Sylvia's Birthday
Nina Forster was obliged to remain in bed for several days, but Hazel
Prestbury came into school on the following morning, rather red about
the eyes, and a little sulky. She was sorry, not so much for her
fault, as for being found out, and she blamed herself for her own
stupidity.
"I might have known some tiresome person would see us out of a
window," she thought. "Miss Kaye always manages to get to hear
everything."
She felt that the other girls disapproved of her. Marian spoke her
mind freely on the subject, and even gentle Gwennie did not appear too
anxious to sit next to her. Linda avoided her as much as possible,
keeping strictly to Sylvia's company, and, though Connie Camden, who
never thought about anything, was as friendly as ever, it did not
quite make up for the general coldness of the rest. The girls were too
kind to send her to Coventry, but Hazel felt she had lost her former
position in the class. It was a severe wound to her pride, for she had
liked to be considered a leader, and had always been pleased to see
how easily the others had accepted her opinions and suggestions; as
the eldest she had possessed a good deal of influence, and her
greatest punishment was to find it gone.
November crept on fast, and the days seemed to grow rapidly shorter
and shorter. It was chilly now in the mornings, and those whose hard
fate it was to be obliged to practise before breakfast grumbled at
stiff fingers and cold toes.
"I never know whether I like it or not," said Sylvia. "I hate it when
I'm in bed, and feel I'd give all the world not to have to get up so
early; but when it's done it's so nice to think you won't have to do
it at four o'clock. I wish one could learn music without practising."
"And French without verbs," groaned Linda, looking at her exercise,
nearly every line of which showed red-ink corrections in Mademoiselle's
neat foreign handwriting. "I think some people are born bad at
languages, and I'm one of them. I never can understand properly what
Mademoiselle is saying, and then she gets cross and says I don't
attend."
French was a serious trouble to Sylvia also. She had learnt very
little with her governess at home, and found it most difficult to keep
up with Marian, who had rather a pretty accent, and was good at
translation. To encourage her pupils, Mademoiselle had offered a prize
to whichever could write the best letter home in the French language.
Each was to be the unaided work of the competitor, though grammars and
dictionaries might be freely consulted. It was a difficult task to all
the girls, and to some an almost impossible one, but Mademoiselle
insisted upon everybody at least making an attempt, and laughed in
private over the funny efforts which followed.
If the prize had been given for the queerest instead of the best
letter Connie Camden would have gained it. She grew so tired of
looking up words that she wrote anything she thought sounded like
French, and the result would have puzzled a native to decipher. It ran
thus:--
"Heathercliffe Maison.
"Novembre la onzieme.
"Mon cher mere
"Mamzelle a tolde moi que je mustai writer une lettre en
francais. Je le findai tres difficile et je ne likai pas du
tout. Mamzelle a offre une prize mais je suis sure que je ne
shallai pas le getter. Je begge que vous excusez moi parce que
je ne canne pas thinker de rien encore a sayer.
"Votre aimant fille,
"CONNIE."
This, however, was the worst of the set, some of the others having
managed to express themselves quite nicely. Rather to everybody's
astonishment Hazel Prestbury won the prize. She was not industrious
enough to gain the highest marks in class, but on this occasion she
had set her best energies to work, and her letter, both as regards
composition and grammar, was far in advance of all competitors. She
felt a thrill of triumph as Mademoiselle presented her with a charming
Parisian basket full of choice chocolates, accompanied by a speech in
French, which nobody understood in the least. She handed it round
amongst the girls with a sense that she had at last somewhat regained
her lost standing, and when the basket was empty had the satisfaction
of overhearing Marian remark that she was generous with her sweets,
and Gwennie wish that she knew French only half as well.
Nina Forster returned to class after a week's absence, looking pale
and thin, and with a white knitted shawl wrapped ostentatiously round
her shoulders. She was a girl who thoroughly enjoyed being delicate,
and liked the importance of having a fuss made over her. There was
always a large bottle of tonic on the sideboard, which Nina gloried in
being obliged to swallow, and she was rather pleased than otherwise if
Miss Kaye decided that it was too damp a day for her to venture out.
