had recovered his spirits; "or I'm not sure if it wasn't King Arthur
himself. At any rate he took a tremendous jump down the hillside, and
left his footprint on a rock in the stream below there. He must have
worn a No. 15 shoe, to judge by the size."
"Uncle Frank made up a ridiculous story once," said Linda. "It was all
about the black bull of Llyn Dulyn, and how it came one night to Garth
Avon, and tapped at Mother's window with its horns, and said that one
of the little bulls had met with an accident to its eye, and he'd
heard that she had a whole bottle of bulls'-eyes, so would she please
bring some, and come at once with him and cure it. The village people
are always fetching Mother like that to see their children, and she's
simply terrified of bulls, so he told it just on purpose to tease
her."
"Talking of bulls'-eyes makes me think of tea," said Artie. "I'm sure
that old woman's kettle must be boiling now. I vote we go down and
see. Let us try this other part of the hill; it'll be far quicker than
scrambling through the gorse again."
One side of the summit was almost as steep as the roof of a house, and
covered with very short, fine grass, at present so dry and slippery
that the children sat down and slid almost as if it were winter, and
they were tobogganing on the snow. It was great fun, especially when
Artie caught against a stone, and rolled over and over like a ball,
till a convenient gorse bush made a prickly impediment in his career,
and Linda left both hat and hair ribbon behind, and was obliged to
scramble up the slope again to fetch them. It was certainly a much
faster way back to the little whitewashed cottage.
The farmer's wife could not speak much English, but she said a great
deal in Welsh which they took to be an invitation to come inside,
where they found she had set a round table by the fire, nicely spread
with cups and saucers and a clean cloth. The chimney was so big and
wide that as they sat on the old-fashioned settle they could look
right up and see a patch of sky at the top. From a large smoke-stained
beam hung a chain supporting the kettle, which was boiling over on a
fire of peat and dried heather that gave out a very fragrant aromatic
smell, almost recalling Guy Fawkes Day, especially when it was blown
by the bellows. For tea there was a large loaf of home-baked brown
barley bread, and, notwithstanding the ample lunch which they had
eaten by the stream, they were all hungry enough to enjoy it
thoroughly, in spite of the saltness of the butter. It was so pleasant
sitting in the quaint little mountain cottage, with its dim light and
peaty atmosphere, and there were so many jokes to make and stories to
tell, that they lingered until the tall grandfather's clock striking
five reminded them that they were still a good many miles away from
Craigwen, and that it was time to be taking the donkey and setting out
once more on their homeward walk.
"We've had a jolly day," said Oswald, as, tired but in excellent
spirits, the four at last reached the gate of Garth Avon. "Teddie's
done splendidly. I'll give him a first-class report, even for
galloping, and he deserves a good feed of oats. You girls go in; Artie
and I'll take him back to the farm. Are you coming, Scamp? Why, I
really believe it's the first time in my life I've ever seen a dog
look dead beat!"
CHAPTER XVI
The Chinese Charm
"What are we going to do to-day?" asked Oswald after breakfast next
morning. "We've an uncommonly short holiday, so we must spin it out as
well as we can. Who votes for Llangelynin?"
"Too far and too hot," replied Artie, stretching himself comfortably
in his father's armchair. "I feel more inclined to lie on the lawn and
laze than go climbing hills again."
"It's too far for you all after your long walk yesterday," said Mrs.
Marshall. "You boys may do what you like this morning, but Linda and
Sylvia are to stay quietly in the garden until dinner-time. There's an
invitation for you to have tea at Dr. Severn's, which of course I have
accepted. I was sure you would all like to go."
"Rather!" said Oswald. "He's the jolliest chap I know, and that's
saying a good deal. Artie, suppose we take ourselves off to the marsh
and have a dip in the pool; it's about the coolest thing I can suggest
for a day like this, and we shall both enjoy a swim."
"Who is Dr. Severn?" said Sylvia to Linda, when the boys had started
for their bathe, and the two little girls were sitting in a cool,
shady place under the trees, with their books on their knees.
"He's a gentleman who came last summer to live at a house not very far
away," answered Linda. "We only got to know him lately; but he's so
nice, and the boys simply adore him!"
"Hasn't he any children of his own?"
"No. We heard they were dead, and his wife too, but he's never spoken
about them even to Father and Mother. He lives quite alone, with a
housekeeper to look after him. He's been in all kinds of foreign
places, and his rooms are so full of funny things, it's just like
going to a museum. There's a stuffed crocodile, and a mummied cat, and
a horrid lizard in a bottle, and some snake skins, and a locust, and a
scorpion, and a whole case of lovely butterflies. He tells us about
them sometimes, and where he found them."
"I hope he'll show them to us to-day," said Sylvia, who thought the
collection sounded interesting.
"I'm sure he will if we ask him," said Linda. "I should like to see
them again myself, especially the crocodile. He has a big cabinet full
of little drawers, and he keeps curiosities in them from every place
he's been to. There's one with nothing but shells, and another for
corals, and a third for coins, and the rest are each for a separate
country. He's very careful over them; he won't let us take anything
out ourselves, or even handle some of them, he's so afraid they might
get broken. Still, it's fun to look, even if we mayn't touch."
"I expect it's a thousand times nicer than my museum at home," said
Sylvia, "though I have a cabinet in the schoolroom."
"I haven't seen your museum yet, so I can't say, but I'm sure you'll
enjoy Dr. Severn's. We've been to tea twice before, and each time
we've had raspberry sandwich and plumcake and little crisp cocoanut
biscuits. I hope the housekeeper will make them to-day. There's always
the most delicious apricot jam, too, and he hands round a big jug of
cream, and tells us to help ourselves. Then there's a horizontal bar
in the garden that the boys love; they do some of the things on it
that they learn in the gymnasium at school; and there's a tank with
pink water lilies growing in it, only I don't think they'll be out
just yet. I'm so glad he's asked us to-day, because I want you to go
and see it all."
"What a good thing Miss Coleman managed to put that clean dress in my
bag!" said Sylvia. "What should I have done without it? I got this in
quite a mess yesterday."
"I should have had to lend you one of my white muslins, and I'm sure
they'll be too short for me this year, so they would be far too small
for you; you're an inch taller than I am, though you're so much
thinner. We're both to wear our sailor hats. Mother said I couldn't
put on my last year's Sunday summer one if you hadn't your best with
you, and of course it isn't a party."
The invitation was for four o'clock, and by half-past three Mrs.
Marshall had succeeded in getting the prospective guests into what she
considered a sufficient state of tidiness for the occasion.
It was about twenty minutes' walk to Dale Side, a pretty modern
bungalow which had been built by an English gentleman with a leaning
towards the picturesque, and who had therefore chosen the site to
secure the most beautiful views, and had made the interior as artistic
as his excellent taste could devise. After living there a few years,
the owner, on account of his wife's health, had gone to reside in
Italy, and the little property had been on sale until the preceding
summer, when it had been purchased, together with a few acres of land,
by Dr. Severn, who was a newcomer to the neighbourhood. Though he was
therefore only a comparative stranger, the young Marshalls already
regarded the kindly doctor as a friend, and it was with very smiling
faces that they rang his bell that afternoon.
"I saw you arriving," cried their host, hastening to the door himself
to meet them. "I was just looking out for you, and hoping you would
come soon to interrupt a tiresome letter I felt obliged to write. Now
I'm justified in putting it off for an hour or two at any rate.
Linda's quite shocked at me! But I didn't say I wouldn't finish it
afterwards, did I? Shall we go straight through to the pine wood? I've
had the table carried out there for tea. It's the coolest place we can
find on a hot day."
By the time she had known him ten minutes, Sylvia had decided that she
liked Dr. Severn immensely. He was a tall, rather gaunt man, with a
thin, pale, clean-shaven face that bore traces of ill health or
suffering in the hollow cheeks and the lines around the mouth; his
hair was iron grey, rather long, and combed straight back from his
broad forehead, and he had the brightest, keenest, pleasantest blue
eyes that it was possible to imagine. His manner was so winning and
jolly that he made everybody feel at home immediately. He seemed to
know exactly the subjects about which boys and girls liked to talk,
and to be able to enter into everything almost as if he were a boy
himself. The four visitors soon found themselves chatting to him
perfectly freely, telling him of school scrapes and adventures, of
plans for the summer holidays, and asking his opinion on various
disputed points, while he, in turn, was full of jokes and
reminiscences of his own far-off schooldays.
