The Third Class
Heathercliffe House was a large modern building which stood in its own
grounds about a mile from the sea, and an equal distance from the
railway station at Aberglyn. It looked bright and cheerful on the
October afternoon when a cab containing Mrs. Lindsay and Sylvia turned
in at the gate and drove slowly up the drive to the front door.
Sylvia, gazing with eager eyes from the window, noticed the trim
garden, the shrubbery of laurels and rhododendrons, the beds still gay
with geraniums, and the smooth lawns where in the distance she could
just catch a glimpse of girls playing tennis. As the cab passed under
a big chestnut tree she saw a little girl of about her own age run
rapidly to the top of a bank, and, hiding behind a broom bush, peep
down with evident curiosity at the newcomers below. She was a bonny
child with a creamy complexion, blue eyes, and thick, straight, brown
hair, tied with a ribbon that at present hung over her left ear; she
stared hard at Sylvia as the latter leaned out of the window, then,
seeing Mrs. Lindsay in the background, she took fright and dashed away
among the shrubs even more quickly than she had come.
"I wonder what her name is, and if I shall like her!" thought Sylvia.
"She looks nice. Oh! There are some more of them!" as about half a
dozen older girls paused in a game of croquet to glance at the cab,
and several little ones, playing under a tree, pointed eagerly, for
which they were evidently reproved by a teacher who was with them.
There was no time, however, to see further; the cab had drawn up at
the front steps, the cabman was ringing the bell, and Mrs. Lindsay was
collecting small parcels and telling Sylvia to jump out first.
Sylvia felt very serious indeed when they were ushered into the
drawing-room, and Miss Kaye came forward to meet them. She was a tall,
pleasant-looking lady, still fairly young, with a fresh colour, brown
eyes, and thick coils of smooth auburn hair. She had a brisk, cheerful
manner, and was not in the least like the old-fashioned severe sort of
mistress about whom Sylvia had read in _What Katy did at School_ and
_Sara Crewe_, and whom she had been expecting to see. She welcomed her
new pupil kindly, and ordered tea to be brought in at once.
"Our usual schoolroom tea is at five o'clock," she said, "but to-day
you shall have yours here, as I know you will wish to be with your
mother as long as possible. Then, when you have seen your bedroom, and
taken off your things, you will be ready to make friends with some of
your companions."
Sylvia sat very solemnly during tea, listening to the talk between
Miss Kaye and her mother, and though the mistress sometimes addressed
a question to her she was much too shy to answer anything except
"Yes" or "No". She was glad when the ordeal was over and Miss Kaye
suggested that, as Mrs. Lindsay had only a short time left before she
must return to the station, they would like to look through the
school, and see both classrooms and dormitories.
When she tried afterwards to recall her first impressions of
Heathercliffe House she had only a confused remembrance of clinging
very tightly, almost desperately, to her mother's hand, as they were
shown the neat bedrooms, the large empty playroom, the schoolrooms
with their desks and blackboards, and took a peep into the dining-room
where rows of girls of all ages were sitting round two long tables
having tea. Then came the moment which she had been dreading from the
beginning, that hurried last goodbye, that final hug as Mrs. Lindsay
kissed her again and again and hastened down the steps into the cab,
the rumble of the departing wheels, and the sudden sense that she was
left alone in a school of more than thirty girls, and that she did not
yet know one of them even by name. An overwhelming rush of
homesickness swept over her, so bitter in its force that she almost
cried out with the intensity of the pain; she stood still in the hall
with the dazed expression of one newly awakened from a dream, turning
a deaf ear to Miss Kaye's well-meant efforts at consolation, and
longing only for some safe retreat where she might escape to have a
little private weep, out of reach of watching eyes. Seeing the
mistress pause to speak to a teacher who came at that instant from the
dining-room, she seized the opportunity, and dived into the
drawing-room, where she ran to the window to catch the last glimpse of
the coachman's hat as he drove through the gate, and disappeared
behind the trees and bushes which bordered the road. Miss Kaye did not
follow her; perhaps long experience had taught her that it was
sometimes best to leave new girls judiciously alone, and for a few
minutes she stood playing absently with the tassel of the blind, and
struggling hard to keep back her rising tears. Why had she been
brought to school? Why had she not begged her mother to take her home
with her? It was cruel to send her away. It was all Aunt Louisa's
doing, she was sure. She could never make herself happy, and she
should write to-night to her father and tell him so. Perhaps he might
relent and come to fetch her.
