A Literature Exercise
The fickle goddess of fortune, having elected to draw together the lives
of Dorothy Greenfield and Alison Clarke, had undoubtedly begun her task
by sending the latter to live near Coleminster. Mrs. Clarke told all her
friends that it was by the merest chance she had seen and taken
Lindenlea. She had decided that the climate of Leamstead was too
relaxing; and when, on a motor tour with a cousin in the North, she
happened to pass through the village of Latchworth, and noticed the
pretty, rambling old house to let on the top of the hill, she had at
once insisted upon stopping, obtaining the keys, and looking over it.
And she had so immediately and entirely fallen in love with its
pleasant, sunny rooms and delightful garden that she had interviewed the
agent without further delay, and arranged to take it on a lease.
"It's the very kind of place I've always longed for!" she
declared--"old-fashioned enough to be picturesque, yet with every modern
comfort: a good coach-house and stable, a meadow large enough to keep a
Jersey cow in, a splendid tennis court, and the best golf links in the
neighbourhood close by. Another advantage is that Alison can go to
Avondale College. The house is so near to the station that she can
travel by train into Coleminster every day, and return at four o'clock.
I'm never able to make up my mind to spare her to go to a boarding
school; but, on the other hand, I don't approve of girls being taught at
home by private governesses. The College exactly solves the problem. No
one can say I'm not giving her a good education, and yet I shall see her
every day, and have her all Saturday and Sunday with me. It's no use
possessing a daughter unless she can be something of a companion, and I
always think Nature meant a mother to bring up her own child,
particularly when she's a precious only chick like mine."
Alison had no memory of her father, who had died in her infancy. Her
mother had been as both parents to her, and had supplied the place of
brothers and sisters as well. Poor Mrs. Clarke could not help fussing
over her one treasure, and Alison's education, amusements, clothes, and,
above all, health, were her supreme interests in life. The girl was
inclined to be delicate; she had suffered as a child from bronchial
asthma, and though she had partly outgrown the tendency, an occasional
attack still alarmed her mother.
It was largely on Alison's account that Mrs. Clarke had taken Lindenlea.
She thought the open, breezy situation on the top of a hill likely to
suit her far better than the house at Leamstead, which had been situated
too close to the river; and she knew that the neighbourhood of
Coleminster was considered specially bracing for those troubled with
throat or chest complaints. At fourteen Alison was one of those
over-coddled, petted, worshipped only daughters who occasionally, in
defiance of all ordinary rules, seem to escape becoming pampered and
selfish. She had a very sweet and sensible disposition, and a strong
sense of justice. In her heart of hearts she hated to be spoilt or in
any way favoured. She would have liked to be one of a large family, and
she greatly envied girls with younger brothers and sisters to care for.
Dearly as she loved her mother, it was often a real trial to her to be
idolized in public. She was quick to catch the amused smile of visitors
who listened while her praises were sung, and the everlasting subject of
her health was discussed; and to detect the disapproval with which they
noticed her numerous indulgences. She felt it unfair that strangers, and
even friends, seemed to consider her selfish for receiving all the good
things showered upon her. She could not disappoint her mother by
refusing any of them, though she would gladly have handed them on to
someone less fortunate than herself. To her credit, she never once
allowed her mother to suspect that this over-fond and anxious affection
made her appear singular, and occasionally even a subject of ridicule
among other girls. She submitted quite patiently to the cosseting and
worrying about her health, only sighing a little over the superfluous
wraps and needless tonics, and wishing, though never for less love,
certainly for less close and fretting attention.
Perhaps as the direct result of this adoration at home, Alison was a
pleasant companion at school, quite ready to give up her own way on
occasion, and enjoying the sensation of sharing alike with everyone
else. She was soon on good terms with her classmates, for she was merry
and humorous as well as accommodating. Her friendship with Dorothy
increased daily. As they travelled backwards and forwards by train
together they were necessarily thrown much in each other's company, and
they earned the nicknames of "David" and "Jonathan" in the Form.
