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The Third Class at Miss Kaye's
BY ANGELA BRAZIL
"Angela Brazil has proved her undoubted talent for writing a
story of schoolgirls for other schoolgirls to read."--=Bookman.=
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=The Girls of St. Cyprian's=: A Tale of School Life. _3s. 6d._
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=The New Girl at St. Chad's=: A Story of School Life. _3s. 6d._
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they will be charmed."--Schoolmaster.
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=The Leader of the Lower School=: A Tale of School Life. _2s. 6d._
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=The Manor House School.= _2s. 6d._ "One of the best stories for
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=The Nicest Girl in the School=: A Story of School Life. _2s. 6d._
=The Third Class at Miss Kaye's=: A School Story. _2s. 6d._
=The Fortunes of Philippa=: A School Story. _2s._
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: "THE WHEELBARROW SUDDENLY SEEMED TO PLUNGE INTO THE
GROUND"]
The Third Class at Miss Kaye's
A School Story
BY
ANGELA BRAZIL
Author of "The Fortunes of Philippa"
_ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR A. DIXON_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
Chap. Page
I. A WET-DAY PARTY 9
II. AN IMPORTANT DECISION 23
III. THE THIRD CLASS 36
IV. A FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL 49
V. RIVALS 62
VI. SQUABBLES 75
VII. THE STORY OF MERCY INGLEDEW 88
VIII. ALL-HALLOWS EVE AND GUY FAWKES 104
IX. WHAT MISS KAYE THOUGHT OF IT 117
X. SYLVIA'S BIRTHDAY 129
XI. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS 142
XII. THE SECRET SOCIETY 153
XIII. A SPRING PICNIC 167
XIV. WHITWEEK WITH LINDA 181
XV. AN EXCURSION WITH A DONKEY 194
XVI. THE CHINESE CHARM 206
XVII. THE SKETCHING CLASS 220
XVIII. DR. SEVERN EXPLAINS 231
XIX. THE PRIZE GIVING 244
Illustrations
Page
"THE WHEELBARROW SUDDENLY SEEMED TO PLUNGE INTO THE GROUND"
_Frontispiece_ 54
"SYLVIA WROTE HER FIRST LETTER HOME THAT EVENING" 60
"IN A FEW MINUTES A GRAND BLAZE WAS FLARING UP" 126
"HE ENTANGLED BOTH HER HAT AND HAIR IN A WILD-ROSE BUSH" 196
CHAPTER I
A Wet-day Party
Drip, drip, drip! The rain came pouring down on a certain September
afternoon, turning the tennis lawn to a swamp, dashing the bloom off
the roses, spoiling the geraniums, and driving even the blackbirds and
thrushes to seek shelter inside the summer house. It was that steady,
settled, hopeless rain that does not hold out the slightest promise of
ever stopping; there was not a patch of blue to be seen in the sky
sufficient to make the traditional seaman's jacket; several large
black snails were crawling along the garden walk as if enjoying the
bath; and the barometer in the hall, which started the day at "Set
Fair", had now sunk below "Change", and showed no signs of intending
to rise again.
Curled up in a large armchair placed in the bow window of a
well-furnished morning-room, a little girl of about eleven years old
sat peering out anxiously at the weather.
"It's far too wet!" she remarked cheerfully. "It never means to clear
to-day, and it's four o'clock now. They can't possibly come, so I
shall just settle down and enjoy myself thoroughly."
She spoke aloud to herself, a habit often indulged in by solitary
children, and, opening a copy of _Ivanhoe_, screwed herself round into
an attitude of still greater comfort, and set to work to read with
that utter disregard of outer happenings which marks the true lover of
books.
She was rather a pretty child; her features were good though the small
face was pale and thin; her hair was fair and fluffy, and she had
large hazel-grey eyes which looked so very dreamy sometimes that you
could imagine their owner was apt to forget the commonplace
surroundings of everyday life and live in a make-believe world that
was all her own. Equally oblivious of the driving rain outside and the
cosy scene within, Sylvia read on, so lost in her story that she did
not even notice when the door opened and her mother entered the room.
"Why, here you are, darling! I thought I should find you in Father's
study. I'm so sorry it's such a dreadful day for your party."