"I shall be the most miserable girl in the school," she said to
herself. "Far worse than Florence in _The New Pupil_; she only 'shed a
few tears', and I'm going to cry quarts, I know I am."
She took out her handkerchief ready for the expected deluge, but life
is often very different from what we propose, and before she had time
to do more than wipe away the first scalding drop she was startled by
a voice at her elbow. Turning round hastily she found herself face to
face with the little girl who had run to the top of the bank to peep
at her as she came up the drive, and who now stood smiling in a
particularly friendly fashion.
"Miss Kaye has sent me to take you to the playroom," she said. "We've
just finished tea. You've had yours, haven't you? So come along."
"What's your name?" asked Sylvia, stuffing her handkerchief back into
her pocket in a hurry, and blinking the remains of a drop off her
eyelashes. She was too proud to care to be caught crying like a baby,
and hoped her companion had not noticed.
"Linda Marshall. I know yours. Miss Kaye told us this morning. You're
going to be in our class, and you're to sleep in my bedroom, because
I'm the only one who hasn't got a room mate. Do come! Miss Kaye'll be
cross if we're not quick. We're not allowed in the drawing-room at
all, only she sent me in to fetch you."
"Do you like being here?" asked Sylvia, following her new friend with
some deliberation.
"Sh! we mayn't speak in the hall! There, I can talk to you now we're
down the passage. Yes, of course, I like it. Everyone does; we have
such jolly times. Now come here," pausing with her hand on the door
handle, "I want to go in quite suddenly and surprise them."
She flung the door open, and, with a giggle, announced "Miss Sylvia
Lindsay", giving our heroine such a vigorous push forward that she
nearly fell into the midst of a group of girls who were standing close
by. There were six of them, and they had evidently been waiting to see
the new arrival, though they pretended they were only finding some
books and putting away their paintboxes. They looked steadily at
Sylvia, but no one volunteered a remark, and the silence would have
grown oppressive had not Linda come to the rescue. "Now then," she
cried, "have you all gone dumb? Sylvia, this is our class. I'll tell
you their names. Connie Camden, Hazel Prestbury, Marian and Gwennie
Woodhouse, Nina Forster, and Jessie Ellis. There were only seven of us
before, and you'll make eight. It's a much nicer number, because we
can just get up a set of lancers by ourselves now, without one of the
second class joining. I hope you know the lancers?"
"A little," said Sylvia, who felt rather overwhelmed by the six pairs
of eyes fixed upon her.
"We'll soon teach you if you don't. The dancing lessons begin next
week, and they are such fun. Miss Delaney is a perfect dear. We all
adore her. I'm sure you'll think she's sweet; won't she, girls?"
"Of course she will," said Marian Woodhouse. "I ought to know, because
I learnt from Miss Delaney before I came here. We're to have the
tarantella this term."
"And a skirt dance," added Hazel Prestbury. "Have you brought an
accordion-pleated dress with you for dancing?"
"I don't think so," replied Sylvia. "But Mother was going to send some
of my clothes afterwards. I came away in rather a hurry."
"You're late though," said Connie Camden. "It's nearly three weeks
since we started the term. We came back on the 14th of September."
"Why didn't you come then?" asked Nina Forster.
"I don't know. Father only decided to send me a week ago."
