Squabbles
By the time Sylvia was thoroughly settled in the Third Class another
trouble began to distress her. She had formed a great affection for
Linda Marshall, and as the two shared a bedroom it seemed only natural
that they should be bosom friends. Linda was very willing to consider
Sylvia as her special comrade; they were almost the same age, and had
so many likes and dislikes in common that there was not the least
occasion to quarrel over anything, and they were never so happy as
when they were alone together. That, however, Hazel Prestbury was by
no means ready to allow. Although she slept with Connie Camden she had
hitherto considered Linda her friend, and was very indignant that
Sylvia should have stepped between them.
Hazel was a girl about whom Miss Kaye often felt some uneasiness. The
eldest in her class, she was also old for her age, and she had brought
a good many notions to school with her that were not at all in
accordance with the simple ideas which were encouraged at
Heathercliffe House. She thought far more of dress and position than
she had any business to do, criticized the other girls' clothing,
compared the value of her birthday presents with those of her
schoolmates, and was apt to boast of her abundant pocket money. She
was also not always as open and truthful as might have been wished,
and though it could never be exactly defined, she somehow kept up a
slight spirit of hostility against the mistresses, and would never
respond heartily to any kindness from headquarters. Miss Kaye thought
she was not altogether a wise friend for Linda, who, being a whole
year younger, was likely to be easily influenced, and it was on this
account that she had not allowed the two to share a bedroom.
Linda was an affectionate little girl; she did not notice the faults
in Hazel's character, and would have been delighted to include both
her companions in a triple friendship. But that did not content
either, and though Sylvia had the advantage at morning and evening,
Hazel generally triumphed during the day.
Sylvia would watch with jealous eyes as the pair walked arm in arm
down the avenue or played draughts together in the recreation hour.
She tried to console herself with reading, but somehow the books did
not seem nearly so absorbing as they had done at home, and she sat
with one ear open to hear what Linda was saying. She did not care to
make friends with any of the other girls, though Nina Forster
proffered a few advances, and Connie Camden was always "hail fellow
well met" with everybody.
One wet afternoon the Third Class and some of the members of the
Fourth were sitting round the playroom fire indulging in oranges,
which Miss Kaye had given as a special treat.
"I like to suck mine with a lump of sugar," said Gwennie. "If you do
it carefully you can get every scrap of orange out without breaking
the peel."
"I can't eat orangeth," sighed Sadie Thompson pensively. "They alwayth
make me thick."
"Make you thin, I should think," laughed Marian. "You're the skinniest
little creature I ever saw."
"I don't mean fat, I mean thick--ill."
"Oh, sick! Then why don't you say so?"
"Becauthe I can't help lithping," replied Sadie, who was rather proud
of her accomplishment, and did not make any great effort to overcome
it.
"I wish I lisped," said Connie Camden enviously. "I'd have such fun
with Miss Arkwright in the reading lesson. She'd stop for five minutes
worrying over one word. Don't you remember when I pretended I couldn't
say 'meritorious'? I'm going to cut my orange in half if anybody will
lend me a penknife."
"Where's your own?"
"Lost it long ago. I never can keep them. I got one in my Christmas
stocking and another on my birthday, and I had a new one at the
beginning of this term, but they're all gone. My pencil wore down to
such a perfect stump yesterday I couldn't finish my sums, and I
daren't borrow, because Miss Arkwright said she'd give a bad-conduct
mark to the first girl who spoke one word. I tried to signal to Nina,
but she wouldn't look. Hazel, lend me yours!"
"No thanks!" replied Hazel. "Not to cut oranges. It's a new one and
you'd spoil it."
"Oh, you mean thing! Who'll be generous?"
"You may have this if you like," said Sylvia. "I don't much mind if
you keep it; it's only an old one, and I have another in my pencil
box."
"You dear, I'd love it! I shall have to give you something in
exchange, though, or else it will be unlucky. What will you have?" And
Connie turned out the very miscellaneous contents of her pockets,
displaying various stumps of lead pencil, a much worn indiarubber, a
buttonhook, two or three dominoes, a walnut shell, some acorn cups, a
stone with a hole in it, a whistle, a sticky piece of toffee, and a
calendar.
