Rivals
Sylvia quickly discovered that life at school was a totally different
affair from what it had been at home. She had now very little
opportunity of ever being alone. The solitary readings and pretendings
with which she had been wont to amuse herself were impossible, for
every hour of the day seemed so well filled with work, walks, and
games, and even in recreation time the other girls constantly claimed
her attention. By the end of a week she had already learnt several
very necessary facts; that orders had to be promptly obeyed without
either dawdling or arguing, that strict punctuality was the rule, and
it was a terrible thing to be even a minute late for classes or meals;
that she was by no means the only important person in the school,
because everybody else thought herself of quite as much consequence,
and some rather more so; that schoolgirls had scant sympathy for
bumps, bruises, tears, headaches, or any other minor woes, and only
said "You baby!" if she complained; and lastly, that, though it seemed
most peculiar to have no one to make a special fuss over her, on the
whole there was so much fun going on that it was a great deal more
interesting than doing lessons by herself with Miss Holt.
The girls of the third class, all of whom could write their ages with
two figures, felt themselves very superior and grown-up in comparison
with the little ones in the Kindergarten. There were seven of these
children, whose ages ranged from six to nine, and as they shared the
playroom with the third form it was the fashion to pet them and take
notice of them. Dolly Camden, Connie's younger sister, was a merry
little soul with the family failing for continually getting into
mischief, and was the chief anxiety of Miss Coleman's life, having a
capacity for spilling water, inking her fingers, tearing her clothes,
and losing her books unequalled by anyone else in her division.
The Camdens were all handfuls, even Rosie, who was sixteen, and might
have been chosen a monitress if she had been more sedate, and
thirteen-year-old Stella, who enlivened the second class with
practical jokes. There was a story in the school that Miss Kaye had
once written to Mrs. Camden to say that Rosie was unmanageable, and
that Mrs. Camden had written back to say that she was very sorry, but
she had never been able to manage any of her daughters herself and
would Miss Kaye please try again. Whether this were true or false,
Miss Kaye proved capable of keeping the unruly four in order, and was
about the only person, except their father, of whom they really stood
in awe.
Sadie and Elsie Thompson were two puny, motherless little girls of
nine and six. They had been brought up by an aunt who was not at all
kind to them, and they found Heathercliffe House such a happy exchange
that they almost dreaded the holidays, when they must go back to the
home that was so unhomelike. Their father was a sea-captain, who came
to visit them about twice a year, when he returned from his voyages,
and brought them presents from foreign places. He did not forget them
either when he was away, and often sent them postcards of strange
countries, which had to travel many thousand miles before they reached
England. Margie Wilson was a fat sturdy child with an original mind
and a stubborn temper. She had a habit of speaking her thoughts which
was apt to be rather disconcerting.
On the first morning after her arrival, May Spencer, who was monitress
on her landing, went into her bedroom, and told her it was time to get
up. Margie raised herself slowly in bed with the clothes drawn round
her neck, and fixed her black eyes on the intruder. "What's your
name?" she enquired briefly.
"May Spencer."
"Oh! I don't like you, May Spencer. You've got a snub nose. I shan't
get up." And with that she retired under the bedclothes, and
absolutely refused to stir until poor May had to fetch Miss Coleman to
enforce discipline and uphold her authority.
Edna Lowe was a rather silly little thing, who had been much spoilt at
home, and was still surreptitiously petted by her sister Lily in the
second class, who occasionally had a battle on her behalf with Miss
Coleman, who saw no reason why Edna should be treated differently from
the others, and rewarded good behaviour or inflicted punishments with
an impartial hand. Nessie Hirst, a nervous child, who had been sent
to Aberglyn for the benefit of the sea air, was a favourite with the
third class, her pathetic, wistful, grey eyes, long rich-brown hair,
and the beautiful and elaborately embroidered frocks which her mother
worked for her, gave her a somewhat distinguished appearance, and
among the girls she often went by the nickname of "Little Vere de
Vere". The prettiest of all, however, was Greta Collins, a small,
golden-haired, blue-eyed rascal, who attached herself promptly to
Sylvia like a limpet, sitting on her knee, clinging round her neck
with kittenish fondness, and making herself very charming with her
coaxing manner.