Sylvia put down her book with a slam, and dragging her mother into the
big armchair, installed herself on her knee and administered a
somewhat choking hug.
"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so glad!" she declared. "I didn't want a party,
and I've been watching the rain all the time and hoping it would go on
pouring."
"Sylvia! I thought you would be terribly disappointed. Don't you want
to see your little friends?"
"Not very much."
"But why, sweetheart?"
Sylvia squeezed her mother's hand in her own and sighed, as if she
found it rather difficult to explain herself.
"Lots of reasons," she said briefly.
"Tell me what they are."
"Why, for one thing, I've just got to the middle of _Ivanhoe_, where
Rowena is shut up in Front de Boeuf's castle, and I want to see how
she escapes. I'd much rather stay and read than go racing round the
garden playing at 'I spy!'"
"But I thought you liked Effie and May and the Fergusson boys."
"I hate boys!" declared Sylvia dramatically. "At least, not Cousin
Cuthbert and Ronald Hampson, but boys like the Fergusson boys. They do
nothing but tear about and play tricks on one. They're perfectly
hateful! I didn't enjoy my last party there one scrap. They tease me
most dreadfully every time I meet them."
"What about?"
"They call me 'The Tragic Muse', because they got hold of one of my
pieces of poetry. They made the most dreadful fun of it. And it wasn't
tragic at all. It was about the Waltons' baby, and its blue eyes and
curls and dimples. I did put dimples, though they read it out pimples!
I don't believe they know what tragic means, or a muse either, and I
do, because I learnt them in Greek history last month. Mrs. Walton
liked the poetry though. She said I must copy it into her album and
sign my name to it, and she thought I might be a poetess when I grew
up, and she expected it was that which kept me so thin, and had you
tried giving me cod-liver oil, because she was sure it would do me
good. You're not going to, are you? I took some once at Aunt Louisa's,
and it was the most disgusting stuff."
"I don't think you need any more medicine just at present, so we will
spare you the cod-liver oil," said Mrs. Lindsay, smiling. "Perhaps Roy
and Donald would have forgotten about the poem by this afternoon."
"No, they wouldn't. They never forgot anything if it's possible to
tease. I'd far rather they didn't come. I don't want the Waltons
either, or the Carsons. It's so nice and quiet in here, and Miss
Holt's out, and it's such a wet day that there won't be any callers,
and I can have tea with you in the drawing-room, and Father said
perhaps he would be back from the office by half-past five, and he
promised the next time he was home early that he'd go through my
museum and help me to label all the shells, and that would be far
nicer than a party."
"I thought you enjoyed playing with other children, dear," said Mrs.
Lindsay rather gravely.
"I don't think I do," replied Sylvia. "It's so hard to make them play
properly. They never can imagine things. When I tell the Waltons
there's a witch in the cupboard, they look inside and say there isn't
anybody there. They can't understand that you can pretend things until
they seem quite real, and yet it's only pretending. When I told
Beatrice and Nora Jackson that I knew a dragon lived in their coal
house, they went and told their governess, and she said she was afraid
I was not a truthful child!"
"That was too bad!"
"Yes, wasn't it? I'd rather not go to tea at the Jacksons'. Mrs.
Jackson always says I don't eat half enough. Beatrice and Nora have
four thick slices of plain bread and butter before they begin with
jam or honey, and great basins of bread-and-milk or soup plates full
of porridge for breakfast. I think it's rather rude of people to make
remarks on what you eat when you go out to tea. Don't you?"
"It just depends," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"Well, they don't like it themselves," continued Sylvia. "The last
time the Jacksons were here, when their nurse came to fetch them I
told her I was sure they had enjoyed themselves, for Nora had eaten
four buns and three sponge cakes, and Alfie had ten jam sandwiches and
a piece of Madeira cake. I thought it would please her to hear they
had had so much, when they scold me for eating so little, but she went
quite red in the face and said they were not greedy children anyway."
"It was hardly a happy remark, I am afraid," said Mrs. Lindsay. "You
will be wiser next time."