"I can't stand much, you know," she would explain complacently to the
others in languid tones. "Every winter I have been laid up, with the
doctor listening at my bronchial tube and taking my temperature night
and morning. It makes Mother most unhappy, and I'm sure Miss Kaye's
quite worried about me too."
As most of the girls did not know the exact meaning of either a
bronchial tube or a temperature, they were a good deal impressed, and
allowed Nina to take the warmest seat and the biggest piece of toffee
"for the sake of her throat", a state of affairs which was just what
she wanted, and of which she did not fail to take advantage to the
uttermost.
With the colder weather eider-down quilts had made their appearance in
the bedrooms, and now supplied the places of the pretty pink coverlets
which were only used in summer. It felt very warm and comfortable to
snuggle down under them at night, when the wind was howling outside
and the rain beating fast against the windows, and very hard to throw
them back and get up in the dark, chilly mornings, when the dressing
bell was ringing in the passage outside.
Sylvia's eider-down quilt once caused her an experience which gave her
a greater fright than she had ever had in her life before. She had
been to sleep for what seemed to her several hours, and woke suddenly
with a curious sense that someone besides herself and Linda was in the
room. It seemed to her as if her quilt were being very gently but
surely pulled from her bed. Wideawake in an instant, she pulled it
back and lay listening with strained ears. There was nothing to be
heard but Linda's placid breathing and the drip of the rain from the
spout outside the window. Again the quilt slowly began to move, and
this time she was certain she caught a slight sound. Could it be
possible that a burglar was concealed under her bed? The idea was too
dreadful, and a cold shiver ran through her. What was she to do? She
did not dare to call to Linda; she felt as if her tongue would refuse
to utter a cry, and perhaps if she did the man would at once crawl
out. The room was not quite dark, as a fitful moon shone in through
the blind between the storm clouds, and to poor Sylvia it made the
horror almost worse to know that she would be able to see somebody
rise up suddenly by her bedside.
"I'd give him anything and everything he wants to steal," she thought,
"if only he wouldn't frighten me so. Oh, I wonder whether he's really
there or not!"
She held the edge of the quilt in her hand. Was it slipping once more?
Yes, it was most undoubtedly being pulled from her grasp, and, as her
hair nearly stood on end with fear, she heard an unmistakable sneeze
from somewhere just underneath her bed. She gave a little agonized
gasp of terror, and at the same moment something sprang up and plumped
on to her chest. Nearly dead with fright, she yet managed to look, and
to her astonishment beheld only the waving tail and round green eyes
of Toby, the school cat, which, settling himself comfortably, began to
claw the quilt with his paws, purring his loudest the while as if
quite proud and pleased with himself. Sylvia sat up in bed and laughed
heartily at her burglar.
"Toby, you wretch," she cried, stroking his soft fur, "how did you
manage to get in here? I suppose it was you that was trying to tug my
quilt from me. No doubt you wanted to make yourself a nice bed on the
floor. And then you sneezed! What shall I do with you? I can't take
you to the kitchen in the middle of the night. You'll have to cuddle
down with me; you're beautifully warm at any rate. Here, come inside,
you'll be as good as a hot bottle." And, clasping the purring cat
close in her arms, she was soon back in the land of dreams.
It was quite a little adventure to relate to Linda next morning, and
the latter wondered how she had been able to sleep so stolidly through
it.
"You always say I shouldn't hear either a burglar or an earthquake,"
she declared, "and Toby was very nearly as bad. You naughty, precious
puss! What do you mean by coming and scaring my Sylvia? There, you
didn't do it on purpose, did you? Come into my bed for a minute before
I get up. You're the sweetest, softest darling that ever was."