"Well, you can try to catch us up, but we've done twenty pages of the
new history," said Marian Woodhouse, "and read the first canto of
_Marmion_. We shall have to tell you the story."
"I know it, thank you," replied Sylvia. "I had it with my governess at
home."
"Oh!" said Marian, looking rather disgusted. "But I don't suppose you
took any of the notes, and Miss Arkwright explains it quite
differently from anyone else. What sums are you at?"
"Weights and measures," said Sylvia.
"Why, we did those in the baby class! We're doing fractions now."
"We've only just begun them," said Linda. "Don't bother about lessons,
Marian. We've barely ten minutes before prep, and I want to show
Sylvia her locker."
The six children who, with Linda and Sylvia, made up Class III at Miss
Kaye's, were all very much of an age. Hazel Prestbury was the eldest;
a tall fair girl of twelve, with regular features and a quantity of
pretty light hair which fell below her waist, and of which she was
exceedingly proud. She could be rather clever when she troubled to
work, but as that did not often happen she rarely stood high in her
form, though she was well advanced in music, and played better than
many girls of thirteen and fourteen. Marian Woodhouse, only an inch
shorter, had a good complexion, and curly ruddy hair plaited in a
thick pigtail. So far she had easily kept head of the class, for she
was bright, and such a good guesser that she often contrived to make
Miss Arkwright think she knew more than was really the case. She liked
to manage other people, to take the lead, and keep everybody up to the
mark, and was more of a favourite with the teachers than she was with
her companions. There could have been no greater contrast to her than
her sister Gwennie, a round, rosy dumpling of a girl, so gentle and
quiet and unassuming that she scarcely ever seemed to have an opinion
of her own, being content to follow Marian blindly, whom she
considered the cleverest person in the whole world. The girls often
called the pair "Voice and Echo", because poor Gwennie so faithfully
upheld everything which her elder sister said, no matter whether it
proved right or wrong. Connie Camden was the jolliest little romp
imaginable. She was not at all pretty, and wore her lank, colourless
brown hair cut short like a boy's, but she had frank grey eyes, and
though she was continually getting into scrapes, her honest,
straightforward ways atoned for much that was lacking in other
respects. She was one of a large family, and had three sisters in the
school, all with the same reputation for endless jokes and high
spirits. Nina Forster, a graceful, delicate-looking child of ten,
spoilt by her weak mouth and indecisive chin, was generally lost in
adoration of some favourite among the bigger girls. Her friendships
were of the briefest, but very hot while they lasted, and she seemed
able to change her affections so easily from one object to another
that she had a different idol nearly every week. Jessie Ellis, whose
plain, freckled little face could look almost pretty when she smiled,
had been placed in the third class solely because she was too big to
remain any longer in the Kindergarten. She was dull at lessons, having
a poor memory and a lack of any power of grasping a subject; she was
the despair of Miss Arkwright, and took her seat placidly at the
bottom of the form as regularly as Marian Woodhouse occupied the top.
Sylvia was excused from preparation on this first evening, and was
taken instead by Miss Coleman to unpack her box and arrange her
drawers.
Heathercliffe House had been specially built for a school, and was so
designed that, instead of long dormitories or curtained cubicles,
there were rows of small bedrooms, each intended to accommodate two
girls. The one which Sylvia was to share with Linda Marshall stood at
the end of the upper corridor. It was a pretty little room with a pink
paper, and a white-enamelled mantelpiece. The furniture was also in
white enamel, and consisted of a washstand, two chests of drawers, and
a large wardrobe fixed into the wall, containing two separate
compartments with a drawer for best hats at the bottom of each. The
beds had pink quilts to match the paper, the jugs and basins were
white with pink rims, while even the mats on the dressing table were
made of white muslin over pink calico.
Sylvia looked round with approval. She had expected school to be a
bare, cheerless place, but this was as dainty as her own room at home.