"It's only because you're somebody fresh," said Marian Woodhouse. "She
does this to every new girl. You should have seen the fuss she made of
me when first I came. She'll have quite got over it in a fortnight,
and will hardly look at you."
"You won't; will you, darling?" said Sylvia indignantly, hugging the
child closer, for she was much flattered at being the object of so
much adoration.
"No, I'll love you always. Better than any of these horrid girls. Tell
them to go away! I don't want anybody but you." And she clasped her
arms round Sylvia's neck, and kissed her again and again.
"I know you will," declared Sylvia. "So we'll just take no notice of
them. You're my special baby, and I mean to keep you."
"All right, you'll soon find out, and then don't say I didn't warn
you!" returned Marian, laughing.
In spite of both Sylvia's and Greta's protestations to the contrary,
Marian's words proved to be exactly true. For almost a week the little
girl's affection kept at red heat; on the seventh day it began to show
signs of flagging. It was in vain that Sylvia tempted her with
stories, cajoled her with sweets, or even presented her with one of
her lovely new paintbrushes; Greta was tired of her fancy, and though
she accepted anything that was offered her, she only gave a
half-hearted peck of a kiss in return, and ran back promptly to play
with Nessie Hirst. Poor Sylvia was terribly distressed. She had been
fascinated with Greta's pretty pink-and-white face, and big blue eyes;
she liked to curl the long, golden ringlets round her fingers, to
fasten the clean pinafores, or do any other small services for her,
and especially to feel that the child clung to her in preference to
anybody else. To be thus suddenly deserted was a blow, and it was
particularly galling to have Marian Woodhouse say "I told you so." All
her efforts at winning back her fickle admirer were absolutely
useless. Greta refused to be coaxed, and at the end of a fortnight
fulfilled Marian's prophecy by pushing away her former friend and even
smacking her, which brought matters to such a crisis that Sylvia,
after a storm of tears in private, gave up the attempt and resigned
herself to the inevitable.
Luckily there were plenty of fresh interests to help to put Greta out
of her thoughts. Though she had studied fairly hard with her governess
at home she had never before entered into competition with other
girls, and it was a new experience to work in class. As Miss Holt had
expected, she was forward in some subjects and backward in others;
but she was gifted with an excellent memory and found she could learn
with little trouble what many of the others found impossible tasks.
Except for French with Mademoiselle and nature study with Miss Kaye,
all the lessons were taken by Miss Arkwright. Sylvia could never quite
make up her mind whether she liked her or not. She was tall and slim,
with large teeth, and a nose that moved about like a rabbit's when she
spoke, and she wore her hair brushed very plainly back from her high
forehead. She was a conscientious teacher but not a very interesting
one, and she somehow lacked the charm which attracted the girls so
much to their headmistress.
"Miss Kaye seems to like to know each one of us separately, and all
about our friends and our homes," said Marian one day, "and I don't
believe Miss Arkwright cares in the least about us out of school, so
long as we know our lessons in class."
Children are very quick to feel sympathy, and, though Miss Arkwright
did her duty thoroughly, most of her pupils respected her more than
they loved her, and while she was not disliked she was never popular.
It was a revelation to Sylvia, who in her work with Miss Holt had
never troubled whether she did exceedingly or only moderately well, to
find that at Heathercliffe House a little extra effort made all the
difference. At the end of every week the marks of each girl were
balanced up, and on Monday morning at nine o'clock Miss Kaye would
march into the classroom to read out the list and add a few comments
of praise or blame. The girls sat in school for the week according to
the order in which their names occurred on the balancing list, and it
had been a point of great pride with Marian Woodhouse to come out top,
a position which hitherto no one had troubled to dispute with her.