"People in books are so much nicer than real people," said Sylvia
plaintively. "If I could have a party and invite Little Lord
Fauntleroy, and Alice in Wonderland, and Rose out of _Eight Cousins_
and Rowena and Rebecca, and perhaps Queen Guinevere, and Hereward the
Wake, then I should really enjoy myself."
"Can't you pretend that your friends are heroes and heroines of
romance?" said Mrs. Lindsay, pinching Sylvia's pale cheeks. "You're so
fond of make-believe that it ought to be quite easy to imagine them
princes and princesses."
"It's not so easy as you'd think," replied Sylvia, shaking her head.
"I make up lovely stories about them sometimes, and they just go and
spoil it all. I played one afternoon that Effie was an enchanted
princess, shut up in a magic garden; but she kept on eating green
apples instead of simply looking lovely among the flowers, and when I
put a wreath of roses round her hair she said it had earwigs and
spiders in it, and she pulled it off. I didn't dare to tell her what I
was playing, because she laughs so, but I began a piece of poetry
about her, only it's never got beyond the first verse. Then there's
that boy who lives in the house with the green railings down the road.
I don't know his name, but he has blue eyes and very light curly hair.
Once I played for a whole week that he was Sir Galahad--he's exactly
like the picture Father showed me in that big book on the drawing-room
table; but just when I'd made up my mind that he was starting off to
find the Holy Grail, he threw a snowball at me, and trod hard on
Lassie's tail on purpose. Somehow I never could manage to think of him
as Sir Galahad after that. Now, Mother, don't laugh!"
"It would be rather difficult, I own," said Mrs. Lindsay, trying to
straighten her face. "I'm afraid you made an unfortunate choice in
your knight."
"It's just as bad," continued Sylvia, "if you pretend you're somebody
out of a book yourself. So much depends upon other people. I was
Rowena in _Ivanhoe_ yesterday. I had to be rather haughty; because,
you see, I was a Saxon princess, and everybody was accustomed to obey
my slightest wish. But Miss Holt didn't understand it in the least;
she said if I spoke to her again like that she should send me out of
the room. So I had to be Peter Pan instead, and Miss Holt asked me if
I had taken leave of my senses. She was really quite angry with me."
"I don't wonder. It doesn't do to mix up pretending with your lessons.
Do you know, it isn't raining nearly so fast now, and I certainly hear
a cab coming up the drive. I believe some of your friends are arriving
after all to have tea with you."
"Why, so they are!" exclaimed Sylvia, jumping up and running to the
window which commanded a view of the front door and steps. "What a
nuisance! It's Effie and May, and they've brought the little Carsons
with them. They'll have to play in the schoolroom, and they always
want my old dolls' house. I've put it away in the cupboard, and now I
suppose I shall have to rummage it out again. It's too bad! I thought
they wouldn't ask for it if we played in the garden. Don't you think I
might say I can't get it?"
"Oh, no, dear! If it will give them pleasure you must certainly let
them have it. Run along quickly, and open the hall door to welcome
them. It is very kind of Mrs. Walton to send them in spite of the
rain."
Sylvia went, but not too fast or too willingly. She was not at all
pleased to see her guests, and would much have preferred the afternoon
to herself.
"I never thought you'd come," she began, as the children sprang
quickly from the cab and ran up the steps into the porch.
"We were so dreadfully disappointed," said Effie. "We'd been watching
the weather all day. May nearly cried when it didn't clear up, and
Mother said it would be quite as disappointing for you, and she
thought we could play indoors; so she telephoned for a cab, and we
called for Bab and Daisy on our way, and brought them with us." So
saying she led in the two little mites in question, who were beaming
with smiles at their unexpected drive.
"Oh! our shoes!" cried May; "I've left them in the cab and the man's
driving away. Stop! Stop!" And she rushed out wildly into the rain.
The coachman drew up, and, dismounting from his box, gave her the
parcel, and she hurried in before Mrs. Lindsay had finished saying
good afternoon to the other children.
"We're goin' to play wiv the dolly house," announced Daisy as Sylvia
took her hand to lead her upstairs.
"And all the lickle chairs and tables," added Bab, as her fat legs
toiled after.
