The Oldest Pupil
Though Lesbia Ferrars might not be gifted with a good memory, or a
mathematical brain, or a talent for languages, or even a great capacity
for work, or any other special attribute to place her among the stars of
her form, in one solitary respect she could always score over the rest
of the school. She was the oldest pupil. Not indeed in years--there is
an immense shade of difference between oldest and eldest--for she was
not yet sixteen, while Rose Stirling and Mabel Andrews in the Sixth were
approaching their eighteenth birthdays. She happened to have been longer
at the school than anybody else. She had joined as a tiny child, and the
contemporaries of her first year had all left. Even Theodora Johnson,
the head girl, who could boast a nine years record, had to yield
precedence to Lesbia in a question of "oldest inhabitant". It was a
point upon which Lesbia prided herself immensely. Ever since she had
been the baby of the kindergarten she had loved the school with a great
loyalty, and was prepared to stand up for its merits against all
detractors. It had become such a point of honour with her that she was
almost stubborn about it, and would have waged its battles as blindly as
the traditional cavalier who fought for the crown though it hung in a
bush.
Lesbia, at fifteen and three-quarters on the great clock of life, was a
rather picturesque little person, slim and not over-tall, with large
dreamy eyes that held shining sparks when she laughed, and brown hair
with a curl in it, and teeth that seemed more like a first set than a
second, they were so small and even. The outside of her might have
belonged indifferently to north, south, east, or west, but the inside of
her was Celtic to the core. Both Irish and Highland blood ran in her
veins, and unknown ancestors had handed down to her that heritage of
laughter and tears, that joyous zest of life and keen intensity of
feeling, that fairy glamour which may transfigure the commonest things,
or beguile the heart to waste its devotion upon trifles, which is the
birthright of those whose forbears, in the dim forgotten twilight of our
island's history, kept their courts at Tara and Camelot and left their
wealth of legend behind them.
Lesbia lived in a house in Denham Terrace with her stepbrother Paul
Hilton. Fate had tossed her about like a tennis ball, though so far
always kindly. Her own father had died when she was a baby, and while
she was still quite tiny her mother had been married again to Mr.
Hilton, a widower with a son of twenty. In his vacations from college
Paul had made rather a pet of his little stepsister, and later on his
kindness was put to a practical test. An epidemic of virulent influenza
swept away in a single week both Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, and Lesbia, at
eight years old, found herself an orphan. She had no very near
relations, and the third and fourth cousins whom she possessed were not
at all anxious to adopt her, so Paul, practical, unimaginative,
common-sense Paul, took over the responsibility of her maintenance as a
matter of course. Neither he, nor the pretty little bride whom he soon
brought home, understood Lesbia in the least, her temperament held
unknown qualities which their more direct minds could never grasp, but
they were good to her, and accepted her without question as a member of
the household, and as much a legacy as the family furniture.
The memory of her early days had grown rather hazy, and Lesbia was so
accustomed to Paul and Minnie and the three small children who had
arrived at Denham Terrace that no other life felt particularly possible.
She was happy at school, and she rubbed along well at home. There was
not surely a girl in her form who could claim more.
This first day of the new term had seemed fortunate to Lesbia. She had
been raised to the honour of VA instead of being relegated with more
backward girls to VB, a contingency she had dreaded but half
anticipated, and she had secured the very desk she had coveted for
years. She came downstairs therefore at four o'clock with a feeling of
much satisfaction. Even Aldora, whose wrath was short lived, had already
forgiven the scrimmage and was friendly. Mentally Lesbia was purring.
"Wait for me for five minutes and I'll walk home with you," volunteered
Aldora. "I have to take a letter from Mother to Miss Tatham, and she'll
probably want to write an answer and send it by me."
And Lesbia, who loathed waiting for anybody, nevertheless agreed, as a
kind of recompense to Aldora for having ousted her out of the best desk.