Sylvia's birthday was on the nineteenth of November, and to her great
delight it happened this year on a Saturday. Miss Kaye, who tried to
make school seem as much like home as possible, was indulgent
regarding such anniversaries, and permitted many small privileges to
the fortunate owner of a birthday. Sylvia was allowed to choose the
dinner, an important decision, over which she lingered so long that
the mistress nearly lost patience.
"Of course you must not order turkey and ice cream," said Miss Kaye;
"it must be two of our ordinary dishes, only you may have which you
like. Be quick, for Cook is waiting to know."
After some hesitation Sylvia decided on hotpot and fig pudding.
"I like the potatoes on the top of the hotpot," she explained to
Linda, "especially when they're crisp and brown, and the fig pudding
always has delicious sweet sauce, and Miss Kaye lets one take plenty
of sugar with it. Jessie Ellis chose boiled mutton and corn-flour
blancmange with jam on her birthday. I don't think that was nice at
all."
The girls in her class subscribed, and gave Sylvia a birthday book as
their joint present, containing poetical quotations from Shakespeare
for each day, and one or two pretty illustrations of Perdita, Portia,
and other heroines. She was charmed with such a remembrance and asked
them all to write their names in it.
"We chose a fawn cover," said Nina, "because topaz is the birthday
stone for November. Marian wanted a green one, but I said that
wouldn't do. It's a funny thing, but people always say your month
stone matches your eyes. I never can quite decide whether yours are
brown or dark grey, but I'm sure a necklace of topaz would suit you
beautifully, and you'll have to wear one when you're grown up. By the
by, on which day of the week were you born?"
"On a Friday," said Sylvia; "but why do you want to know?"
"Then you're loving and giving."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, don't you know the old rhyme?
'Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is a child of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child must work for its living,
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is good and truthful and happy and gay.'"
"Where do you learn all these things?" asked Sylvia.
"From our old cook. She's a daleswoman, and she can tell what it means
when the candle gutters or the clock stops, or a swarm of bees comes,
or you see magpies, or your ear burns, or you sneeze, and what's lucky
to do and what's unlucky."
"You are the greatest goose!" said Marian scornfully. "You don't mean
to say you believe that silly rubbish? We shouldn't be allowed to talk
to our cook at home if she told us such nonsense. You'd better not let
Miss Kaye see you throwing salt over your shoulder, or crossing the
water when you wash with anybody."
"You always make fun of everything I do," exclaimed Nina plaintively.
"Then you should have more sense," snapped Marian, who prided herself
upon being strong-minded.
"Sylvia has a pretty name at any rate," continued Nina, "and so have
I. I shouldn't like to be called Marian; it's just like Mary Ann."
But as Marian wisely took no notice, and walked away, the shot fell
rather flat.
The parcel post came in at half-past ten, and brought several
bulky-looking packages addressed to "Miss S. Lindsay". Sylvia bore
them off to the playroom and untied the strings before an audience of
sympathetic girls, each of whom was almost as interested as if the
birthday had been her own.
"Which shall I open first?" she said. "This one feels nice, and it's
in Mother's writing, too. Lend me your scissors, Marian, that's a
dear. I can't unfasten this knot. Oh, look! Exactly what I wanted."
And she drew from a cardboard box a charming little Brownie camera
with several rolls of films quite ready to use.
"How delightful!" she cried. "Now I can take snapshots of you all, and
the house, and Miss Kaye, and everything. I'll send them home to
Father to develop; he's very clever at photos."
"You won't be able to take snaps in this dark weather," said Hazel. "I
don't expect you can do much with it until spring. I took some last
autumn, and they were so faint you couldn't tell what they were meant
for."
"Well, she can try, at any rate," said Linda. "Perhaps she can manage
a time exposure if she puts the camera on something steady, and get a
group of the whole class in the garden. What's in the next parcel?"
It proved to be a copy of the _Talisman_, with "Sylvia Lindsay, from
her loving Father", written inside--a welcome present, as Sylvia was
collecting Scott, and was glad to have an addition to her number of
volumes.
"This is a child's writing," said Marian, taking up a small packet,
addressed in a round, rather shaky-looking hand. "Shall I cut the
string for you?"