"Never save the best till last!" he declared, handing round the cake
long before the plates of bread and butter were finished. "I've kept
to that motto ever since I was a small boy, and I had very good reason
for adopting it. Once, when I was a little fellow of about seven years
old, I was taken to pay a visit to an old lady who lived in the
country. Children were brought up on the plainest fare in those
days--porridge, and bread and milk, roast beef or mutton with
potatoes, rice pudding or suet dumpling, with jam roly-poly, as a
special treat on your birthday, was all that was considered good for
us; so you can imagine I felt pleased when I saw a large pudding full
of currants come on to the table at dinner-time. The old lady gave me
a generous serving, and told me to help myself to as much sugar as I
liked with it, assuring my mother that sweet things were necessary for
children, a sentiment with which I cordially agreed then, whatever
opinions my elders might hold. There were a great many currants in my
slice of pudding, and it struck me how much nicer they would taste if
I could eat them all together as a titbit at the last; so I picked
them carefully out one by one, and put them to the side of my plate. I
suppose it must have taken me rather a long time, or perhaps the
others had smaller helpings; at any rate they had finished first, and
all laid down their spoons and forks except myself. I gulped my last
piece of pudding in a hurry, and was just going to enjoy my saved-up
fruit, when the old lady, who had been watching me, said: "Poor boy!
Isn't he fond of currants? Leave them, my dear; I would never force a
child to eat what it doesn't like," adding a direction to the servant
to take my plate away. I had had tremendous warnings before I came
about behaving myself properly, and also I was much too shy to
protest, so I was obliged to watch my cherished currants being whisked
from the table before I had been able to taste a single one of them.
If I had ever been inclined to be miserly, I think this incident would
have cured me of hoarding up riches."
"What a shame! Didn't you get anything instead?" asked Artie.
"Not at dinner, but afterwards the old lady, who was a very kind soul,
took me into her kitchen garden, and told me to eat as many ripe
gooseberries as I liked. There were various sorts, big red ones, hairy
yellow ones, and smooth green ones, and I'm sure I ate enough to make
up amply for what I missed at pudding time. As far as I recollect I
never stopped picking the whole afternoon. Small boys can accommodate
a great deal."
"I don't think gooseberries do one any harm," said Artie. "We eat
simply loads. We each sit down beside a bush, and try who can make the
biggest pile of skins. Mother says the blackbirds would take them if
we didn't."
"I'm glad she doesn't make a fuss about it, as some people do," said
Linda. "I was so angry last summer. A lady came one afternoon to see
us, and brought a horrid little girl with her called Mona. Mother told
me to take this child into the kitchen garden and give her some fruit,
so I marched her off, and, just as we were leaving the drawing-room,
her mother called out: "You may have eight strawberries and twelve
gooseberries, darling, but no more." She was very stupid, and wouldn't
talk to me, so I kept picking the ripest and biggest strawberries and
gooseberries I could find, and handing them to her. I never thought of
counting them, but she suddenly went quite red, and said she wouldn't
have any more. She'd hardly look at the chickens or the rabbits or
anything I tried to show her, and I was very glad indeed when it was
time for her to go home. Her mother came to fetch her from the garden,
and said: 'Did you eat more than I told you, dear?' and Mona said: 'No
I didn't. This little girl tried very hard to make me, but I wouldn't
take even one strawberry more. Wasn't I good?'
"The lady looked at me as if she thought I deserved smacking, but I
couldn't explain, because she was just shaking hands with Mother and
saying goodbye. I've felt cross about it ever since, and if she brings
Mona again, I declare I'll run away and hide, and not take her into
the garden at all. Don't you think it was too bad?"
"Much too bad!" said Dr. Severn. "I think Mona was what is called a
prig. Please go on with the cocoanut biscuits. I assure you I'm not
counting them!"
"I really couldn't eat another," said Linda, "though they're very
delicious. Aren't you going to show us any of your curiosities in the
house? You promised you would, and Sylvia does so want to see them."
"A promise is a promise," replied Dr. Severn, rising from his basket
chair. "But in the meantime I think I see Mr. Richards coming through
the garden in search of us. I wonder if he's had any tea."
Mr. Richards was the curate, and a great favourite with Oswald and
Artie; he was an athletic young fellow, fresh from College, and always
ready to go skating or boating, or to play a game of cricket with
them, or carry them off with him to the golf links. He declared now
that he had already had tea, but was longing for a little exercise on
Dr. Severn's horizontal bar, where he thought he could show the boys a
feat or two which perhaps they had not yet learnt at school. Oswald
and Artie rushed away with him at once, and, flinging off their coats,
were soon vying with each other in swinging, circling, hanging by
their legs or feet, and various other acrobatic performances that
looked exceedingly warm work for a hot day, but which seemed to afford
them the most immense satisfaction. Dr. Severn stood by and encouraged
them to do their best, then, after watching for a short time, left
them with Mr. Richards, and took Linda and Sylvia into the house.
"You'll be getting tired of circus and would rather have museum for a
change, I expect," he said. "I'll show you all my curios, and then you
shall each choose something for me to tell you about."
The study was a delightful little room, with a French window opening
into the garden. One side was quite filled by a large Japanese cabinet
with many sliding cupboards and drawers. Linda certainly had not
exaggerated the number of wonderful things which it contained. There
were treasures from Egypt, from Palestine, from India, from China, and
from Japan. Wherever the doctor had travelled he seemed to have picked
up some object of interest, and to examine the various drawers was
like taking a peep into far countries. He allowed Linda and Sylvia to
dress themselves up in some of the gorgeous silk scarves and sashes,
to slip on the Japanese kimonos, and put their feet into the Turkish
slippers.
"I think I like the Indian things best; they smell the nicest," said
Linda, snuffing at a sandalwood box, and trying the effect of some
filagree ornaments on her own hair and Sylvia's. "How grand the women
must look in these! No, I shouldn't like to wear the nose ring, thank
you, nor the earrings, though I'd love the bangles. They must have
tiny wrists. I can only just push these over my hands. Aren't they
meant for a child?"
"No," replied Dr. Severn, "they are really for a grown-up woman, but
the people of all Eastern nations have very small hands compared with
us Westerns. If you like the scent of sandalwood, what do you think
of this? It comes from the vale of Kashmir." He drew the stopper from
a bottle of attar of roses as he spoke.
The odour was so deliciously sweet and overpowering that it filled the
whole room.
"It's the true stuff," said the doctor, "not the wretched imitation
which is often sold over here. Now if I put a drop on each of your
pocket handkerchiefs it will scent all your clothes for a
twelve-month. Where are they?"
"It's lucky they're clean ones," said Sylvia, rummaging in her pocket.
"I shall keep mine in my drawer after this, and not send it to the
wash, ever. It's lovelier even than lavender water or eau de Cologne."
"I believe it takes a thousand roses to make one drop of this," said
Dr. Severn, "so you have a great deal of concentrated sweetness there.
This round box comes from Damascus, and I don't think it's quite empty
yet. If you have smelled true attar you ought also to taste genuine
Turkish delight. Open your mouths and shut your eyes, and you'll find
a surprise."
Dressed in the wonderful embroidered garments, with silver ornaments
in their hair, scented with roses, and their mouths full of lumps of
delight, the two little girls felt as if they had wandered into the
land of the Arabian Nights, had been transformed into Eastern
princesses, and had only to command a slave of the lamp to come
forward and carry out their slightest desire.
"It's simply lovely," said Linda. "I never tasted anything so nice in
my life before. I think you're a magician, and can carry us off to
Persia, or India, or anywhere with a wave of your wand. But please,
you promised to tell us each a story about something, and you haven't
done so yet."
"Because you haven't chosen a 'something'," said Dr. Severn; "say what
you'd like, and I'll try to wave my magic wand."
"Then I'll have this funny little tassel of blue beads."
