THE ENROLLING OF THE CANDIDATES
The September sunshine was streaming in through the big stained-glass
windows of the lecture hall next morning when, at eleven o’clock, the
girls came trooping in from their Form-rooms, and took their places
facing the dais. The Head was seated there in company with Mr. Melrose,
who acted as governor of the Lamb Bursary, and two other gentlemen, who
also had something to do with the bequest which meant so much to the
Compton School for Girls.
When they were all in their places, Mr. Melrose stood up, and coming to
the edge of the dais, made a little speech to the girls about Miss Lamb,
who had been educated at the Compton Schools. “Agnes Lamb came to be
educated here because her father, an officer, was at that time stationed
at Beckworth Camp,” he said in a pleasant, conversational tone, which
held the interest even of those girls who had heard the story several
times before. “She was in residence for three years, during which time
she made many friendships, and formed close ties in the school. It was
while she was being educated here that her father died suddenly, and
Miss Lamb, already motherless, was adopted by an uncle who was very
rich, and who at once removed her from the school. Although surrounded
by every luxury, the poor girl seemed to have left happiness behind her
when she left the school. Her desire had been for higher education. Her
uncle did not believe in the higher education of women: all the poor
girl’s efforts after more knowledge were frowned upon, and set aside.
She might have clothes in prodigal abundance, she might wear a whole
milliner’s shop on her head, and her uncle would not have complained;
but when she wanted lessons, or even books, she was reminded that but
for his charity she would be a beggar: and, indeed, I think many beggars
had greater possibilities of happiness. The years went on. Miss Lamb,
always a gentle soul, lacked the courage and enterprise to break away
from her prison, and continued to languish under the iron rule of her
uncle. Her youth passed in close attendance on the crabbed old man, who
had become a confirmed invalid. She had her romance, too: there was a
man who loved her, and she cared for him; but here again her uncle’s
will came between her and her happiness. The sour old man reminded her
that he had kept her for so many years—that he had provided her with
dainty food, and clothed her in costly array: now, when he was old and
suffering, it would be base ingratitude for her to leave him, especially
as the doctors told him he had not long to live. Because she was so meek
and gentle, so easily cowed, and so good at heart, Miss Lamb sent her
lover away to wait until she should be free to take her happiness with
him. But the old uncle lingered on for several years. The man, who was
only human, got tired of waiting, and on the very day when the death of
the old uncle set Miss Lamb free he was married to a woman for whom he
did not particularly care, just because he had grown tired of waiting
for the happiness that tarried so long. Miss Lamb never really recovered
from that blow. She lived only a few years longer, but she filled those
years with as much work for her fellows as it was possible to get into
the time. When she died, and her will was read, it was found that her
thoughts must have lingered very much on the happy time she had spent
within these walls, for the bulk of her property came for the enrichment
of the Compton Girls’ School. In addition to this she left a sum of
money which should, year by year, entitle one girl to the chance of a
higher education.”
Mr. Melrose was interrupted at this point by a tremendous outburst of
cheering; indeed, it seemed as if the sixty girls must have throats
lined with tin, from the noise they contrived to make.
Mr. Melrose did not check them; he merely stood and waited with a smile
on his face, wondering, as he looked at the wildly cheering mob, if any
one of them would have been as meek under burdens as had been the gentle
soul whose memory they were so vigorously honouring.
The cheering died to silence, and then he began to speak again. “I have
finished the story of how it was that Miss Lamb came to leave so much
money to the school, and now I am going to ask Mr. Grimshaw to read the
rules for the enrolment of candidates for the Lamb Bursary. You will
please follow that reading very carefully, making up your minds as he
proceeds, as to whether you individually can fulfil the terms of the
bequest.”
Mr. Grimshaw was an elderly gentleman of nervous aspect, with a thin,
squeaky voice which would have upset the risibles of the whole school at
any ordinary time; but the girls for the most part listened to him with
gravely decorous faces, although one irrepressible Fourth Form kid
rippled into gurgling laughter, that was instantly changed to a
strangled cough.
The reading began with a tangle of legal terms and phrases as to the
receiving of the money, and the way in which it was to be laid out, and
then the document stated the requirements looked for in the candidate:—
“Each candidate offering herself for the winning of the Lamb
Bursary must be in the Sixth Form of the Compton Girls’ School.