"Really, Marian! Let her open her own parcels. They're her presents,"
said Linda.
"And my scissors," returned Marian. "I only wanted to help her. Oh!
That's pretty!" she exclaimed as Sylvia unwrapped a purse made of
mother-of-pearl with a gilt clasp and lined with crimson silk. On a
half-sheet of notepaper was written: "With best wishes for your
birthday from Effie and May".
"How kind of them to send me anything!" said Sylvia. "They never have
done before. I suppose it's because I'm at school. I really am in luck
this time."
The next parcel was from Aunt Louisa and Cousin Cuthbert. It was an
upright wooden box, containing a set of table croquet, eight little
mallets and balls, with hoops and sticks, arranged on a polished wood
stand, and sandbags to place round the table to prevent the balls from
rolling off on to the floor.
"I think this is the nicest of all," cried Linda. "There are just
eight mallets, so that the whole class can play, and it will be such
fun on wet days when we can't go out."
"I never expected another present from Aunt Louisa," said Sylvia. "She
gave me that writing case when I came, and Cuthbert the pencil box,
the one I gave to Sadie Thompson, you know."
"I wish she were my aunt," said Marian; "I should think she's nice."
"She is generally, but it was she who made Father and Mother send me
here, and I didn't want to come in the least."
"Why, but you're glad now, aren't you? Everybody likes being at Miss
Kaye's."
"Yes, I'm very glad, though I'm looking forward immensely to Christmas
and going home. I wonder what's inside this smallest parcel. Oh, a
brooch from Aunt Mabel and Uncle Herbert! Such a pretty one, like
little silver daisies. It will go beautifully with my best dress."
Miss Holt had sent a writing album, Granny a bottle of scent, and
Uncle Wallace a box of chocolates, so there was quite a show of gifts
arranged upon the table.
"You haven't opened this one yet," said Linda, pointing to the
largest parcel, which had been left till the last.
"No, because I knew what it was," said Sylvia. "It's my birthday cake,
and mother said it was to be a present for the whole school."
It was so carefully packed in a wooden box that the children were not
able to open it themselves, and were obliged to fetch Miss Coleman,
who prised up the lid with a screwdriver and lifted out such a
wonderful cake that, as she laid it on a plate, everybody gave a
gasping "Oh!" of admiration. It was beautifully iced, with ornaments
of pink and white sugar, and Sylvia's name in sugary letters on the
top, and it was of such a large and substantial size that it looked as
if even thirty-four girls would be able to cut and come again.
"Mother says there's a sixpence inside," said Sylvia, "so it will be
very exciting to see who gets it at tea. I hope it will be right in
the middle of a slice, and not tumble out just when it's being cut."
"You're a very fortunate girl," said Miss Coleman. "You'll have to be
quite busy the rest of the day writing letters to thank all these kind
friends. I'm going to take the cake to the storeroom, but you may keep
the box of chocolates."
Tea was a festive meal. The cake looked most imposing, placed on one
of Miss Kaye's largest dessert dishes in the centre of the table.
Sylvia was allowed to cut it herself, and handed generous slices round
to everybody, and she was particularly glad when little Elsie Thompson
got the coveted sixpence.
"They never have a cake of their own," whispered Linda; "their aunt
doesn't think of making one for them, and their father is too far
away. Sadie had only one present on her birthday besides what we gave
her."
Before bedtime came, Sylvia took her handsome bottle of scent, and,
wrapping it in a parcel, wrote on a piece of paper: "Will you please
accept this from me. I shall feel very hurt if you don't". Then in
defiance of rules she ran into Mercy's room, and laid it on her
pillow, where she would find it when she went to bed.
"I'm sure Granny wouldn't mind," she said to herself. "No one knows
exactly which day is Mercy's birthday, and, though they keep it on the
one when she was found, it might perhaps be to-day, and I couldn't
bear to think that I've had all these lovely presents and she should
have got nothing at all."