"That's a charm against the evil eye," said the doctor. "I got it in
Cairo. The Mohammedan mothers believe many people, especially
strangers, to be possessed of most uncanny powers, and think that if
they look very hard at their babies they can bewitch them, and cause
them to catch various diseases, and even to die. To avert the evil
they put charms on the children, and you may see a tiny boy with his
head shaved, all except a long lock which hangs over his eyes with one
of these bead talismans dangling at the end. The charms are always
blue, because that is considered the magical colour. The people are
very dark themselves, so they are terrified at the sight of an
Englishman with eyes of the dreaded shade; they are quite sure he must
be a desperately bad character, and it is safer to keep out of his
path. When I have been in the East, I have often seen mothers turn
their babies away lest my glance should fall on them. It is considered
very unlucky also to praise a child, and its parents, even though they
may be extremely rich, will sometimes let it look dirty and neglected
for fear anyone might happen to admire it."
"You can't bewitch me!" cried Linda. "I've got the talisman safe in my
hand!"
"I didn't say I was admiring you, did I?" laughed the doctor. "Though
these gorgeous robes are certainly very becoming."
"You're a true magician. I shall be frightened of you now. Is that all
you can tell me about my 'something'?"
"I'm afraid I know no more."
"Then, Sylvia, it's your turn."
"May I choose exactly what I want?" asked Sylvia.
"Certainly you may," replied Dr. Severn.
"Then I'd like to hear the story of that little carved ivory locket
that's hanging on your watch-chain. It looks like a charm too."
A spasm of pain crossed the doctor's face at Sylvia's words, but he
recovered himself in a moment.
"That would not interest you, dear child," he said gravely. "It is not
a curiosity such as the other things I have shown you."
"It's a charm, though, isn't it?" asked Sylvia. "I've been noticing it
all the afternoon. It's so exactly like another I've seen."
"That could hardly be," said Dr. Severn. "This carving has no
duplicate."
"But I know one that's its own twin," persisted Sylvia. "It's the same
size and shape, and has the same carving on it, these little
three-cornered kind of leaves round the edge, and these marks like
queer letters in the middle. I couldn't possibly forget it."
"Where did you see it?" enquired Linda.
"It's the Chinese charm that they found tied round Mercy's neck when
she was brought to the hospital. She showed it me one Sunday evening,
and I held it in my hand and looked at it so carefully."
"Where did your friend get her charm?" asked Dr. Severn quickly.
"It was fastened round her neck when she was a baby. A Chinese woman
crawled with her to the hospital, because she was so wounded she was
dying. Not Mercy, I mean, but the poor woman. Mercy wasn't hurt at
all. They adopted her at the hospital, and then she was brought to
England, and came to Miss Kaye's, but nobody's ever found out yet who
she is. Isn't it just like a storybook?" said Sylvia, who loved to
bring forward the romantic side of her friend's history.
"How long ago is it since this happened?" enquired Dr. Severn with a
curious strained tone in his voice which neither of the children
noticed.
"About sixteen years. Mercy is nearly seventeen."
"Is that her true name?"
"No. Nobody knew her real name, so they called her Mercy Ingledew. She
had on Chinese clothes, and the nurse thought the locket must be a
Chinese charm too. She hadn't a single English thing that anyone could
tell her by. Wasn't it a pity?"
"A great pity, if her friends are alive to claim her."
"We don't know whether they are or not," said Sylvia. "I'm always
trying to find them, but Miss Kaye says I'm not to talk to Mercy about
it, because it's no use to keep raising false hopes, and we must all
be very kind to her, to make up for her not having a father and
mother of her own. It's funny her little charm should be just the same
as yours, though, isn't it? Did this one come from China too? I should
have liked a story about it."
"Some other day, perhaps," said Dr. Severn, rising hastily and walking
to the window. "Let us go out and find the boys. The sky looks so
threatening, I'm afraid there's a thunderstorm brewing, and I had
better send you home before it begins."
"We must take off our wonderful clothes, then," said Linda, beginning
to untwist the scarves and put away the Turkish slippers. "Goodbye,
dear sandalwood box! How I love the smell of you!"
"Keep the box if you like," said Dr. Severn briefly, "and you, Sylvia,
the bottle of attar. I don't want either. Come, children, I'm sorry to
hurry you, but I don't want you to be caught in the rain. Get your
hats, and Mr. Richards will see you home on his way to Craigwen."
CHAPTER XVII
The Sketching Class
Linda and Sylvia had a great many experiences to relate to the other
girls when they returned to Heathercliffe House, and as they were the
only ones in the class who had been away for the few days, they were
able to enjoy a position of much importance until their adventures
were all told. Nothing particular seemed to have happened during their
absence. Brenda had broken her bedroom jug, Connie had fallen against
the mowing machine and her forehead was ornamented with large strips
of sticking plaster which did not improve her personal appearance, and
Dolly had locked the door of the book cupboard in the Kindergarten
room and lost the key, much to Miss Coleman's wrath. Otherwise there
were no events worth chronicling.
"Unless you'd like to hear that I've made a fresh copy of my Greek
history notes," said Marian. "They're most beautifully neat, and
underlined with red ink. I'm sure Miss Kaye'll say they're better than
anybody else's."
But as both Linda and Sylvia declared that did not interest them in
the least, Marian's piece of information fell rather flat.
All the girls seemed to find it a little difficult to settle into
harness again after the short holiday. The weather was warm, and in
spite of open windows the schoolrooms were apt to feel close and
stuffy. Miss Arkwright tried the plan of holding her class under the
big hawthorn in the garden, but she found that a bird singing in the
tree, a bumble bee settling on a flower, or a butterfly flitting
across the lawn was enough to put dates and rivers completely out of
her pupils' minds, and to wipe even their best-known facts from their
memories, so she did not repeat her experiment.
"In our grandmothers' days schools always had their holidays in June,"
said Sylvia, yawning, as she idly picked the heads off the daisies on
the lawn one afternoon. "They broke up just when the hot weather
begins, and then they had all the lovely time when the evenings are so
long and you can be out-of-doors until bedtime, and the strawberries
are ripe, and they're cutting the hay. I think it was far nicer. We
don't break up till the 31st of July."
"Yes, but remember they'd have the whole of August at school," said
Marian. "Think of having to come back just at the time when everyone's
going away now to the seaside. And what an enormous term it would make
till Christmas!"
"They had quarters then," said Sylvia, "and a little holiday at
Michaelmas, like the Easter one."
"I don't believe children went home from boarding-schools for it
though. If you read old-fashioned books you will notice that the boys
always talk of 'a half' as if they stayed from Midsummer to Christmas,
and from Christmas to Midsummer again. It must have seemed such a
long while."
"I think it must have been perfectly horrible to go to school then,"
said Nina Forster. "My grandmother tells me stories about when she was
a little girl, and I should have hated it. They had to learn their
lessons off by heart, and stand with their hands behind their backs
and say them just like parrots, and if they forgot or made a mistake
the governess rapped them on the head with her thimble. She called it
'thimble pie'. It used to make them too nervous to remember things."
"How nasty of her! What else did they do?" asked the girls, who liked
to be told tales while they lounged.
"They had to use backboards every day, and chest expanders. Then they
had much plainer food than we have, and they were obliged to finish up
every morsel upon their plates; they mightn't leave anything. They
always had brown bread except on Sundays, and rice puddings nearly
every day. They hardly ever went picnics or excursions; they only used
to go for stupid walks along the roads, two and two, with a mistress
at each end. The music teacher had a silver pencil with a heavy knob
at the end, and if a girl played a wrong note she used to bring it
down with a thump upon her hand. Granny says it made her hate music.
Then they mightn't send letters home without the headmistress seeing
them, and she used to make them write the most absurd rubbish, so that
they weren't their own letters at all. Granny had her twelfth
birthday at school, and when she wrote to thank her father for his
present the governess insisted on her putting: 'Now that I have
attained to my twelfth year I feel I am no longer a child, and must
put away childish things'. Wasn't it stupid? They used to write the
most beautiful hand, though, far, far neater than ours, but they took
a fearfully long time over it. They'd spend a week at an exercise that
we do in a day. The teachers were very strict and very cross, and
there seemed to be so many punishments--being sent to bed, and being
kept in, and learning long columns of spelling. Granny says girls are
spoilt now, but I know I'd rather go to Miss Kaye's than to the school
she was at."
"I should think so," said the others; "I don't believe any other could
be really nicer than this."
"I sometimes wish I'd gone to a different one, though," said Jessie
Ellis.
"Why?"