"I don't want any of them," said Sylvia, shaking her head.
"But you must. Knives cut love, and we shall quarrel if you don't. The
calendar's not much good; it's last year's, and I only kept it for the
picture of the dog on the back. But have this," pressing one of the
pencils into her hand. "It's the longest piece I have, and rather a
nice soft one."
"Let us try putting our pips in the fire," said Nina. "You name one
after yourself, and another after someone you like, and then say:
'If you hate me, pop and fly;
If you love me, burn and die,'
and see whether you and the person you have chosen will stick to each
other or not. I'm going to try Evelyn Hastings."
"Is she your latest?" enquired Marian.
"I think she's perfectly beautiful. She let me carry her umbrella for
her this morning, and said I might do it to-morrow if I wanted. May
Spencer never speaks to me now."
"I should think she's tired of you. You must have been such a nuisance
always clinging on to her arm. Why can't you let the first class
alone? They don't want us."
"They mayn't want you, but they want me," said Nina, whose adoration
of the big girls was a perpetual joke in her class. "I held Evelyn's
wool yesterday, and pulled off her goloshes, and she never even asked
you."
"I shouldn't have done it if she had," declared Marian. "I'd let her
wait on herself. I think you're the silliest girl I know. Put your
wretched pips in the fire if you're going to."
The result was unfortunate. The one christened 'Nina' popped away
promptly, much to its owner's indignation.
"You won't stick to her, you see," laughed Marian, "You'll get tired
of her, and throw her over, as you do everybody else."
The amusement proved popular, and all the girls insisted upon trying
the fortunes of themselves and their friends.
Connie Camden was faithless to everybody; Jessie Ellis had a solitary
failure, but would not divulge the name she had chosen or make another
attempt; and Gwennie, to her great disgust, turned traitor to her
beloved Marian.
"We must go in together of course," said Hazel, throwing two pips, for
herself and Linda, into the flames. They were fat, juicy ones, and it
was a little while before they caught fire. Pop, pop, they both went,
each shooting to different sides of the grate with such violence that
they fell out into the fender.
"They haven't finished. We must try them again," cried Hazel, stooping
over the guard to pick them up.
"No! No!" exclaimed the others. "They've flown as hard as any could
fly. You've both done with each other entirely. Now someone else.
Linda, see if you have better luck with Sylvia!"
It was very foolish, but Sylvia looked on with quite a feeling of
anxiety as Linda dropped two carefully chosen pips into a ruddy hollow
among the coals. Would they both fly apart, she wondered, or would
only one leave the other, and if so which? Or would they linger
together until they were burnt to ashes? It seemed to her as though it
were an omen of their friendship.
"They're burning," said Nina. "One's just going to pop! No, it isn't.
It's changed its mind. They've both rolled down into that hot piece.
There they go! They're burnt as black as cinders. You two are friends.
You're the only ones who have kept together of all we've tried."
Sylvia squeezed Linda's hand hard with pleasure. To be her friend and
stick to her through thick and thin was the height of her ambition,
and she was glad that their trial had proved so favourable.
"It's a silly game and doesn't mean anything at all," said Hazel,
flushing angrily. "I wonder you're such babies as to believe in it.
You'll be counting your fortunes by the holes in your biscuits next.
Nina, you were a goose to begin it."
"Well, really! You were ready enough to try," said Nina. "You've no
need to be such a crab-stick that I can see."
"You've about as much sense as a sparrow," declared Hazel, "and you'll
never have any more if you live to be a hundred. I shan't trouble to
play your rubbishy games again!" And she turned away to get out her
writing case, and begin a home letter, with such a cross expression on
her countenance that the others wisely left her alone.
It was only a few days after this that an incident occurred which
unfortunately caused the first shadow of a quarrel between Sylvia and
her friend. The dancing classes had commenced and were held weekly in
the large schoolroom at half-past two o'clock. Everyone was expected
to appear in a light frock and thin shoes, so the afternoon seemed
almost more like a party than a lesson. Miss Delaney, the teacher, was
immensely popular with the girls, and they looked forward to Friday
throughout the whole week.