Sylvia had arrived on a Wednesday, so that the first week she was only
able to obtain part marks, though in two days she had gained enough to
place her half-way up the class, above Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie
Ellis and even Nina Forster. The second week was a duel between
herself and Marian. Both worked hard and steadily and seemed fairly
equal, for what Sylvia lost by her bad writing she gained through her
more accurate memory, and some of Marian's most venturesome guesses
happened to turn out wrong, though she could beat Sylvia at
arithmetic. The books in which they wrote their exercises were always
looked over on Saturday by Miss Kaye, who marked them both for matter,
style, writing, and general neatness; so the girls could not tell
until these were returned what was their total for the week. It was
very exciting on Sylvia's second Monday morning when Miss Kaye entered
bearing the pile of exercises and prepared to read out the list of
marks. It was her custom always to begin with the bottom girl, and
to-day she proceeded as usual.
"_Jessie Ellis._ 29. Your history is especially weak, and I noticed
there were sixteen mistakes in your dictation. If you cannot keep up
with the class I shall be obliged to send you down again.
_Gwennie Woodhouse._ 34. I believe you have tried, Gwennie, as it is
more than last week, but there is still much room for improvement.
_Connie Camden._ 38. I expect better things from you, Connie. You can
learn quite well when you apply yourself properly, and I consider it a
disgrace that you should have a bad mark for arithmetic. If I find it
again you will have to stay in on Saturday afternoon and learn your
tables.
_Nina Forster._ 39. You have had a bad cold, so I will excuse you this
week. Your writing is beautifully neat, though I should like to see
higher marks.
_Linda Marshall._ 45. You have done well in grammar, but failed
utterly in geography. Your map is very inaccurate.
_Hazel Prestbury._ 50. Excellent in spelling and composition, but
rather weak in arithmetic.
_Marian Woodhouse._ 60. Very good and conscientious work. Your
exercises show great care and neatness.
_Sylvia Lindsay._ 63. I am pleased, Sylvia, to find you have done so
well, and hope you will continue with such a good record. I should
like to see improvement in your writing, and you must make that your
chief care. In every other respect your work is highly satisfactory.
Girls, take your places!"
It was a proud moment for Sylvia when she stepped above Marian
Woodhouse to claim her seat at the top of the class. Marian held her
head down and looked as black as thunder; Linda could scarcely conceal
her delight; Connie Camden was nudging Nina Forster; and Gwennie's
eyes filled with tears at the sight of her sister's humiliation. She
had no ambition for herself, but she had always gloried in Marian's
success.
"It's a shame!" she whispered to Jessie Ellis. "That new girl has no
right to get top. I'm sure Miss Arkwright must have favoured her."
Miss Arkwright looked as surprised as anybody, but her conscience was
clear of all favouritism, she was strictly impartial, and Miss Kaye
herself had marked the exercises. She made no comment, however, and
lessons began as usual.
The eight girls were seated in a row on a form opposite their
teacher's desk, and were expected to sit with shoulders erect, hands
folded, and feet neatly placed together. Sylvia, who had rather
fidgety ways, and was apt to wriggle when answering a question, found
it hard to keep this prim position, and, in the agony of recalling the
principal tributaries of the Yorkshire Ouse, she almost unconsciously
seized a handful of pens from the box which lay on a chair by her side
and began to finger them nervously.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire," she said,
counting each with a pen.
Marian put out her hand and drew the pens firmly away.
"Two more," suggested Miss Arkwright.
"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire----" repeated
Sylvia desperately, missing the pens and feeling as if she could not
go on without them.
"Next!" said Miss Arkwright, who never waited long for anybody.
"Calder and Don," finished Marian promptly, replacing the pens in the
box, which she popped on to the desk behind, whispering to Sylvia as
she did so: "You're not fit to be top!"
"Marian Woodhouse and Sylvia Lindsay each lose an order mark," said
Miss Arkwright, at which they both looked sober, though neither minded
very much since the other had the same.
"You needn't have pulled the pens from me just when I was answering,"
said Sylvia to Marian afterwards. "You put everything straight out of
my head."
"If you can't answer without something to play with," retorted Marian,
"you'd better go to the baby class and learn kindergarten drawing on a
slate. No one would think you were nearly eleven."
It was certainly trying for poor Marian to find a younger girl
occupying the position which she had come to regard as her own special
property, and she could not yield with a good grace. Fate seemed
determined to call her failure into notice. In the afternoon, when
singing was over, Miss Denby turned to dismiss the various forms back
to their schoolrooms.