"Because my three cousins were here, and they're so tremendously
clever. It's rather hard when you're not very bright yourself, and the
teachers keep saying: 'You mean to tell me you can't learn this, and
you an Ellis!' I think they must have taken my share of the brains in
the family. At any rate it's not quite fair to blame me because I
can't do everything they did. Ethel won a scholarship for Newnham, and
I never even scrape through the easiest class exam as a rule. I don't
care much. Mother says I must be a home girl and like sewing. I'm glad
I don't get my pocket money by my marks."
"Oh, but does anybody?"
"Yes, I knew a girl who did. Her father gave her sixpence every week
she was top, and nothing at all if she was lower than halfway in the
class. He said it was to make her work."
"Before I came to school I used to get my pocket money for doing
things," said Brenda. "I had a penny for every hour I practised, so if
I wanted to save up I used to do a little extra at the piano; then
there was a penny a week for wearing my gloves, and another penny for
using the back stairs, and a halfpenny for eating salt, and another
halfpenny if I remembered to wipe my boots. I rather liked it."
"I don't think it was nice at all," declared Marian. "It was bribing
you to do what you ought to have done in any case."
"Yes, so it was," echoed Gwennie. "We always wipe our boots."
"Oh, you two are perfect, of course!" said Brenda. "You never do
anything wrong! What about that French book which was lost last week?"
"It wasn't my fault or Gwennie's either," said Marian, rising and
putting an end to a conversation which threatened to become too
personal. "Somebody must have borrowed it without asking us. I'm going
in now to learn my verbs." And she departed, leaving the others
laughing, for poor Marian did not always succeed in living entirely
according to her excellent precepts and "Practice what you preach" is
a motto held in high estimation by schoolgirls.
Though ordinary lessons in the garden had proved a failure, Miss Kaye
made a new departure by arranging that Mr. Dawson, the drawing master,
should organize a sketching class, to include those of his pupils whom
he considered sufficiently advanced to benefit by outdoor instruction.
It was mostly composed of girls from the first and second classes, but
Marian, Linda, and Sylvia had done such good work in the studio that
Mr. Dawson decided he would allow them to commence drawing from nature,
and to their great delight they were permitted to join the party. They
felt almost like artists as they set off with camp stools, sketching
blocks, pencils, indiarubbers, paintboxes and water tins, and were
installed under their master's direction beneath the shade of a hedge
to make a valiant attempt at reproducing a picturesque gate and a
gnarled oak tree which overhung it. It was a great deal more difficult
than they had at first imagined. The bars of the gate were puzzling,
and the oak tree somehow refused to turn out a tree at all, and was
inclined to bear more resemblance to a lamp-post or a telegraph pole.
"It may be better when we get some colour on," said Sylvia hopefully.
"Everyone will know the brown part is meant for the trunk and the
green part for leaves."
"My gate looks as if I'd been playing naughts and crosses on my
paper," sighed Linda. "I've rubbed it out seven times, and I'm afraid
it's not straight now. The paper's quite spoilt. It'll be horrid when
I begin to paint."
"We can't expect to do very much the first time, I suppose," said
Marian. "My tree looks like a cabbage on a broomstick. I can lend you
my indiarubber if you want it to clean up with. It's a softer one than
yours. I want to get to the painting part and yet I'm afraid to
begin."
"So am I," said Linda. "I don't know what Mr. Dawson will say when he
sees the muddle I've made of this gate. Here he comes now."
The master must certainly have found the little girl's work far from
talented, but, taking her seat, he made a patient effort to correct
the mistakes in her drawing, adding a clever line or two of his own to
show her how it ought to be done, then with a word of encouragement to
Marian and Sylvia he passed on to some of his elder pupils.
The painting did not prove such a redeeming feature as Sylvia had
anticipated. Her sky refused to go on smoothly, and, as she was in too
great a hurry to let it dry properly before she commenced her tree,
the edges ran into each other hopelessly, producing an effect that was
perhaps too impressionistic for most tastes. The trunk of the tree
would not appear round, and the branches had an uncomfortable
suggestion of signposts, and she could not get the right colour for
the grass, and found the shadows absolutely baffling.
"It's a perfect daub," she cried, flinging down her brush as Mercy
came round presently to see how they were getting on.
"So's mine, I'm afraid," said Mercy. "You may see it if you like, but
it's hardly worth looking at. I'm letting it dry before I touch it any
more. It was getting into such a dreadful mess. Sketching from nature
isn't at all easy. I think Mr. Dawson's extremely clever to paint
such lovely things. You should see the sweet little bit he put in for
Trissie Knowles. It seems no trouble to him."
"I wish you'd do a piece for me, Mercy," said Linda.
"Oh, I daren't! Mr. Dawson would find it out directly, and perhaps he
mightn't like it. May Spencer's sketch is far the best of anybody's.
She just dashed it off, and it looks so nice. Helen Ward let her sky
dry in patches, and Mr. Dawson had to take her board to the stream and
dip it in the water to wash it off again. We're doing the cottage, you
know, round the corner, and when Sybil Lake had painted all the front
of hers she discovered she'd left out one of the windows."
"Who's this coming along the road?" interrupted Marian. "He's smiling
at one of us, I'm sure. I don't know him. Do you?"
"Dr. Severn!" cried Linda and Sylvia, and, springing up, they put
their sketching materials on the grass and hurried to meet him.
"Good afternoon! This is quite a surprise to me," said the doctor. "I
didn't expect to find my two little friends suddenly blossoming into
full-blown artists. I hope I'm not interrupting a lesson."
"Oh, no! We're all waiting for Mr. Dawson to come round and tell us
what to do next," said Linda. "Where are you going, Doctor? Won't you
sit down and talk for a minute? Please have my camp stool."
"It's a big surprise to us," added Sylvia. "We didn't know you ever
came to Aberglyn."
"I find myself here to-day," said Dr. Severn. "Thank you, Linda, but
I'm afraid I should break down your little seat if I were to put my
weight on it. There's a convenient stump here which will do very well.
Now you can imagine I'm an art critic, and show me some of the
masterpieces. I see both your friends are painting, also," he
continued, smiling at Mercy and Marian. "Will they let me look at
their pictures too?"
Dr. Severn was always at his ease with young people; his pleasant blue
eyes and genial manner seemed to attract them at once; and he had soon
added Mercy and Marian to the list of his admirers.
"I used to do a little sketching myself once," he said when he had
duly inspected the four studies and sympathized with their owners'
difficulties, "so I know how much harder it is than it looks,
particularly when one's a beginner. I found many quaint corners to
paint when I was abroad, especially in China and Japan."
"China! Were you ever in China?" asked Mercy with some eagerness.
"I was stationed in Szu-chwan for more than twenty years," replied Dr.
Severn.
"Do you know the Ingledew Hospital at Tsien-Lou?"
"I have heard of it, but I've never been there. I was in a different
district, and the distances were great and travelling often
dangerous."
"I wish you'd seen it," said Mercy wistfully. "I lived there for six
years, and I still write to Dr. and Mrs. Harrison and to Sister
Grace."
"Their names are well known, though I have not had the good fortune
to meet them personally," answered Dr. Severn, gazing steadily at
Mercy with a strange look in his blue eyes. "Can you remember much of
your life in China?"
"Not a great deal. I was only seven when I left and there has been
nobody to talk to me about it and remind me. I haven't forgotten the
narrow streets and the crowds of people in strange dresses who used to
be walking about in them, nor our garden at the hospital with the
camellias, and the high wall round it. I remember the little mission
church, too, where we had service on Sundays. It was all in Chinese,
but I could speak it then quite easily. I couldn't understand a single
word now."
"Do you know Chinese, Doctor?" asked Linda.
"Very well," replied Dr. Severn, "though it took me many years of hard
study to learn it. It's the most difficult language in the world."
"Worse than French?"
"Fifty times worse!"
"I shouldn't think it was worth the trouble."
"There were reasons which made me consider it worth any amount of
trouble. I wished to talk to the people, and as they couldn't
understand my speech I was forced to learn theirs."
"Were they pleased?"
"Some of them were grateful, some of them didn't care, and some were
very angry with me. I was like the man who sowed the seed. I had to
fling it everywhere, no matter what ground it fell on."
"And can you write Chinese characters too?" asked Marian.
"A little, but not so well as I can talk. Here comes your drawing
teacher. I'm afraid he'll think I'm encouraging you to be idle.
