NO NEWS.
Three months had passed, and still no sign or token from Mr. Robert
West. How anxiously his daughter’s eyes followed Miss Selina’s skinny
fingers, as they dealt out the letters every morning during breakfast
time--these letters having previously been thoroughly turned over,
examined, felt, and even _smelt_, by that lady and her relatives. It
was always the same in answer to Madeline’s unspoken appeal. “No,
nothing for you, Madeline,” or, “No letter yet, Miss West,” according
to the frame of mind in which Miss Selina found herself. And then Mrs.
Harper, who was seated behind an immense copper tea apparatus, would
peer round it, with her keen little eyes and bobbing grey curls, and
shake her head at the pupil-teacher, in a manner which signified that
she did not approve of her at all! As if poor Madeline was not sick
with hope deferred, and wild with a frenzied desire to get away and
never pass another night under that lady’s roof-tree; only there was
one big _but_, one immense drawback to her own most eager wishes, she
had nowhere else to go.
The Miss Harpers, who were fully alive to Madeline’s value, were by no
means equally anxious for her departure. She corrected exercises, ruled
copybooks, relieved them of several distasteful duties, and took the
little ones’ music--an agonizing ordeal. She really did as much as
any two paid teachers, and--an ecstatic fact--for nothing! Moreover,
they had the delicious sensation that they were performing a charitable
action all the time, and looked primly self-conscious and benevolent
when their friends exclaimed: “How good of you, you dear, kind,
Christian people, to keep that unfortunate Australian girl!”
Miss Selina, who was forty, with a complexion like that of a wax doll
who has been left lying in the sun, would sigh softly and murmur
the word “duty,” when perhaps at that very moment the unfortunate
Australian was fulfilling the least agreeable of hers--putting those
fretful, ungovernable, sickly little Anglo-Indians to bed--and to sleep.
They were too young for school routine; spoiled, fractious,
disobedient, and mischievous, they were Madeline’s almost entire
charge. Happy Madeline!
It is winter when we once more enter the schoolroom at Harperton, a
bitterly cold day, and the small fire behind the wire screen does
not half heat that great bare apartment, with its numerous doors and
windows. Those at a distance are “out in the cold” indeed, for a double
file of girls is gathered closely round the fender, talking four at
a time, and making noise enough for a rookery. This is the half-hour
after tea, and exclusively their own; they are indemnifying themselves
for many hours of silence and French--which almost amounts to the same
thing. Their speech is vigorous and unpolished, for no teacher is
present except Madeline--if teacher she can be called. She is standing
at a remote desk, mounting a drawing by the light of a cheap little
hand-lamp. The gas is never turned on in the schoolroom until half-past
six, because the twilight is so delightful (so economical they meant),
quoth the thrifty Miss Harpers.
The coals, which have been angrily stirred up, throw a good blaze,
and reveal the faces and figures of the fire-worshippers assembled
round the screen, especially the face and figure of Isabella Jones,
the present reigning potentate. She has hitched herself up on the edge
of the fire-guard, holding on there by the mantelpiece, and from this
elevated position is dispensing law, wit, snubs, and patronage. She
is very tall and thin, stoops a good deal, and is the proprietor of a
tip-tilted nose, a pair of quick little brown eyes, and millions of
freckles. She is also the proprietor of a quantity of pretty dresses,
of unlimited pocket-money, a vast amount of self-esteem, and the
largest and reddest hands in the room.
Mrs. Harper’s seminary is only intended for the offspring of wealthy
folk. Izzie’s father has made his pile in margarine, and has
desired that his daughter may have the best of everything--every
accomplishment, every extra, just like a duchess. Izzie has,
accordingly, a separate bedroom, and lessons from the most expensive
masters; nevertheless, she is far--oh! very far--from being like a
duchess. Her education was begun too late; she is naturally dull.
“I say, girls,” she is screaming sociably, “isn’t it grand to think
that in ten days more we shall all be at ’ome?
“‘This day fortnight, where shall I be?
Not in this academee,
Eating scrape and drinking tea.
This day fortnight, where shall I be?’”