It was a sunny afternoon so she went into the garden. There was a
pleasant corner there with an artificial pond, and bushes, and flights
of steps and a statue on a pedestal. She sat down under the shade of a
red-berried shrub and watched in the water of the pool the reflections
of white clouds that scudded overhead. The September wind blew, dropping
rose petals into her lap. A robin near by twittered its autumn song.
Summer was waning fast, and, though she did not yet know it, the summer
of her careless childhood was falling away like the roses. The first
disillusionment of mankind was in a garden; some of the greatest
tragedies of the world have happened among a setting of trees and
flowers.
As Lesbia sat twisting rose petals round her fingers she became aware
of voices talking near her. Two girls had strolled to the pond by the
lower path, and had settled down on the steps beneath her without
noticing her presence. They were evidently discussing the various
members of the form, and she caught her own name.
"Lesbia? Oh, I'm sorry for Lesbia!" (It was Marion Morwood who spoke.)
"Why? Well you see she's in such a queer position. Her father died when
she was a baby, and her mother married again, and then both her mother
and her stepfather died. She lives with her stepbrother, who, of course,
isn't the slightest relation to her really. He just keeps her out of
charity. Mrs. James was telling mother all about it one day. She says
Lesbia's own people didn't leave her a penny, and her relations won't
help; so the Hiltons are saddled with her."
"Very decent of them."
"Um, yes, I suppose so; but of course she's tremendously useful with the
children. You always see her trailing them out on Saturdays and Sundays,
and often even on weekdays after school. She's as good as a nursemaid. I
should hate to wheel a perambulator myself."
"Good-night! So should I! The bare idea gives me umpteen fits."
"I should call it the limit, but I suppose she simply _has_ to do it.
Mrs. James said Lesbia was fearfully slighted. (She lives next door to
the Hiltons so she knows all about them.) They go out to the theatre and
leave that poor girl to put all the children to bed, and----" But at
this point Lesbia jumped up quietly and stole away. She did not want to
overhear any more. Indeed she felt she had already heard far too much. A
serpent had crept into her paradise. She was angry with that traitor
Mrs. James for gossiping, but she began to wonder whether after all what
Marion said was not perfectly true. It had never struck her before to
view things from that angle. These were indeed new ideas! The remarks
about her dependence on her stepbrother slid from her very lightly. As
yet Lesbia was an utter baby in money matters. Paul and Minnie did not
discuss their affairs in her presence, and her views were little more
advanced than those of Steve and Julie, whose creed was that Daddy
picked up pennies in the City and kept them in the big safe at his
office. What really rankled was that Marion pitied her for taking out
the children. She admired Marion immensely. There had been other friends
in her school horizon, but her drifting devotion, which inclined for a
time towards Phillis Marsh or Calla Wilkins, had lately centred on
Marion. She wanted to stand well in her opinion. It had not occurred to
her to compare herself with a nursemaid, for she loved the children and
enjoyed taking them for walks, but now Marion had done so.
"I won't wheel that perambulator out again--ever!" she decided
impulsively. "If I met Marion, and she looked sorry for me, I'd never
get over it."
By this time Aldora was hunting for her and calling her name noisily, so
she took up her strap of books and walked home, feeling as if her
standards had suddenly and unexpectedly been turned upside down.
We have said before that Lesbia had a very sensitive disposition, so
ultra-sensitive indeed that it sometimes eclipsed the more sensible
portion of her. Instead of being glad that she was a much appreciated
member of the Hilton household she began to wonder whether she was being
put upon and slighted. All sorts of silly little incidents corroborating
such a view came crowding into her memory. If we have a strong bias
towards an opinion it is generally easy to prove our own argument by
entirely ignoring the other side of the question. Minnie's many
kindnesses were for the moment forgotten. Marion's approval seemed the
only thing that mattered. It was horrible to think that her chum's
friendliness was tinctured with pity. And friendly Marion undoubtedly
was. She shared packets of chocolates with Lesbia, gave her snapshot
photos which she had taken during the holidays, lent her books, and
spent every available moment of recreation in her company. Marion was
pretty and popular, so to be known as her chum was a matter for self
congratulation. For at least a fortnight the two girls were as
inseparable in school hours as a pair of lovers. The form, who had
witnessed frantic friendships before, looked on with stolid
indifference, tinged with occasional sense of injury. They preferred
Marion to distribute her chocolates equally rather than to fill her
chum's pockets. A really popular girl is seldom one who concentrates her
affection on one object. Human nature is selfish enough to demand
substantial reasons for placing a schoolfellow upon a pedestal, and VA,
conscious of being left out in the cold, was beginning to wonder whether
after all it had not been making too much fuss of Marion Morwood.