Goodbye for the present! You may very likely see me again before the
day is over."
"I wonder what Dr. Severn talked to the people about in China!" said
Sylvia, as she watched his retreating figure walking briskly away down
the road. "It must have been something very important to make him take
so much trouble."
"I think I can guess," said Mercy softly, as she picked up her
half-finished sketch and ran back to her easel in time for the
master's criticism.
CHAPTER XVIII
Dr. Severn Explains
Linda and Sylvia had been much delighted at their unexpected meeting
with the owner of Dale Side, and could talk of nothing else during
tea. You may judge, therefore, Sylvia's astonishment and interest
when, on passing the drawing-room shortly before preparation hour, she
caught a glimpse of Dr. Severn seated there engaged in earnest
conversation with Miss Kaye. The drawing-room was forbidden ground to
the girls, so, after one hasty glance, Sylvia was on the point of
hurrying away, and had already reached the bottom of the stairs when
Miss Kaye called to her.
"Come in, my dear," said the mistress, as Sylvia timidly presented
herself, not certain whether she had done anything wrong or not, "come
in, and close the door after you."
Dr. Severn smiled and held out his hand, and Sylvia went and stood by
his side, feeling sure now that whatever was the matter she was not
going to be scolded.
"It was Sylvia and not Linda who spoke of it?" enquired Miss Kaye; "I
believe you said Sylvia?"
"I did," replied Dr. Severn. "She mentioned that her schoolfellow had
shown it to her. It may, of course, be merely a coincidence, but it
seems worth investigating, and I should greatly like to see it."
"What are they talking about?" Sylvia wondered, glancing from one to
another to try and read the answer in their faces. She could not
understand the conversation at all, nor connect it with anything that
had occurred. Miss Kaye, however, soon enlightened her.
"You told Dr. Severn, Sylvia, that Mercy Ingledew had shown you a
carved ivory locket which was tied round her neck when she was found
at the hospital in China. I was not aware that Mercy possessed it, and
I have never seen it myself. Can you describe it?"
"It was just the same as the one Dr. Severn has," answered Sylvia. "It
was seeing his that made me think of Mercy's. They are both exactly
alike."
"You are absolutely sure?"
"Quite! It was small and beautifully carved, with little leaves round
the edge and funny letters in the middle. I thought it must be meant
for a locket, only it won't open."
"As you say, it is certainly a remarkable coincidence," said Miss
Kaye, turning to Dr. Severn. "I am very anxious not to distress the
poor girl needlessly, but I think we are justified in looking into the
matter. Sylvia, will you go and find Mercy, and tell her quietly that
I wish to speak to her in the drawing-room, and ask her to bring this
locket with her. Do not try to explain anything, and do not let any of
the other girls hear you. I would rather they did not know about it."
Sylvia left the room in a whirl of excitement. Something was going to
happen. Of that she was sure. Did Dr. Severn, who had been in China
himself, know anything about Mercy's relations? The idea was so
overwhelming and so delightful that it almost took her breath away.
Ever since she had first heard Mercy's story she had been hoping that
some clue might be found to her parentage, and that at last they were
on a right track seemed absolutely too good to be true. She found her
friend reading in the garden, and was able to give her message as
briefly and quietly as Miss Kaye had desired. Mercy rose at once, and,
asking no questions, went to her bedroom to fetch the locket, then,
rejoining Sylvia, who had waited for her at the foot of the stairs,
she took the child's hand and walked into the drawing-room. It was a
moment of intense anxiety for all.
"Mercy dear," began Miss Kaye, after a moment's pause, as if she
hardly knew how to open the subject, "we had agreed that it was wiser
not to speak about the events which occurred in the first year of your
life, but I am going to break through my rule to-day. Dr. Severn, whom
you met this afternoon, believes that he can throw some light upon
your early history, and even solve the mystery of your birth. From
what he tells me a very strange chain of circumstances has led him to
make enquiries, and it seems more than probable that you may learn
something at last. Try and calm yourself, my dear child, and let Dr.
Severn look at the locket which you have brought."
Poor Mercy was trembling with agitation. Was her long-deferred hope
at length to be realized? Ever since she had been old enough to notice
the difference between herself and other girls, she had looked forward
to this, at first with eager expectation, but latterly as a dream
never likely to be fulfilled and only leading to perpetual
disappointment. All the cherished castles in the air which she had
striven so bravely to put away from her, all the longing and yearning
which she had so often felt for those unknown parents of her infancy,
all the grief, the solitude, and the shrinking sense of her lonely
position rose up in renewed force as, with shaking fingers, she laid
her Chinese charm in the doctor's outstretched hand.
Dr. Severn had removed his own locket from his watch chain, and he now
placed the two side by side on the table.
"You observe, Miss Kaye," he said, "that they are so exactly alike
that it would be impossible to tell them apart, but when they are
together you may notice that there is a slight difference in the
characters which form the centre. To one unacquainted with Chinese it
is perhaps hardly perceptible, but if you had any knowledge of the
written language it could not fail to strike you. This, however, is
only one of the minor points. I have still to make the great test."
He took his own locket in his hand and pressed a secret spring. It
opened, disclosing inside a small coloured photograph of a lady with a
sweet face and fair hair, at which he asked both Miss Kaye and Mercy
to look carefully. He then lifted the other locket from the table.
"If, as I believe, this is the true duplicate," he said, "the spring
will be here, and it will open like its fellow."
The three spectators held their breath. Sylvia was white as a ghost,
and Miss Kaye put her arm round Mercy to prevent her from falling. One
swift pressure of the doctor's thumb, and the charm had flown open,
revealing an exact facsimile of the former portrait. Dr. Severn placed
the pair side by side again upon the table and turned to Mercy.
"You did not know its secret?" he asked. "How could you when there was
no one to show you the tiny catch? You have seen that the pictures in
the two lockets are of the same person? In mine it is of my beloved
wife, and in yours it is the portrait of your mother. Yes, Mercy, you
are indeed my daughter, given back, as it seems to me, from the dead,
and after all these years of our separation I claim you thus through
the memory of one by whom we were both held equally dear!"
"So you're really Dr. Severn's own daughter! It's almost too nice to
believe!" exclaimed Sylvia a few minutes later, when Mercy, with an
April face, half-smiles and half-tears, kissed her and thanked her for
her share in bringing about her new-found happiness.
"It is true nevertheless," replied Dr. Severn. "The locket has removed
every shadow of doubt. There is still, however, a great deal to be
explained, and with Miss Kaye's permission I will relate both how I
lost my child and why I had apparently made no effort to recover her.
It is a long story, but for a full understanding of the facts of the
case it is necessary for me to begin at the beginning.
"It is now more than twenty years ago that, having obtained my degree
as a doctor of medicine, and held appointments at various hospitals in
London and the provinces, I determined to devote myself to the mission
field, and sailed for China. I was appointed head of the medical
mission at Tsi-chin in the canton of Szu-chwan, and on arrival there I
bade goodbye to Western civilization. In those days the people of
China were even more ignorant and fanatical than they are now. The
prejudice against Europeans was intense, and for a long time our best
efforts seemed thrown away. I should have been very disappointed and
down-hearted if it had not been for the cheery hopeful courage of my
wife, who had given up an easy life in England to help the cause, and
whose work among the Chinese women was the beginning of the ultimate
success which attended our mission.
"The very first to become a Christian was a woman named Lao-ya, and
through her we found access to numerous houses, the doors of which had
been formerly closed against us. Our small church began to grow. Many
who came to the hospital as patients would listen to our story of the
Great Physician, and tell it again in their own homes.
"I wish I could describe to you our life in that strange inland
Chinese city. We were hundreds of miles from Hong-Kong, which was the
nearest British settlement, and travelling was so difficult and so
slow that it took many weeks to reach the coast, and was both
fatiguing and dangerous. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could
in the house, half-Chinese, half-European, which had been built under
my directions, and we tried to grow English seeds in our garden to
remind us of the home we had left.
"Three children were born to us, a boy named Edmund, and twin girls
whom we christened Mary and Una, and, though we were so far away from
our own native land, we managed to be a very happy little household.
The woman Lao-ya was our nurse, and as devoted to the babies as if
they had been her own. She would never leave them for an instant, and
no trouble seemed too great for her to take on their behalf.