She chanted in a sing-song voice, more or less through her nose.
“And there is the breaking-up dance,” put in one of her satellites; “I
don’t want to go home till that is over.”
“Gracious! I should hope not. What fun it will be,” exclaimed Miss
Jones. “I hope there will be lots of men this time. I ’inted as much
to Miss Selina. What is the use of going to the expense of supper, and
us all getting new dresses, just for the day boarders? That’s what _I_
say.”
“What good, indeed!” put in Flo, sarcastically, as she elbowed her
way to the very middle of the fire. “But pray do not make yourselves
unhappy about the expense of the supper, my dear young friends. It will
not concern us. I heard Mrs. Harper telling mademoiselle that they did
not intend to have the girls in on this occasion, gobbling up the ices
and confectionery, like so many locusts.”
“I did not know that locusts went in for confectionery,” remarked
Isabella, with a sniff of scorn.
“This marvellous discovery in natural history was Mrs. Harper’s, not
mine,” said Flo, with swelling dignity. “However, the meaning is plain.
We are not to sup. We are to ’ave”--mimicking her schoolfellow--“buns
and egg-sandwiches ’anded round in the schoolroom, whilst the company
are carousing downstairs.”
The “take-off” was entirely lost on Isabella, who was far too much
impressed with the intelligence to be alive to Flo’s impertinence. A
dead silence followed this disagreeable announcement, which was at
length broken by Miss Jones, who, sliding from the top of the screen in
the excitement of the moment, shrilly exclaimed--
“Well, I declare! I won’t stand it! I shall tell Mrs. H. so to her
face. Why, our parents _pay_ for the supper! Locusts, indeed! My
father pays handsomely for extras and everything, breaking-up party
and all; and to be put off with a bun! I think I see myself--I just
do! Why”--warming with her theme--“supper is ’alf the fun! There
are the crackers and mottoes and jokes, and every one taken down by
a gentleman, arm-in-arm. I’ll go to supper for one, and stay up to
the last. I did not get my new pink dress just to dance with girls,
and eat an egg sandwich and go to bed. _Rather_ not. Leave it to
me, girls”--looking round on her companions with an air of friendly
encouragement--“I shall have a word with Miss Selina. We shall all go
to supper, or Isabella Jones will know the reason why.”
“Oh, you dear, good Izzy!” cried two voices simultaneously. And one
continued, “You know you can do anything with Snappy, and if _you_ ask,
it will be all right. But about partners, I am afraid they will be few
and far between; Snappy and Miss Harper keep the best for themselves
and their friends. Anything is good enough for the girls. Last time I
was thankful to dance all night with a little boy in a jacket; however,
it was a shade better than sitting-out.”
“There are the Wolfertons,” observed Flo, “and they generally bring
two or three men. Last year there was Mr. Wynne, who was tremendously
struck with Madeline.” Then raising her voice, “Maddie, do you remember
Mr. Wynne? Come over here, and let us see if you are blushing.”
“Mr. Wynne, Fred Wolferton’s friend!” cried Isabella, with great
animation. “He is a barrister, and, of course, without a penny to
jingle on a milestone--poor as Job. My father don’t approve of my
getting to know these paupers. You know I’m an heiress”--giggling--“and
father says----”
“Oh never mind your father!” broke in Flo, rudely. “You need not be
alarmed; Mr. Wynne won’t look at you as long as Madeline is in the
room--and perhaps he may not come. Who else are invited--the Sangsters,
the Wallers, the Rays?”
“All common sort of people,” remarked the grand-daughter of a baron.
“Very worthy in their _way_, and well enough for a girls’ school
breaking-up; but I should not dream of knowing them at home, or of
bowing if I met them anywhere;” and she threw up her chin, and looked
about her superciliously.
No one combated this dire announcement; they were all a little in awe
of Miss De Ville and her ancestors--especially of the one who had
fought in Palestine--and they were silent and impressed, being young.
At length a word was whispered, which quickly set every tongue wagging.