Lesbia, who went at least ten minutes out of her way every day in order
to walk back from school with her idol, carefully avoided discussing
home topics. She felt there was a sore spot that would hurt if it was
touched. She fenced the questions which were sometimes--with evident
curiosity--put to her.
One afternoon, as the chums had reached the Morwoods' gate, a heavy
shower gave Marion the excuse to ask Lesbia to come in and shelter. They
spent a rapturous quarter of an hour inspecting a collection of stamps,
then Lesbia, who was late already, glanced through the window at the
clearing sky.
"I must go," she groaned. "The rain's almost stopped now. Look at the
time! And we have tea at half-past four. Botheration! I _did_ want to
see the rest of your stamps."
"Can't you possibly stop?"
"No, I must sprint. They won't know where I am."
"Then come back after tea! Mayn't she, Mother? Leo and Kitty will be
here, and we'll try over some songs. _Do_ come!" Mrs. Morwood very
kindly endorsed her daughter's invitation, and pressed Lesbia to spend
the evening. Lesbia, longing to come, accepted provisionally.
"I will if I can, but I shall have to ask at home," she confided at the
hall door as she put up her umbrella.
Marion's face reddened with indignant sympathy.
"You don't mean to tell me they keep you as tight as that?" she flared.
But her friend was half-way down the steps by that time and did not
reply.
Lesbia, bursting into the dining-room at home, where her belated tea was
keeping warm under a cosy, found Minnie lying upon the sofa with a
handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne laid across her forehead. She
jumped nervously at the noise, and listened with closed eyes as her
young stepsister-in-law poured forth her request.
"Oh, Lesbia! I can't possibly let you go this evening! It's Nurse's
night out, and I've got an overwhelming headache. Who's going to put the
children to bed?"
"Can't Mrs. Carter do it?" asked Lesbia, choking back something that
rose in her throat.
"I daren't ask her. When I engaged her she stipulated she was to have
nothing to do in the nursery. It's so difficult to get a cook nowadays,
that when you've found one you want to keep her."
"Can't Nurse stay in for once?"
"She'd give notice if I suggested it. You know she always goes to the
Cinema on Friday nights."
"Suppose _I_ ask her? Or Mrs. Carter?"
But at this point Paul, who had been sitting reading in the armchair,
suddenly rose and interfered.
"Nonsense, Lesbia!" he said. "You mustn't go upsetting the household.
And after all I'm not sure that I care about your visiting with these
Morwoods. We don't know them."
He lighted a cigarette, and strolled into the greenhouse to smoke it,
with an air of having settled the matter finally. Lesbia, drinking
rather stewed tea and cold buttered toast, kept silence, but black
rebellion raged in her heart. It was a Friday evening, and she had no
home lessons to prepare. It would have been so delightful to have spent
a few hours with the Morwoods. It was still only half-past five, and the
children did not begin to go to bed until half-past six. Suppose she ran
round to Marion's now, she could come back in time to give them their
baths. Even half an hour of fun would be better than nothing. She peeped
hurriedly into the nursery, where Julie, Steve, and Bunty were playing
with their toys, as good as gold, then, changing at lightning speed
into her best dress, she snatched up her waterproof, crammed on her hat,
and fled from the house. Marion welcomed her ecstatically. Several
friends, who had been rung up by telephone, had arrived, so there was
quite an impromptu little party. (Lesbia was immensely glad she had put
on her blue velveteen.) Carrie Turner and Cissie Hales represented
school, and there were other girls and their brothers, who seemed on
familiar terms with the Morwoods. They were already dancing in the
drawing-room, while Blanche, Marion's cousin, played the piano for them.