"Among the more earnest members of our church was a man called
Kan-Sou, who was a very clever carver of ivories, an art in which the
Chinese excel. I had been able to cure his wife of a painful disease,
and he was anxious to give me a present of some of his own work. One
day, therefore, he brought me two small lockets which he had made
specially for my two little girls. The exquisite threefold tracery of
the border was intended, so he said, as a symbol of the doctrine of
the Trinity; on one side was the Chinese equivalent for 'Good Luck',
and on the other, also in Chinese characters, the names Mary and Una.
He had contrived a secret spring by which the lockets would open, and
had carved inside the date of the children's baptism, the entire
Western part of the idea being copied from a trinket we possessed in
the house, which Lao-ya had once shown him, though his rendering of it
was wholly Eastern. As I found there was sufficient space in each to
contain a portrait, I inserted two small photographs of my wife which
I had taken myself, and coloured, and, to show our appreciation of his
kindness, we tied his gifts round the babies' necks with pieces of
ribbon. I believe poor Lao-ya must have considered them to be some
kind of Christian charm, for she would never allow them to be taken
off, and always treated them as if they were objects of veneration.
"All this time the people of Tsi-chin, though regarding us with
extreme suspicion, had never yet proved themselves to be absolutely
hostile. When the twins were nearly a year old, however, we began to
notice a marked change in the demeanour of the townsfolk, both towards
us and the Mission. Ugly rumours reached us of riots in other cities,
and cruelties the very mention of which was enough to fill one with
horror. There was an epidemic of disease among the natives, caused by
their own dirt and ignorance of the common laws of health, and many of
their priests had spread the report that it had been introduced by the
foreigners for the purpose of reducing their numbers, and thus
enabling the British to conquer their country, and that all true
patriots must rise and destroy the source of the evil. This dangerous
doctrine spread rapidly, and the news filled me with the greatest
uneasiness. I hesitated long whether I ought to take my wife and
children to the coast, but I decided that the danger among the
strangers whom we should be forced to encounter on our long journey
was even greater than that of remaining in the place where we had
cured many sick people and could certainly count upon obtaining help
from at least a few of them.
"I shall never forget one spring morning, now sixteen years ago. The
town seemed quiet, and our fears had been somewhat lulled to rest. I
had finished my work in the hospital, and went into our garden, where
my wife was sitting sewing beside our three little ones as they played
with their nurse under a blossoming tree. I stood for a moment
watching the pretty picture they made, the three little rosy English
faces in contrast to Lao-ya's almond eyes and smooth black tresses,
the gay background of flowers, the pagodas of the temple in the city
beyond standing out against the brilliant blue sky, and the bright
sunshine which shone on my wife's fair hair and the children's flaxen
heads and turned them all to gold. Well might the scene live in my
memory; it was the last time I was ever to see them thus!
"I had just received an urgent message to attend a mandarin who lived
many miles up in the hills, and who now lay seriously ill and had
expressed a wish to see me. Everything appeared so tranquil that I
thought I might safely leave the Mission for a short period, and I
made preparations to set off at once, taking a few necessary
instruments and drugs with me.
"I was able to relieve my patient, and was about to start for home
when to my anger and surprise I found that I was practically a
prisoner. No violence was offered me, but for several days I was
confined in a room from which there was no possibility of escape, and
in spite of my earnest entreaties my jailer would give me no reason
for this seemingly poor return for my services. At the end of the
fifth day, however, the mandarin sent for me, and, after professing
himself on the road to recovery, informed me that a terrible massacre
of Christians had been taking place, and if he had not afforded me the
safe shelter of his house I must certainly have perished among the
rest. As a mark of his gratitude for my skilled attendance he was now
sending me to the coast with a strong escort which had his orders to
convey me as speedily as they could to Hong-Kong.
"You can imagine my wild alarm at this terrible news, and my anxiety
to reach Tsi-chin to ascertain the fate of the mission and of my
family. The soldiers on the whole were sympathetic fellows, and they
consented to march by the hospital, though they assured me it would be
better for me if I could refrain from doing so.
"I will not attempt to describe to you the scene of desolation which
greeted me. My house was looted and wrecked, both church and schools
were a pile of charred ashes, and all my workers were dead. Not one
seemed to have escaped the general catastrophe. In the ruins of what
had once been my beautiful garden I found my wife lying with our
little Una in her arms and our boy close to her side; they had
evidently been trying to make their escape when they were followed and
murdered by the furious mob. Mary, I had no doubt, had also perished,
together with poor faithful Lao-ya and our other servant, but I could
not search further, as the soldiers, obedient to their master's
orders, tore me away from the terrible scene, and carried me, more
dead than alive, to the coast. There for many months I lay stricken
down with brain fever, and it was not until after more than a year's
rest, spent mostly in Japan, that I was able to take up my work again
in China.
"One of the soldiers, with kindly thoughtfulness, had cut the locket
from little Una's neck and placed it amongst my possessions. Perhaps
he was a father himself, and I think that my grief had touched him. It
contained the only portrait which I now possessed of my wife, and for
this reason I have worn it always upon my watch chain.
"From this account you will readily understand why I made no enquiries
for my other child, believing as I did that it was impossible for her
to have lived. My long illness and subsequent absence prevented my
hearing the story of the foundling at the Ingledew hospital. Perhaps
the news never reached my remote district; at any rate, by the time I
returned it had been forgotten among the many heartrending incidents
of that dreadful uprising. It was no doubt Lao-ya who had managed to
flee with her nursling, though I still cannot understand why she
should have travelled the immense distance from Tsi-chin to Tsien-Lou,
unless she were trying to reach the home of her parents, who, I
understood, came from a different province. Where she was wounded, or
what horrors and cruelties she encountered, we shall never know, since
she paid for her devotion with her life.
"For fourteen years more I remained in the canton of Szu-chwan, then,
owing to my broken health, I was obliged reluctantly to give up my
work there and return to England. The death of an uncle had left me
in easy circumstances, and, finding the climate of North Wales suited
me, I bought Dale Side and settled down there with the intention of
writing a book on the many modern problems of China and its future
development, a subject on which I thought I was competent to express
an opinion.
"It was not until Sylvia spoke of the facsimile of my locket owned by
her schoolfellow, and until she had told me the story of how Mercy was
left at the Ingledew hospital, that it ever occurred to me that it was
possible for my little Mary to have survived the general massacre, and
even then I put the idea aside as romantic and absurd. It haunted me,
however, to such an extent that I determined to go over to Aberglyn
and make a few private enquiries from Miss Kaye on the subject. When I
first saw Mercy I was struck at once by her likeness to my dead wife,
and the locket soon proved to my entire satisfaction that I was not
mistaken in my conjectures. All the dates exactly correspond, and I
think there will now be no difficulty in convincing everybody of her
identity."
"It is indeed a very strange and happy ending to a sad story," said
Miss Kaye, wiping her eyes. "Mercy on her part has gone through a time
of trial which I am sure has done its work in helping to form her
character. She has been much to us in the school, and I could not hand
over a sweeter daughter to a more worthy father."
"Then she is Mary Severn now, instead of Mercy Ingledew!" exclaimed
Sylvia.
"She was baptized Mary," said Dr. Severn. "But we will call her Mercy
still. No fitter name could have been chosen. It was mercy that saved
her life, mercy that preserved her during all the years we were apart,
mercy that brought about our marvellous meeting, and it is mercy that
has given her back to me at last."
CHAPTER XIX
The Prize Giving
All the school was delighted at Mercy's good fortune, but no one more
so than Sylvia. To feel that Dr. Severn's discovery was indirectly due
to herself was an unbounded satisfaction.
"I always wanted so much to discover Mercy's friends," she said to
Linda. "And isn't it strange that when I believed I'd found her mother
it was just a silly mistake, and when I'd really found her father, I
didn't suspect it in the least. I never dreamt of Dr. Severn being a
relation, even when I saw his locket was the same as Mercy's. You see,
Mercy said it was a Chinese charm, so I thought perhaps they were
quite common, like the blue-bead tassel he'd been showing you, and
anybody who'd been in China might have one. Suppose I hadn't come to
stay with you at Whitsuntide, or we hadn't gone to tea that afternoon,
you wouldn't have noticed that locket, because Mercy hadn't shown hers
to you; and if you'd told Dr. Severn about her being found, he'd never
have guessed it was his own Mary. I don't think anything you could
have offered me in the whole world would have made me gladder than
this!"