She must be of respectable parentage, which is to say, that
neither of her parents shall have been in prison. She herself
must have a high moral character. No girl known to have cheated,
or to have robbed her fellows in any way, is eligible as a
candidate. It is furthermore required that each candidate shall
take all the general subjects taught in the school, and no
candidate shall be allowed to specialize on any particular
subject; but each one to be judged on the all-round character of
her learning. Candidates must be enrolled for three terms, the
judging being on the marks made in that time. Each girl offering
herself as a candidate will, with right hand upraised, declare
solemnly, that she is a fit person to be enrolled as a
candidate, and that she individually fulfils the conditions laid
down in this document.”
The squeaky voice ceased, and Mr. Grimshaw with some creaking of
immaculate boots sat down, while a profound hush settled over the rows
of bright-faced girls. A robin just outside one of the open windows sang
blithely, and away in the distance a bugle sounded.
There was a stir in the long row of Sixth Form girls. Hazel rose to her
feet, her face rather white and set, for she was the first to enroll,
and the situation gripped her strangely; but her voice rang clearly
through the hall as, with right hand raised, she said,—
“I, Hazel Dring, offer myself as a candidate for the Lamb Bursary. I
promise to abide by the conditions laid down, and I declare myself a fit
person to be enrolled.”
Mr. Melrose looked at the Head, who bowed slightly, then he said to
Hazel, “Will you please come on to the dais and be enrolled.”
She went forward, and the gentleman who had not spoken proceeded to
spread a paper before her, which she had to sign. Meanwhile Margaret
stood up, and raising her right hand, made the affirmation in the same
way, and she was followed by Daisy Goatby.
Dorothy was thrilled to the very centre of her being. She rose to her
feet, she lifted her right hand, while her voice rang out vibrant with
all sorts of emotions.
“I, Dorothy Sedgewick, offer myself as a candidate for the Lamb Bursary.
I promise to abide by the conditions laid down, and I declare myself a
fit person to be enrolled.”
Again the Head bowed in response to the inquiring look of Mr. Melrose,
who asked Dorothy to join the others on the dais, and she went forward,
feeling as if she was treading on air. It seemed such a solemn ceremony,
and there was the same sensation of awe in her heart that she felt when
she was in church.
She was in the midst of writing her name when she heard the stir of
another girl rising and then the words:—
“I, Rhoda Fleming, offer myself——”
Dorothy paused with her pen suspended, and her face went ashen white, as
the glib tongue of Rhoda repeated the declaration that she was a fit
person to be enrolled. Oh, how could she do it? Was it possible that Tom
was right, and the average girl had no sense at all of honour, or moral
obligation?
“Will you finish your signature, if you please, Miss Sedgewick.” It was
the quiet voice of the gentleman taking the signatures that broke in
upon Dorothy’s confused senses. Murmuring an apology, she finished
writing her name, and went across to sit beside Daisy Goatby, while
Rhoda came up to the dais to sign the enrollment paper. Joan Fletcher
was the next, and she was followed by Jessie Wayne. Dora Selwyn, the
head girl, did not compete; she was specializing in botany and geology,
and did not want to be compelled to give her time to other subjects.
There were seven candidates this year: last year there had been four,
and the year before there had been eight. As Miss Groome, the
Form-mistress remarked, seven was a good workable number, sufficient to
make competition keen, but not too many to crowd each other in the race.
At the conclusion of the little ceremony the girls rose to their feet to
sing “Auld Lang Syne,” and then with a rousing three-times-three—the
first for Miss Lamb of evergreen memory, the second for the school, and
the third for the newly-enrolled—they swarmed out to the grounds, for
the rest of the day was to be holiday. They were to have a tennis
tournament among themselves, with a box of chocolates for first prize,
and an ounce of the strongest peppermints to be bought in Sowergate as
consolation to the one who should score the least.
The three gentlemen stayed to lunch, and sat at the high table in the
dining-room with the Head and such of the staff as were not at the lower
tables carving.
The seven candidates had been decorated with huge white rosettes, in
recognition of their position, and the talk at table was chiefly about
Miss Lamb and her unfortunate love story.