It did not take long for Lesbia to be introduced to the jolly company,
and she was soon whirling round with a partner. Lesbia loved dancing. To
some people it is as much a natural gift as singing or painting. To move
to the rhythm of music was perhaps an old Celtic tendency cropping out
in her composition. She felt sometimes like Karen in Hans Andersen's
story of _The Little Red Shoes_: when she heard a lively tune her feet
just danced of themselves. The Morwoods' drawing-room was large, and
they had moved tables and chairs back against the wall, so there was
plenty of space for enjoyment. Half an hour seemed to fly like ten
minutes.
"Go! What ridiculous rubbish! Why, you've only just come!" remonstrated
Marion, when her friend, with many apologies, began to say good-bye.
"Lesbia! I simply shan't _let_ you! Here's Bobby Craven longing to
dance with you. You can't say no. I shall be absolutely offended if you
tear away now. Yes, I mean it!"
Three children and a bath-towel tugged one way, and Bobby Craven's
expectant face the other. Marion's threatened wrath tipped up the
balance.
"The children will have to go to bed a little later to-night, that's
all," thought Lesbia hastily, as the music began again and Bobby offered
his arm.
At seven o'clock, however, her conscience smote her. She refused any
more offers of partners and was in a panic to get away.
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Morwood, passing through the hall where Lesbia
was hastily changing her shoes. "You're surely not leaving us? We're
going to have supper directly."
"She says she can't stay, Mums," explained Marion. "They want her at
home. Oh, it's a shame! I never felt so angry in my life. I could just
slay those wretched Hilton children--spoiling all Lesbia's fun.
Good-bye, dearest! I call you an absolute martyr. I tell you I'm
raging."
Lesbia ran all the way home, and let herself in by the side door. She
hung her hat on the hat-stand and hurried upstairs. Sounds of splashing
issued from the bath-room. She entered, and found Julie and Bunty
holding a water carnival inside the bath, while Minnie, in flannel
apron, with a flushed, tired face, was soaping Steve's curls.
"Where have you been?" she exclaimed, as the truant put in an appearance
and began to get to business. "Lesbia! You can't lift Bunty from the
bath in your best velvet dress! She's splashing you all over. Go and
change it at once! Stephen, come here!" (as her son and heir took the
opportunity to escape) "Julie, you mustn't duck Bunty! I don't want her
hair wetted to-night. There's the first gong. Supper will have to wait.
You ought, all of you, to have been in bed half an hour ago."
Paul, good natured easy-going Paul, was seldom cross to his young
stepsister, but that night, with supper late, the souffle spoilt through
long waiting, and his wife in the throes of a violent headache, he lost
his temper and gave Lesbia a thorough scolding.
"I told you to stay in and help Minnie," he stormed. "It's a queer thing
to have three women in the house and nobody to lend a hand to put those
youngsters to bed. You're not worth your salt! And I won't have you
accepting invitations on your own and just walking off. Understand that
once and for all. I'm thoroughly disgusted with you."
Lesbia lay awake in bed for hours that night crying. It was the first
time Paul had ever spoken so sharply to her. Several things hurt
particularly. He had alluded to "three women in the house".
Though she would soon be sixteen Lesbia did not care to be called "a
woman", and particularly to be classed with Mrs. Carter and Nurse.
Moreover he had said she was not worth her salt. Did he expect her to
render service to the household? All Marion's insinuations came sweeping
into her memory. Yes, undoubtedly she was slighted at home and expected
to do things which other girls were not. Paul of course loved Minnie and
his own children far better than herself. What had Calla hinted one day
about taking a back seat? The girls at school knew her position and were
sorry for her.
"It's horrible to be only 'a step'," sobbed Lesbia. "Perhaps Paul and
Minnie would be happier without me. I don't really belong to them.
Marion said so. Oh dear! I wonder if there's anybody in the wide world
who'd like to have me? I don't believe I'm wanted here in this house!"