There was only one flaw in Sylvia's happiness. Mercy, who was now
seventeen, was to leave Heathercliffe House to be mistress of Dale
Side. Both Miss Kaye and Dr. Severn thought her right place was with
her father, and that her schooldays might fitly come to a close.
"I couldn't part from her again," said the doctor, "not even to send
her to so short a distance as Aberglyn. We've still to learn to know
each other, and the more we're in each other's company the better. I
can arrange for visiting masters to give her lessons in painting and
music, but she's such a tall girl, I feel she's almost a woman, and
will soon begin to take care of me, instead of allowing me to take
care of her."
To Sylvia, Mercy's absence would leave a great blank, but she was
consoled when Dr. Severn promised that she should be their first
visitor, and that he would ask her mother to allow her to spend part
of the August holidays with them at Craigwen, where Linda and her
brothers would be able to join them constantly for walks and
excursions. There was little more of the summer term left for anyone
at Heathercliffe House. The few remaining weeks passed quickly by, and
brought the annual garden party and prize giving, with which Miss Kaye
always celebrated the breaking up. It was the great occasion of the
school year, and many of the girls' parents came over to Aberglyn on
purpose to be present. The day fortunately proved fine, and all the
thirty-four pupils found themselves in such effervescent spirits that
the mistresses had a hard task to keep their attention during the
morning classes.
"Connie Camden, sit up straight and place your feet together," said
Miss Arkwright. "I cannot allow you to have your arm round Brenda's
waist, even if it is the last day. Linda, put that lozenge in your
pocket; if I see it again, I will take it from you. Marian, tie your
hair ribbon. Gwennie, you have lost your place three times; I'm
astonished at you! Sylvia, don't fidget; I told you not to touch
Nina's ruler. Nina, shut your pencil box at once. Now, Jessie, begin
again, and parse more carefully; antelope is not an abstract noun."
It was certainly difficult to recall the rules of grammar when the
girls remembered that this was actually the very last lesson, and that
for seven whole weeks their books would be lying idle, the schoolrooms
would be deserted, the blackboard and maps put away, and they
themselves would be enjoying the country or seaside in company with
their respective families. Even Marian answered at random, and poor
Miss Arkwright was getting into despair, when fortunately for all the
bell rang, and they were at liberty to disperse. There was still
enough discipline left to cause the class to walk decorously through
the door, but once outside in the passage they danced about like a
little crew of savages, and, tearing downstairs, ran into the garden
to work off their excitement, leaving their teacher standing with a
sigh of relief at her open desk to put the last marks to their now
finished exercise books.
"We're going to Whitby for the holidays," said Connie. "We've taken a
furnished house, and our cousins are coming to stay next door. There
are eight of them and eleven of us, so shan't we just have a jolly
time? Hurrah!"
"We're off to Scotland," said Nina. "And Mother's promised I may take
all the coach rides that the others do. I haven't had a cold now since
Easter."
"Don't boast," cried Brenda, "or you'll be sure to catch one this
afternoon, and Miss Kaye'll put you to bed, and say you aren't well
enough to travel to-morrow."
"She shan't!" declared Nina indignantly. "I wouldn't stay there. I'd
get up and go home if I were coughing and sneezing till I couldn't see
out of my eyes."
"Then they'll roll you up in a blanket," said Connie, who loved to
tease, "with a shawl tied over your head, and carry you down to a cab
as they did with Rosie when she began with chicken pox and was sent to
the fever hospital. You'll have to travel in the luggage van, because
everybody'll think you're infectious, and won't have you in their
carriage. The doctor'll go with you, and keep taking your temperature
and feeling your pulse, and telling you to put out your tongue, and
listening at your bronchial tube all the time. He won't be able to
hear much, though, because of the rattling of the train. Perhaps he'll
take it for the rattling of your breath, and think you're very bad!
It'll be a most exciting journey for you."
"You horrid girl! I haven't caught the cold yet, and I don't mean to!"
said Nina, pursuing Connie, who dodged away round the summer house,
calling out as a parting shot:
"Be sure to let us know how many bottles of medicine you take!"
"I travelled in the guard's van once," said Jessie Ellis. "Mother
couldn't bring me to school herself, and nobody we knew was going to
Wales either, so the guard took me with him. I rather liked it. There
was such a lovely big window, and he let me look at a kitten that
somebody was sending in a basket, and when we stopped at Chester he
got me a glass of milk from the refreshment room. I'm going straight
to Llandudno to-morrow; we're to stay there for three weeks. My
brother's school broke up yesterday, and he's coming here with Father
and Mother this afternoon."
"What are you going to do, Marian?" asked Linda.
"I'm not quite sure. We wanted the Isle of Man, but it's such a
trouble to take the little ones on the steamer. We have to choose a
nice safe place where there's sand for them to dig, and the tide
doesn't come in too fast. Gwennie was nearly drowned at Arnside when
she was five, and it's made Mother so nervous ever since."
"I'm going to learn the bicycle," said Brenda. "My eldest sister's
promised to lend me hers, and lower the saddle. If I can manage well
enough to ride on the road I'm to go with Ada and Willie to Ashmere,
and that's eight miles off. But father's dreadfully afraid of motor
cars. Hazel isn't coming home this summer; Aunt Cicely's taking her a
tour in Switzerland. Isn't she lucky?"
All the members of the third class had promised faithfully to
correspond with one another, and Sylvia suggested that they should
each keep a diary of their adventures, to be read aloud at the next
meeting of the S.S.L.U., which had languished during the summer, but
which they intended to take up with renewed vigour when the days began
to close in once more.
"Everybody must agree to send everybody else at least two picture
postcards," said Linda, "and then we can compare them when we come
back to school."
"Yes, if one's mother will pay for them," said Connie, who had
returned to the lawn. "Mine struck last holidays, and said eleven
children all wanting stamps continually was ruining her, and we must
buy our own. Postcards are a penny each, and they need halfpenny
stamps, so it'll cost exactly one and ninepence to send two to every
one of you. I can't possibly afford it! Not if I want any donkey rides
or chocolates."
The others laughed. The comfortable assurance that "Mother will pay",
held by most boys and girls, had not caused them to think of the
expense, and Connie's calculations were startling.
"Well, of course, if you can't, you can't," said Linda, "and we shan't
expect them. You may write a kind of round-robin letter and send it to
me, and I'll send it to somebody else, who'll pass it on to the next.
That'll only take you one stamp, and you must go without a pennyworth
of chocolates."
The guests were to arrive at half-past three o'clock, and the moment
dinner was over, the girls hurried to their bedrooms for the very
important ceremony of changing their dresses. Linda's thick, straight,
brown locks had been wetted and plaited in the tightest possible
braids the night before, to give it the required wave. Nina Forster
had even tried the experiment of screwing hers up in curl papers; but
the hard, round knobs had stuck into her head, and made her too
uncomfortable to sleep, so, after tossing about uneasily for an hour,
she could bear it no longer, and had pulled them out with a solemn vow
to relinquish the idea of ringlets in the future. Marian, whose long
beautiful auburn hair was generally brushed stiffly back from her face
and worn in a neat pigtail, left it loose for once, and allowed
Gwennie to tie it with two large bows of light-blue ribbon to match
her sash; an alteration much appreciated by the girls, who declared
they scarcely recognized her. Connie had little vanity, and, being
arrayed the first of anybody, she flitted about among the various
bedrooms like a small moth, giving free criticisms of the others'
costumes.
"Yes, that's a very pretty dress, Linda," she remarked. "White muslin
over a pink slip suits you, though it rather reminds me of a
dressing-table or a baby's cradle, all the same; I want to hang a pin
cushion on to you! Sylvia, if you'd grown another half-inch they'd
have had to let down a tuck. I like the little daisy pattern and the
rows of narrow lace; they're rather sweet. You must wear the daisy
brooch you got on your birthday. You should see Brenda! Her dress was
so stiffly starched I couldn't fasten it for her; I had to fetch
Mercy, and she opened the buttonholes with a pair of scissors. Jessie
Ellis has on a pale-green silk, and she's almost afraid to sit down
for fear of soiling it. I hate things that won't wash. Ta, ta! I'm
going to see Marian. Gwennie spilled a whole bottle of scent over her
clean muslin, but luckily her other had just come back from the
laundry. She's sewing the buttons on it now."
