched the smooth cheeks and
brow with tender fingers.
There was a little silence fraught with love, the two bright heads
leaning together; then Meg spoke, shyly, hesitatingly:
"Alan--Nell dear--you do--like him?"
"Oh, he's well enough--oh yes, I'm very fond of Alan," said Nell. "Of
course I don't consider him half good enough, though, for you."
"Oh, Nellie!" Meg looked quite distressed. "Why, it is the other way, of
course. He is so clever--oh! you don't know how clever; and I am such a
stupid thing."
"Very stupid," assented Nellie; but her smile differed.
"And he is always thinking of plans to do good to the lower classes.
Nell, you cannot think how miserable some of them are; though they don't
half realise it, they get so dulled and weary. Oh, Nellie dear, I _do_
think he is the very best man in the world." The young, sweet face was
half hidden behind the deep cushion frill.
"Well, you are the very best woman," Nell said very tenderly, and meant
it indeed.
Pretty giddy little butterfly, that she was just now, she often paused
in her flights to wish she could grow just as sweet and good and true
and unselfish as Meg without any trouble.
"The _very_ best woman," she repeated; but Meg's soft hand closed her
lips and stayed there.
"If you _knew_ how I'm always failing," she said, with a deep sigh.
"But the trying is everything," Nell said.
Then there were more tender words and wishes, and Nellie went to bed,
stealing on tip-toe down the passage, for time had flown on noiseless
wings and the household was asleep. And Meg took down the ivory frame,
and put her lips to the laughing child-face.
"Oh, Judy," she said, "I wish you knew. Dear little Judy, I _wonder_ if
you know?"
*CHAPTER IX.*
*THAT MISCHIEVOUS CUPID.*
"For boys say, Love me or I die."
University examinations are not things to be postponed with polite
little notes like inconvenient balls or picnics. And, given the early
days of December, and a young man who steadfastly refused to acknowledge
this fact, what use was it even to trouble to scan the lists?
Of course Philip was plucked.
In October he had brought down his father's wrath upon him by failing to
get through in a class examination; and any one who had had experience
of the Captain's would have thought that would have been quite enough to
make him take a good place at the end of his second year.
But, as I said, his name was conspicuous by its absence.
"Oh, Philip!" Nell said, an accent of reproach on the first syllable;
"and even that stupid Burton boy is through."
"Oh, Pip!" said Meg. "What _will_ father say?"
It was the day the lists were out at the university, and Philip had just
communicated the agreeable intelligence to his sisters in the midst of
his third pipe after dinner.
And the strange part was, he did not seem to care twopence--the orthodox
measure of indifference.
He lolled back on the lounge, and made fantastic figures with the smoke
from his pipe; he did not even seem to hear what the girls were saying.
And when he came out of his father's study, after a _mauvais quart
d'heure_ of unusual elasticity, there was not a trace of repentance on
his face, nothing but obstinacy in his eyes, and lips all pursed up for
a careless whistle when the distance from the room should be respectable
enough.
But later on in the evening Meg caught a glimpse of his face when he
thought he was quite unobserved, and its restless, unhappy look gave her
a curious feeling of surprise and anxiety.
She remembered all at once that she had quite forgotten of late to take
an interest in this eldest brother of hers.
The "time o' day" that it was just now in her life made it excusable,
perhaps. She had a latchkey to a little heaven of her own, where she
might retreat whenever earth grew troublous or commonplace; sometimes
she stayed there too long and grew forgetful. And though she had taken
Poppet as her special charge, and formed endless resolutions as to her
future treatment of poor, prodigal Bunty, she had let Pip slip away.
He was from home so much was the excuse she made to herself now--at
lectures most of the day, and no one knew where in the evening; how
could she be all she should to him? She had kept a sisterly eye on his
clothes, darned all manner of sweet little dreams into the heels and
toes of his socks, and even embroidered him a 'varsity cap so that he
should not be jealous of the one she had worked for Alan.
But there she had stopped, and it struck her suddenly to-night that this
big, tall fellow with the manly shoulders and boyish, unhappy face was
almost as a stranger to her.
Where had all his fun, his schoolboy teasings, his high spirits and
absurdities, gone to? Surely it was only yesterday he used to pull
their hair and slaughter their dolls and come for three servings of
pudding!
She gazed at him with great earnestness as he sat motionless at the
table, looking, not at the book before him, but straight opposite at the
wall where Poppet had spilt the ink; and it came to her with a strange
pang of pain that Pip, dear old madcap, merry Pip, was a man.
All the young light had gone from his eyes; they were graver, sterner
than the boy's eyes, and yet full of a troubled unrest. Then his mouth
was firmer, and it was not only the soft, dark line of an incipient
moustache that made it seem so; the careless laughter lines around it no
longer showed, his very lips seemed to have grown straighter.
But even as Meg watched, all her heart in her eyes, those same lips
unclosed, and a half tremulous curve of pain appeared at each corner and
made them look very boyish again. He put up his hand and pushed his
crisp hair away from his forehead with a weary gesture. She could look
no longer.
She went up to the table and slipped an arm round his shoulder.
"Dear old fellow," she said; "oh, I am so sorry about the exam."
"The exam.!" he repeated. "Oh, you needn't bother, old girl; I don't
care. What's an exam. fifty years hence?"