“I expect she was afraid if she had married the man her uncle would have
cut her out of his will, and so she would have been poor,” said Rhoda,
who was very bright and gay.
Dorothy shivered a little. Rhoda’s voice made her feel bad just then. It
was to her a most awful thing that a girl who knew herself guilty of
deliberate theft should rise and affirm with uplifted hand that she was
morally fit to compete for the Lamb Bursary.
“Perhaps she didn’t care over-much for him,” said Daisy Goatby with a
windy sigh. “Getting married must be an awful fag. She could look
forward to being free when the old man died; but if she had married, she
might never have been free, don’t you see.”
“I think she was a martyr, poor dear.” Dorothy had the same vibrant
sound in her voice as when she rose to affirm, and the other girls
dropped silent to listen to what she had to say.
“Why do you think she was a martyr?” asked Margaret softly, seeing that
Dorothy paused.
“Because she sacrificed everything to a principle.” Dorothy flushed a
little as she spoke; she was too new to her surroundings to feel at ease
in making her standpoints clear, and she was oppressed also by Rhoda’s
bravado in affirming, in spite of that damaging incident at Sharman and
Song’s.
“There was no principle involved that I can see,” grumbled Joan Fletcher
with wrinkled brows. “There was self-sacrifice if you like, although, to
my way of thinking, even that was uncalled for, seeing that the old man
had the money to pay for any service he might require. I am not going to
grumble at her for putting aside her happiness, because if I win the
bursary I shall be so much the better off in consequence of her deciding
to sacrifice herself for her uncle.”
“I think Dorothy is right,” chimed in Hazel crisply. “Miss Lamb made a
principle out of her duty, real or supposed, to her uncle: she gave up
her chance of married happiness because her sense of what was right
would have been outraged if she had not.”
“Then she was a martyr!” exclaimed Jessie Wayne. “I shall see her as a
picture in my mind next time we sing ‘The martyr first whose eagle
eye.’”
“I dare say you will, goosey”—Dora Selwyn leaned forward past Dorothy
to speak to Jessie, who sat at the end of the table—“meanwhile, you
will please get on your feet, for the Head is rising.”
Jessie scrambled up in a great hurry, punting into Daisy Goatby, who sat
on the other side of her. Daisy, heavy in all her movements, lurched
against a plate standing too near the edge of the table, and brought it
to the ground with a crash. But the crash was not heard, for Hazel, who
saw it falling, and the gentlemen rising to leave the room at the same
moment, swung up her hand for a rousing cheer, and in the burst of
acclamation the noise of smashing was entirely lost.
“What a morning it has been!” murmured Dorothy, as she strolled down to
the tennis court with Margaret for a little practice at the nets before
the serious work of the tournament should begin.
“Yes.” Margaret spoke emphatically. She paused, and then said rather
shyly, “I should not have been very happy about it all, though, if it
had not been for the talk I had with you last night. Oh! I was worried
about that rumour of your depending on helps that are not right for your
work. I think I should have fainted, when you made your affirmation, if
I had known that there was anything not right about it.”
“I do not expect you would have swooned, however badly you might have
felt.” Dorothy’s tone was rather grim as she spoke, for she was thinking
of Rhoda. “It is astonishing what we can bear when hard things really
come upon us.”
“Perhaps so. Anyhow, I am very glad it was all right,” Margaret sighed
happily, and slid her arm in Dorothy’s. “I even had a big struggle with
myself when Rhoda Fleming stood up to affirm, and I forgave her again
from the bottom of my heart for every snub she has ever handed out to
me, for it seemed as if it would make her record sweeter if I did that.”
“I wish I were as good as you.” Dorothy’s tone was a little conscience
stricken. There had been no desire in her heart to have Rhoda clean
enough to affirm; she had been merely conscious of a great amazement at
the girl’s audacity and callousness.
“Oh, rot, I am not good!” jerked out Margaret brusquely; and then, Sixth
Form girl though she was, she challenged Dorothy to race to the nets.
It was a neck-and-neck struggle, and the victor was nearly squashed at
the goal by the vanquished falling on to her, and they helped each other
up, laughing at the figures they must have cut, and the loss of hard-won
dignity involved.
It was Dorothy who won, but that was only because she had a longer
stride. She knew this right well, and Margaret knew it too.