"Class Three will go out first," she said. "Balancing order. Now girls
be quick! Come, Marian, where are you?" For Marian, with a very red
face, had not stepped forward as usual to take her place at the head
of the line.
"I'm top!" said Sylvia, who found it impossible to conceal her
triumph, and she led the way with the feeling of a rival claimant who
has suddenly and unexpectedly been raised to the throne, enjoying
Miss Denby's astonishment as much as Marian's confusion.
After that it was a continual struggle between the two children for
the coveted seat. Sometimes one gained it and sometimes the other, and
one week they were exactly equal, a difficulty which Miss Kaye solved
by deciding that Marian was to be head in the mornings and Sylvia in
the afternoons. No one else in the class seemed able to dispute it
with them, though Hazel Prestbury occasionally won high marks. Linda,
a bright enough child to talk to, and fond of reading, had not a very
good memory, Connie Camden was incorrigibly lazy, Nina only worked by
fits and starts, and both Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie Ellis were of
course out of the question.
Sylvia certainly did not find school life all plain sailing. Among
other things Miss Arkwright was a totally different person from her
former governess. Miss Holt, anxious to develop her pupil's powers of
general intelligence, had allowed her to ask continual questions, and
would even argue a point with her in order to encourage her to think
clearly upon a subject. Miss Arkwright, on the contrary, did not allow
any girl to have opinions in opposition to her own, and Sylvia got
into sad trouble if she ventured on original ideas. Once in the
geography class she was asked to give the capital of Tuscany.
"Firenze," she replied promptly.
"Next," said Miss Arkwright.
"Florence," answered Marian with a toss of her head.
"Firenze is the proper Italian name for Florence," corrected Sylvia.
"Father and Mother were staying there last Easter, and they said
everybody called it that, and didn't understand what you meant if you
said Florence."
"We are having our geography lesson in English, not Italian, so we
will call the places by the English names which are given in the
book," said Miss Arkwright, glaring at her; and Sylvia lost a mark,
much to her indignation.
Another time the class was reading _Marmion_, and repeating the notes
which were given at the end of the cantos. Now Sylvia had revelled in
so many historical stories that she understood thoroughly all about a
portcullis and a drawbridge and a donjon keep, and instead of simply
saying the note she volunteered an explanation of her own. It was what
Miss Holt would have encouraged, but Miss Arkwright kept strictly to
the lesson.
"I did not ask for your opinion, Sylvia," she said. "The notes given
in the book are quite sufficient, and you may confine yourself to
them."
On the whole Miss Arkwright was fair, but on one occasion Sylvia felt
herself really to be the object of a great injustice. A very difficult
grammar lesson was in progress, which most of the girls found
extremely hard to understand. Miss Arkwright had asked many questions
round the class, and now addressed one to Sylvia, who was top. She
missed, and the teacher turned to Marian, who sat next. Just at that
moment the bell rang, and, without waiting for Marian's reply, Miss
Arkwright closed her book and opened the register. Now that last wrong
answer had given Sylvia a bad mark, and she felt it was not just that
she should have had one more question than any of the other girls.
"I don't believe one of them knew it," she said to herself, "and if
the question had gone on they would all have missed too."
"Oh, Miss Arkwright, it's not fair!" she added aloud, getting up with
flaming cheeks at the sting of the thought that half a minute had
saved Marian's mark and lost her own. "I oughtn't to count that last
miss."
"Sylvia, if you speak to me like that again I shall order you to leave
the room," said the mistress, who prided herself on her good
discipline. "I think you must have forgotten yourself."
"It was mean of her," said Linda, trying to console her friend
afterwards. "When we were in Miss Coleman's form, and the bell rang
when a question was only halfway down the class, she always said:
"Don't count the last turn," because it wasn't fair unless we all had
the same chance of missing. But you did say it in such a cheeky way, I
think that was why she was so angry. It's no use trying to get her to
take it off now; when she's once said a thing she sticks to it and
nobody but Miss Kaye could make her alter it; and we shouldn't dare to
ask her; and if we did it wouldn't be worth it, because Miss Arkwright
would be twice as cross afterwards. You'll just have to grin and bear
it."