That magic word was “dress.” What were they all going to wear? One
lacked new shoes, another gloves; a fan was lent--in prospect--in
return for good offices in the hair-dressing line. Amidst this gabble,
Isabella’s piercing voice was heard high and shrill above all,
describing the body of her new pink dress. Madeline had joined the
crowd, looking white and cold--and no wonder.
“Keep away your fingers, my dear, if they are sticky,” said Flo; “and,
by the way, what are you going to adorn yourself in? Your white dress
was taken by the Harpies, as most unsuitable to you now.”
“I have nothing but my black cashmere,” she returned, “and
this”--holding out a shabby serge sleeve.
“They really must give you something!” cried Isabella, impressively,
“if only for the look of the thing. For the credit of the
establishment, they can’t have you appear like an old rag-picker.”
Madeline coloured vividly. “I don’t mind giving you a dress myself, if
you will take it.”
“Now, I call that a French compliment, Isabella Jones,” remarked Flo,
with her usual candour, “and you know it. If Madeline has to wear
the old black, so much the worse; but, whatever she wears, she will
always look a--_lady_,” accompanying the remark with a glance at Miss
Jones that gave it point and significance, and made that young person
feel that it would be a pleasure to take the big ink-bottle off the
chimney-piece, and fling it at Florence Blewitt’s solid, square-looking
head.
“You need not trouble about my dress, Flo, nor need I,” said Madeline,
trying to find room on the top of the screen for her benumbed fingers.
“Miss Selina told me this morning to practise up my dance music. I am
to play----”
“Oh, what a shame!” chorused half a dozen voices. “Saving the usual
piano player, and a guinea--the skinflints!”
But human nature is human nature, and not a few of these fair creatures
felt a conviction that Madeline and her pretty face were best at the
piano--turned towards the wall--and that it was only fair to give
others a chance, meaning their sweet, unsophisticated selves. They had
a very distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to them as a
result of this economical arrangement on the part of the Harpers.
“But what will Mr. Wynne do?” inquired Miss De Ville, with the corners
of her mouth drawn down.
She was a tall, pale, sandy-haired girl, with white lashes, and a
scornful countenance. Madeline’s eyes flashed. She was on the point
of answering, but the words were taken out of her mouth by Flo, who
replied--
“He will dance with you instead, my dear.”
“You know we are not allowed to talk about gentlemen,” put in a prim
girl, with very prominent teeth and a painfully stiff white collar.
“Bosh!” exclaimed Isabella. “I’ll talk of whom _I_ please, from the old
gentleman upwards. I’ll talk of Mr. Wynne, Mr. Wolferton, Mr. Lancy,
Mr. Sangster, Mr. Summers, Mr. Ferraby, Mr. Armstrong----”
“_Young ladies!_” said an awful voice that made them all start, and
fall away from the fender like a flock of frightened sheep. “What
vulgarity is _this_? How often have I told you that I highly disapprove
of such conversation! It will come to this, I see”--looking severely
around--“you will have no half-hour after tea if you cannot be trusted.
I am exceedingly displeased and shocked, especially”--seizing on her
scapegoat--“with you, Madeline West. You are old enough to know
better, and to have some influence; and to find you in the very middle
of all this unladylike chatter, discussing gentlemen, is really too
odious. A girl in your position might have a _little_ decency and
self-respect. I am extremely disgusted with you. Now go; it is quite
time the little Smiths were in bed. How is it that you have always to
be _reminded_ of your duties?” she concluded venomously.
Madeline opened her mouth to speak.
“No answer; you know the rule. Now, young ladies, light the gas, and
get to your work.”
A great commotion and bustle ensued. Exit Madeline, trying vainly to
keep back her tears, and with a burning sense of injustice in her
breast. Indeed, for once, she forgot herself, and slammed the door--not
violently, but still with a decided touch of temper. It was a foolish
impulse, foolishly indulged.
She was called back, and imperatively desired to “remember who she was,
and to walk out of the room quietly, and close the door after her in a
ladylike and becoming manner.”
So even this slight safety-valve for her feelings was denied to her,
and she left the apartment for a second time completely crushed.