Sylvia said nothing. She was annoyed, for the dolls' house had been a
favourite toy. Though she was now too old to care to play with it, she
liked to keep its treasures intact, and feared Bab's and Daisy's small
fingers might work havoc among the miniature furniture and dainty
glass tea services. She had no brothers and sisters of her own to
spoil her things, or interfere with any of her plans or games, no one,
in fact, to consider except her all-important little self, and she was
so accustomed to keep the schoolroom as her special kingdom that it
put her out to be obliged to share it even for one afternoon. She
helped, however, to take off the Carsons' hats and coats, to unbutton
their boots, to tie Bab's hair ribbon, which had come off, and to
fasten May's pinafore, then escorted her unwelcome visitors
downstairs again with the best grace she could. It was not half so
interesting to have tea in the dining-room with four children, she
thought, as alone in the drawing-room with her mother, a privilege
which, owing to Mrs. Lindsay's many social duties, she did not often
get the chance to enjoy, and she wished with all her heart that either
Mrs. Walton or the cabstand had not been on the telephone.
If Sylvia were an ungracious hostess, however, her small friends at
any rate seemed thoroughly determined to enjoy themselves. They much
appreciated the honey, the raisin buns, and the iced sponge cake, and
were especially delighted with the crackers which Mrs. Lindsay brought
out at the conclusion of the meal.
"Crackers, though it's not Christmas!" cried Effie in astonishment.
"Why not?" said Mrs. Lindsay. "They are as much fun now as in
December, I think. Here are two for each of you, and you may take them
upstairs to the schoolroom and pull them when you get there."
There was a general stampede for the stairs, the four guests racing up
with great enthusiasm, while Sylvia followed leisurely behind,
debating in her mind whether it would be possible to lose the key of
the cupboard, and thus preserve her dolls' house from meddlesome
hands.
"The crackers will keep them busy for a short time," she reflected,
"and then I can just turn the key in the lock and hide it away behind
the bookcase. I'll give them the picture puzzles and a box of bricks
instead."
It is all very well, however, to make plans, but it is quite a
different thing to carry them out. The young Carsons knew perfectly
where the dolls' house was kept; they ran in front of Sylvia into the
schoolroom, and, flinging their crackers on to a chair, had opened the
cupboard and were begging her to lift down the coveted toy long before
she had any opportunity of locking the door, so there was nothing for
her to do but yield to their request, though she certainly felt
decidedly cross. She placed the dolls' house on the floor in a corner
of the room, and, having rescued one or two of the most fragile
ornaments, left Bab and Daisy to amuse themselves and turned her
attention to Effie and May. They were jolly, rollicking little girls
of eight and nine, who liked to run about playing boisterous games
much better than sitting quietly reading books. They had soon pulled
their crackers and taken out the whistles and lockets which they
contained, and now began to ask eagerly what they should do next.
"Can't we play 'Tig' on the landing?" said Effie.
"Or Tom Tiddler's Ground?" suggested May.
"There aren't enough of us," said Sylvia. "Besides, I don't expect
Mother would like it. The last time we played there we broke the big
Japanese jar, and Father was so angry about it. You haven't seen these
puzzle maps. Wouldn't it be fun to try and fit them together?"
"No, thanks; too like lessons," said May, pulling a face.
"We hate geography," added Effie.
"Would you care for Halma?"
"Don't know how to play," replied Effie.
"I could soon show you."
"Oh, we don't like learning new games!" said May. "I wish the
Fergussons had come."
"I'm thankful they didn't," thought Sylvia, who was not at all in a
nice temper to entertain her friends. "What a bother Effie and May
are! I wish they'd do something by themselves and not trouble me. I
don't mean to show them my museum, even if they ask. Shall I get out
the bagatelle?" she added aloud. "You know how to play that at any
rate."
"Oh, yes!" cried the little girls, helping her to lift the large board
and unfold it on the table. "That's ever such fun! Don't you remember
last time we made bigger scores than you did?"
"I forget," answered Sylvia. "But I think it's a better game for two
than three; you get more turns."
"Aren't you going to play then?" exclaimed Effie.
"No, I shall only spoil it for you. Besides, I have to look after Bab
and Daisy. You start and I'll come and score for you presently."