The walls were hung with pictures in oak frames, there was a small
bookshelf beside each bed where Bibles and favourite volumes could be
kept, and the mantelpiece was covered with tiny china cats, dogs, and
other animals, which Miss Coleman said belonged to Linda.
It took some time to arrange Sylvia's possessions, for the mistress
was very particular as to where they were put, and informed Sylvia
that she would be expected to keep them exactly in that order, and her
drawers would be examined once a week.
"Your dressing gown is to hang behind the door; there is a hook here
for your bath towel, which, by the by, you are never to leave in the
bathroom; your sponge must go in the lefthand sponge basket, and your
bedroom slippers under this chair. Your coats must, of course, always
be kept in the wardrobe, but your boots are to go downstairs. You may
lay your writing case and paintbox on the chest of drawers, or keep
them in your locker in the playroom."
"I'm glad I brought a white nightdress case," thought Sylvia; "it
looks much nicer on the pink bed than the blue one Mother nearly
packed instead. When I've put out my photos it will feel more homey.
I'll write to Mother to-morrow and tell her all about it."
When at last everything had been tidily set in its right place, and a
servant had carried the empty box to the boxroom, Miss Coleman took
Sylvia to the playroom, and, giving her a book, told her she might
read until her companions came to join her. The girls of the third
class did preparation and practising until seven, after which they
were allowed half an hour's recreation until supper. They had the
playroom to themselves, as the little ones had gone to bed by that
time, and the elder girls had a separate sitting-room of their own.
Precisely as the clock struck seven Linda Marshall, Hazel Prestbury,
Connie Camden, and Nina Forster came tearing in.
"I thought we'd find you here," cried Linda. "We're just through
prep., but I don't know my history in the least. Do you, Hazel?"
"Not a morsel. Miss Arkwright will scold to-morrow. It's dreadfully
hard, though; I don't suppose anybody will know it properly."
"Except Marian," said Nina.
"Oh, yes, Marian! She'll scrape through somehow. She always does. Look
here, Sylvia! If you're clever, I wish you'd take down Marian
Woodhouse. We're quite tired of seeing her always top."
"She's so conceited about it," said Connie Camden.
"She thinks no one else can do anything but herself," said Nina
Forster.
"Yes, do try, Sylvia," said Linda; "it would be lovely if you got
above her. It would do her ever so much good."
"Oh, do!" pleaded the others.
"Why don't you try yourselves?" asked Sylvia.
"Oh, we can't; it's no use!" said Connie; "but you look clever, and
I'm sure you'll be able to learn things. She needn't think she's going
to have it all her own way this term, because----"
"Hush, she's here!" said Hazel quickly, as the door opened, and Marian
came in, carrying her music case, followed shortly afterwards by
Gwennie and Jessie Ellis.
"What shall we play to-night?" asked Connie, who had gone rather red.
"I don't think she heard," she whispered to Hazel.
"Word-making," said Marian decisively. "Here's the box."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Nina and Hazel, "that's a stupid game. We don't
like it at all."
"Yes, you do. Don't be silly. Come along."
"I vote for telegrams," suggested Linda.
"No!" cried Marian.
"Yes!" cried the others in such overwhelming majority that Marian had
to give way, though she looked anything but pleased.
Pencils and pieces of paper were collected, the eight girls seated
themselves round the table, and each set to work to concoct a telegram
the words of which must commence with twelve letters read out at
random, in the order in which they were given. The letters were: T, C,
M, I, C, D, C, I, W, E, A, B. They proved a little puzzling to fit
together, but after much nibbling of pencils, and knitting of brows,
everybody managed to get something written, and Marian volunteered to
read them out.
The first happened to be Sylvia's. She had put: "Tell Charley Mother
ill. Cook dead. Come immediately. Will explain all. Bertha."
"It's not bad," said Marian condescendingly, "but you don't know how
to spell. You've written C-h-a-r-l-e-y."
"Well, and that's the right way too!" said Sylvia.
"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.