Linda, who was particularly graceful and light of foot, was considered
one of the best dancers in the school, and always included in a
tarantella or gavotte, or any figure which required a little more
skill than was possessed by most of the beginners. Linda's music
lesson happened to be on Friday afternoon at two o'clock and she went
straight from Miss Denby and the piano to the dancing class. Now on
this particular day she had put on her white dress as usual, but just
as she was opening the door of the practising-room she suddenly
noticed that she had completely forgotten to change her shoes. What
was she to do? There was not time to run back for them now, as Miss
Denby had caught sight of her and she dare not beat a retreat; neither
could she go after her lesson, because the girls were strictly
forbidden upstairs when once the school bell had rung. Hazel, however,
happened to be passing down the corridor exactly at that moment, and
Linda managed to find time to gasp out: "Ask Sylvia to bring my
dancing shoes to the dressing-room," before Miss Denby said: "Come
along, Linda! What are you waiting for?" and she was obliged to enter
and shut the door.
Hazel was in no hurry to deliver her message. She waited until about
twenty-five minutes past two, then, going into the playroom, where
most of the others were collected, she strolled leisurely across to
Sylvia.
"Here, you," she said insolently, "you've got to go and fetch Linda's
dancing shoes. She's forgotten them."
"Who says I've got to go?" asked Sylvia angrily, for Hazel's tone had
roused all her worst feelings.
"I do for one!"
"Then I just shan't."
"All right! Shall I tell Linda you said you wouldn't?"
"You can if you like. I'm sure I don't care. I haven't time to race
about the school finding other people's things. It's almost half-past
now." And Sylvia marched away to the dancing class with her nose in
the air, as much out of temper as she had ever felt in her life.
It was not possible for Hazel or anyone else to fetch the shoes, as
the rules of the school inflicted dire penalties on any girl who
entered another's bedroom; so when Linda hurried into the
dressing-room a few minutes afterwards, expecting to be able to put
them on, she was much disappointed not to find them there. She hunted
about, but they were nowhere to be seen, and, afraid of being late she
was forced to go to the lesson in her ordinary, common ankle-band
slippers. She was furious, since the whole point of the tarantella lay
in the elegant way in which she must point her toes and turn a
graceful pirouette, and how was she to do so in these thick, awkward
shoes that were only meant for the hard wear and tear of everyday use!
Linda was rather proud of her dancing, and it was very annoying to
have her best steps spoilt for lack of proper slippers. She could not
venture to ask to be allowed to go and change them, because Miss Kaye
was sitting in the room, and would be sure to give her a severe
scolding for her carelessness; so she would be obliged to manage as
best she could and hope that no one in authority would notice her
feet.
"Didn't you give Sylvia my message?" she said to Hazel at the first
opportunity, when the three girls were able to speak together during a
rest.
"Of course I did, but she just flatly said she wouldn't go," replied
Hazel, delighted to have this opportunity of making mischief between
the friends.
"Did you really, Sylvia?" asked Linda, her eyes full of reproachful
enquiry, and leaning upon Hazel's arm.
Now Sylvia was still not at all in an amiable frame of mind, and the
sight of Linda's head pressed against Hazel's shoulder heaped coals on
to her wrath.
"I hadn't time," she snapped, and, turning away, began to talk to Nina
Forster.
At this point the mistress called for the tarantella, and Linda stood
up with several elder girls, holding her tambourine and long ribbons
gracefully above her head. How she longed for the dainty bronze shoes
that were left in the bedroom upstairs! Her steps felt so awkward that
she could neither glide nor spring properly, and she was not surprised
when at the end of the dance Miss Delaney said: "Hardly so good as
usual, my dear." Linda considered she had very good cause to feel
offended with Sylvia, and she would not look at her for the rest of
the afternoon. She scarcely touched the tips of her fingers when they
met in the "grand chain", and kept as far away from her as she
possibly could, choosing Hazel for her partner in the waltz and Connie
Camden in the Highland schottische.