The small Carsons were so happily employed with the dolls' house that
there was not the slightest need for Sylvia to neglect her other
visitors on their behalf. Making them the excuse, however, she allowed
Effie and May to grow interested in their game, then, creeping quietly
out of the room, she fled downstairs to the study, where she had left
_Ivanhoe_ in the big armchair, and, returning with it to the
schoolroom, she settled herself in the window seat, and was soon so
absorbed in the storming of Torquilstone Castle that she forgot the
very existence of her companions.
Now, as fate would have it, the rain cleared up sufficiently for Aunt
Louisa to come about five o'clock and pay a call upon Mrs. Lindsay. If
she had not arrived on that particular day, and at that particular
hour, it is quite probable that the events recorded in this story
might never have happened at all. Sylvia was not sure whether she
altogether liked Aunt Louisa, who, though kind on the whole, and
liberal in the matter of birthday and Christmas presents, had a very
keen pair of eyes that seemed to notice directly when people were
selfish, or conceited, or trying to show off, and saw through excuses
and humbug in a moment. She considered Sylvia spoilt, and did not
hesitate to say so; but, on the other hand, she proved so good-natured
when her niece spent a day at Laurel Bank, and treated her as such a
sensible, almost grown-up person, that Sylvia invariably enjoyed
herself, and looked forward to going again.
It was about half-past five when Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa, having
finished their chat in the drawing-room, walked upstairs to take a
peep into the schoolroom and see how the children were getting on.
They found Bab and Daisy seated on the floor, much occupied in giving
the dolls' house babies their evening baths, while Effie and May were
playing bagatelle by themselves with a good deal of noise and shouting.
"And where is Sylvia?" asked Aunt Louisa, looking round in some
astonishment for the absent hostess.
"She's there," said Effie, pointing to the window seat. "She doesn't
care about playing. Go on, May, it's your turn."
Mrs. Lindsay walked across to the window, and, drawing aside the
curtains, disclosed Sylvia, squatting on her heels like a Turk, in the
corner of the seat, entirely taken up with the adventures of the black
knight and his outlawed companions. Her mother pulled the book from
her hand.
"Sylvia!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know it is extremely rude of you
to sit reading and leave your guests to amuse themselves? Get up this
minute!"
Sylvia obeyed with a very red face. She had never expected to be
caught like this.
"They were quite happy without----" she began, but meeting Aunt
Louisa's eye she wisely left the sentence unfinished.
"I'm sure they would enjoy some game you could all play together,"
said Mrs. Lindsay. "If we push the table aside there will be plenty of
room for Blind Man's Buff."
"Oh! Yes! Yes!" cried the little Carsons, bundling the dolls back into
the dolls' house, and dancing up and down with excitement, while Effie
and May, equally pleased, helped Sylvia to put away the bagatelle.
"Let Bab be blind man," begged Daisy.
"And turn me round three times," added Bab, beginning to revolve already
in delighted anticipation.
Both Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa were kind enough to join in the
game, and to institute several others afterwards, so that for an hour
the children had a most enjoyable romp, which continued until the
Carsons' nurse arrived to take Bab and Daisy home. Even Sylvia raced
about when she found her elders doing the same, and grew so rosy in
the effort that her mother looked at her pink cheeks with approval.
"Goodbye!" called the four small visitors, when at last hats, coats,
and boots had been put on, and they all hurried to start before a
threatening cloud brought down the rain again.
"They seem to have had a lovely time, and enjoyed themselves so much,
m'm," said the nurse, gathering up the parcels of shoes and taking
Daisy's hand.
"Did you enjoy it, Sylvia dear?" asked Mrs. Lindsay, as they stood in
the porch watching Bab's plump legs waddling along the drive in an
effort to keep pace with Effie's longer strides.
"No," replied Sylvia, "not nearly so much as having tea with you."
"Why don't you care for your friends, sweetheart?"
"Because I like being with you and Father better. That's the very
whole of the reason. Anybody else is such a bother!"
Mrs. Lindsay smoothed the fluffy hair, which was hanging in some
disorder after an uproarious game of Fox and Goose, and bent down to
kiss the little face that turned up so readily to meet her own.
"My precious pet!" she murmured fondly.
But Aunt Louisa shook her head.