The girls were allowed to go into the garden to await their friends,
and kept up an excited commentary on the list of arrivals.
"There's Marian's mother! and she's brought a little one with her,
such a darling, the image of Gwennie, only far prettier. That must be
Mrs. Ellis and Jessie's brother. How terribly shy he looks! I don't
wonder; the only boy in a girl's school! That's Sybil Lake's eldest
sister; she used to come here herself once. There's Mr. Cameron; I
thought he wouldn't stay away. And there are Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick and
Miss Winnie. I wish Mr. Cecil had come too. Who are these who've just
got out of a cab?"
"Father and Mother," replied Sylvia, jumping to her feet. "And why,
surely, they've brought Aunt Louisa with them!"
It was actually Aunt Louisa herself, who was shaking hands cordially
with Miss Kaye, and gazing about her with a complacent expression, as
if she were remembering that it was all due to her persuasions that
her niece was a pupil at Heathercliffe House, and congratulating
herself still upon the wisdom of her plan.
She greeted Sylvia most affectionately, asked which were Linda and
Mercy, had quite a pleasant chat with Miss Arkwright on the subject of
Education, and seemed altogether to be enjoying herself immensely.
Sylvia was delighted to have the opportunity of introducing her father
and mother to Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and Dr. Severn, who were among
the guests, and she was not satisfied till she had taken them the
entire round of the house and garden, that they might see for
themselves the places she had so often described.
Tea was served in the garden, the girls helping to pass cups and hand
plates, luckily without any mishaps, though Connie Camden nearly upset
the cream, which was only saved through the quickness of May Spencer;
and little Greta Collins, who had been told to carry round a sugar
basin, offered it to Mr. Cameron, and, as he was too busy talking to
notice her, dropped three lumps into his cup and went away, an
unpleasant surprise for him when he discovered it, as he did not take
sugar. Sadie and Elsie Thompson were supremely happy in the possession
of their father, whose ship had arrived at Liverpool just in time to
allow him to come to the prize giving. It was quite pathetic to see
how they clung to his hands, and would scarcely let him out of their
sight the whole afternoon, and the girls were glad to hear that he was
going to take the two children away for a short holiday without the
guardianship of the stern aunt.
"We're to go to Liverpool first," said Elsie gleefully to Sylvia. "And
Daddy'll show us all over his big ship. We'll see the engines, and the
compass, and his cabin, and we're to have tea on the upper deck. He
says we may talk through his speaking trumpet, and sound the foghorn,
and turn the wheel just a tiny piece. Then we're going a long way in
the train to stay at a farm in the country, quite alone with Daddy.
Won't it be fun? He's going to send you an Indian necklace, because
we told him you'd been so kind to us, and your mother'd sent us such a
lovely cake on Sadie's birthday. He's got it locked up in his cabin on
the ship, but I don't think I ought to have told you, 'cause it's to
be a surprise."
Miss Kaye had allowed a full hour for tea and talk, and at the end of
that time the guests were asked to assemble in the large schoolroom
for the distribution of prizes, which were to be given away by the
Rector of Aberglyn. The room was prettily decorated with flowers, and
on a table at one end lay a number of handsomely bound books. The
children were obliged reluctantly to be separated from their parents,
as it was necessary for them to sit in classes, and once more the
members of the third form found themselves side by side. Mr. Edwards,
the rector, made a short opening speech, complimenting both teachers
and pupils on a year of industrious work, and said what pleasure it
gave him to see the rows of bright happy young faces before him, and
to know how much they had learnt at Heathercliffe House. He reminded
them of the high standard in right and honour as well as knowledge
which it was Miss Kaye's object to maintain there, and begged them to
make the best possible use of their schooldays, upon which, he
declared, they would often look back as the happiest time in their
lives.
There were no competitive prizes among the little ones, each of whom
was called up to receive a small present for good conduct, and when
the rector had made some kindly remarks, he turned to the third
class. The prizes were awarded according to the result of the
examination, and of all the weekly marks gained during the year, the
totals being added together. It was therefore a test both of correct
memory and of steady application, and would show that the winner had
worked hard for her laurels. The class knew that it must lie between
Marian and Sylvia; no one else had the slightest chance; and the girls
gazed eagerly at Mr. Edwards, waiting for the important announcement.
He held a beautifully illustrated edition of _British Ballads_ in his
hand.
"This is the prize for English," he said, "and I have much pleasure in
presenting it to Sylvia Lindsay, who, I am sure, must have worked with
the greatest industry to gain it, and thoroughly deserves her
success."
Everybody clapped as Sylvia walked up the room to receive her book,
and she herself could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had never
really expected to win, and for the moment her triumph was sweet. Poor
Marian, whose face had fallen at the news, joined nevertheless in the
applause, and Sylvia in her turn was able to give her a hearty clap as
the rector declared her to be the best French scholar, and awarded her
a copy of Lafontaine's _Fables_. Nina took the music prize, and
Gwennie the one for neatness, punctuality, and general orderliness,
which completed the list for the third class, and Mr. Edwards went on
to the second class, ending with the first, where Mercy very
appropriately came out head of the school.
Sylvia felt as if her brain were in a whirl. It was all as she had
wished; she held her reward in her hand, and her father and mother
had been there to see her claim it. Surely life could contain no
greater joy! But who was standing up now, to make the closing speech?
It was Dr. Severn, and everyone who knew his story and Mercy's was
anxious to hear him. He said only a few quiet words, but they were so
concise and to the point that they lived for many years in the
memories of some of those who listened to them. After congratulating
the girls who had taken prizes, and urging all to fresh efforts, he
spoke to those who had tried and had been unsuccessful.
"The greatest deeds in the world," he said, "have often been done by
people who have failed not only once, but many times, yet have never
let themselves be discouraged. Don't stop trying, but, on the other
hand, don't look at the prize as the chief end of your striving. It's
a poor thing, after all, compared with the gain to your character that
every honest endeavour will bring you. Remember, too, that we can't
all have the post of honour; somebody has to stand aside and take
second best, and the one who can do it the most bravely and generously
is winning what is far more worth having than a prettily bound book.
You learn many lessons at Heathercliffe House, but believe me the
greatest of them is the power to give up your own way sometimes, and
to be happy in the pleasure and success of others. It mayn't seem easy
just at first, but I can assure you it brings the best and most
lasting happiness in the end. I read a few lines a day or two ago that
explain just what I mean, so I'm going to say them to you:
'Our chiefest duty here below
Is not the seeming great to do,
That the vain world may pause to see;
But in steadfast humility
To walk the common walk, and bear
The thousand things, the trifling care,
In love, with wisdom, patiently.
Thus each one in his narrow groove
The great world nearer God may move.'"
As Sylvia listened, her small triumph seemed to fade away into
something higher and better, and almost unconsciously she and Marian
clasped hands, their rivalry forgotten in a nobler ideal. All the
events of the school year passed rapidly through her memory: she was
changed greatly from the rather selfish little girl who had given so
cold a welcome to her guests at that wet-day party, and as her mother
afterwards kissed her and praised her for her success, it was with a
heartfelt meaning in her words that she said:
"I did try hard the whole time, just to please you and Father. I
didn't want to come to school at all, but I'm glad you made me. I like
it now most immensely, and I simply can't tell you how very extremely
glad I am that you didn't choose anywhere else, but sent me here to
Miss Kaye's!"
Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been
retained except as follows:
Page 20
in giving the dolls'-house _changed to_
in giving the dolls' house
Page 21
turn me yound three _changed to_
turn me round three
Page 31
you will need to amuse youself _changed to_
you will need to amuse yourself
Page 33
and the housemaid crotcheted _changed to_
and the housemaid crocheted
Page 48
with her damp pocket handherchief _changed to_
with her damp pocket handkerchief
Page 98
opportuity of saying something _changed to_
opportunity of saying something
Page 137
Lend me you scissors, Marian _changed to_
Lend me your scissors, Marian
Page 225
and second classes, but Marin _changed to_
and second classes, but Marian
End of Project Gutenberg's The Third Class at Miss Kaye's, by Angela Brazil