Sylvia tried to show by her manner that she did not care, but in
reality she felt on the verge of tears. She danced with little Sadie
Thompson, casting a wistful look every now and then at Linda's back,
though she took no notice if they happened to meet face to face. She
managed to change places at tea and sit between Gwennie Woodhouse and
Jessie Ellis, and at evening recreation she retired to a corner of the
playroom with a book.
The great ordeal was when the two children found themselves alone in
their bedroom at night. Each considered the other so entirely in the
wrong that neither would give way, and they both undressed in stony
silence, very different indeed from the confidences which they were
accustomed to exchange.
Sylvia peeped at Linda's bed in the morning, wondering whether she
would show any signs of relenting. But no, Linda got up without
noticing her in the least, and the breach seemed as wide as ever.
It was Saturday, and except for mending and stocking darning the girls
might amuse themselves as they wished. The two friends had planned to
finish their garden and to plant the delightful collection of
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips which Mrs. Lindsay had sent them.
Sylvia carried the box down, and a trowel, and set to work in a
half-hearted manner, putting in little groups and rows, though she
certainly was not enjoying herself. Linda, who was equally unhappy,
waited ten minutes, then, arriving with her spade, began solemnly to
dig up her root of hepatica and her clump of primroses.
"Do you want to put them here?" enquired Sylvia anxiously, moving some
of her bulbs out of the way.
"No, thank you," replied Linda with cold politeness. "I'm going back
to my old garden." And, carrying her treasures in her arms, she
stalked away.
Poor Sylvia felt this was the last straw. To be thus deserted was a
cruel blow; she would never enjoy her flowers alone, however lovely
they might prove. She had written for the bulbs chiefly on Linda's
account, and if they were not to share them she did not care to plant
them at all. She flung down her trowel, and, walking away to a retired
part of the grounds, sat down on a seat under a hawthorn tree and
began to cry as if her heart would break.
She had not been there very long before chance, or something better
than chance, brought Mercy Ingledew to the same spot with her Latin
grammar. As monitress of the upper landing she had the whole of the
third class under her care, and, seeing one of her charges in such
distress, she came at once to enquire the cause.
"You needn't be at all afraid to tell me, dear," she said. "If you've
got yourself into a scrape it's my business to help you. Just tell me
everything as you would to your elder sister."
"I haven't got any sister," sobbed Sylvia.
"No more have I, I only wish I had, so I'm going to pretend now that
you're mine. What's the trouble? I don't like to see my third class
girls crying."
Sylvia never forgot how kind Mercy was. She listened patiently to the
whole matter, and then sat thinking for a while, and stroking Sylvia's
fluffy hair.
"There seem to have been faults on both sides," she said at last.
"Doesn't it strike you, dear, that it's just a little selfish of you
to want to keep Linda entirely to yourself?"
"But she's my friend!" said Sylvia in astonishment.
"She was Hazel's first. Why can't you all be jolly together without
this continual jealousy? You'd be a great deal happier."
"Ye-es," said Sylvia doubtfully. "What I feel, though, is that I mind
so dreadfully, and I'm sure Linda doesn't care half as much, because
she has Hazel."
"Perhaps she cares more than you think. If I were you I should go and
tell her exactly what happened about the shoes, and say you're sorry.
You'll have done your part at any rate, and if she likes to make it up
she can."
Sylvia took Mercy's advice, and, finding Linda mooning aimlessly up
and down the avenue, she went straight to the point without any
further delay, and explained the whole affair.
"I'm afraid it was I who was cross," said Linda. "I've been feeling
perfectly horrid all the morning. I hate being out of friends with
anyone, and especially with you. I wish my wretched dancing shoes had
been at the bottom of the sea. Have you planted all the bulbs yet? We
meant to put the snowdrops in the middle, you know. I don't like my
old garden at all. It's no fun doing it alone. Shall I bring back the
primroses and the hepatica?"