The contrast between the circumstances and the upbringing of the two
girls could not, however, have been stronger. Miss Sherbourne, in
adopting Dorothy, had undertaken a charge that was a heavy if
self-imposed burden upon her small means. Rigid economy was the rule at
Holly Cottage; no luxuries could be afforded, and pleasures were mostly
of a kind that did not involve any great expenditure. It was rarely that
Aunt Barbara indulged herself even to the extent of a concert ticket or
a piece of new music. A fresh piano was out of the question, so she
managed to coax a good deal of melody from the old one. If it had not
been for the help of her writing she could not have sent Dorothy to the
College, and, as it was, such extras as dancing lessons were impossible.
Though Dorothy clearly understood the necessity for economy, she often
secretly chafed against it. She was a girl who liked to shine before her
schoolfellows, and she felt keenly that she lacked their advantages. It
was hard, when all were talking of a play or an exhibition, to have to
confess that she had not been, and to hear the others say pityingly:
"Why, Dorothy, you never go anywhere!" Her clothes, made by Aunt Barbara
at home, though beautifully neat and quite sufficient for a schoolgirl,
could not compete with the pretty dresses worn by many of her
companions; and she did not possess even a watch, much less bangles and
chains such as Hope Lawson was fond of displaying.
The knowledge of her dependent position, which Aunt Barbara had so
carefully kept hidden, came to her as the most serious of her drawbacks.
She could not help brooding over it, and the more she dwelt upon the
subject the more disconsolate and discontented she became. Aunt Barbara,
whose loving eyes were quick to notice, saw only too clearly the phase
through which Dorothy was passing; but she knew that the girl must fight
her own battle before she learnt to set the right value on this world's
possessions, and to discover for herself what things are really of
worth. With Dorothy's character Miss Sherbourne often felt as though she
were working in the dark. She did her best to impress her own
personality upon the child, but every now and then some unexpected
trait--a legacy, perhaps, from an unknown ancestor--would crop up and
make her realize how strong is the force of heredity in our natures. She
recognized that at the present crisis "preaching" would be useless, and
could only trust that patience and forbearance would indirectly bring
about the desired effect.
"Auntie," said Dorothy, as she ate her breakfast one morning, about a
month after the term began, "I don't like Hope Lawson since she got the
Wardenship. She hasn't improved."
"How's that? I thought she was a tolerably nice girl," answered Miss
Sherbourne.
"She wasn't at all bad before, but she's changed. She and Blanche Hall
and Irene Jackson go together now, and they simply sit upon all the rest
of the class."
"Rather a large order, if they do it literally!" laughed Aunt Barbara.
"Metaphorically, of course. But really, Auntie, you've no idea how nasty
they are. Hope has taken the tone that she's much above everyone else--I
don't mean because she's Warden, but socially. You see, while her father
has been Mayor they've entertained numbers of distinguished people, and
Hope's never tired of talking about them. Then she comes to school
wearing heaps of bangles and rings and things, and she makes one feel
she doesn't consider one's clothes anything to hers. She saw my blue
skirt had been lengthened, for she nudged Irene and laughed, and said
very pointedly that braid had gone out of fashion. Then she asked me
where I bought my boots. I wasn't going to tell her, so I didn't answer;
but Blanche Hall piped out: 'The Market Stores', and they both screamed
with laughter, and Hope said she always bought hers at Forster's."
"I should simply take no notice, if I were you."
"I try not to, but all the same it's annoying. Yesterday we had a
squabble about giving out the French books, and I said I should ask Miss
Pitman; then Hope said Miss Pitman would be sure to take her part,
because she often dines at their house. And the worst of it is, it's
true. Miss Pitman isn't quite fair. Hope and Blanche and Irene make the
most tremendous fuss of her, and she always favours them--she does
really. She gives them better marks for their exercises, and easier
questions in class, and waits much longer for their answers than for
anybody else's. She doesn't like me."
"Dorothy!"
"She doesn't--honestly, Auntie. Even Alison notices how down she is on
me. If I do the least little thing I'm snapped up in a second."
"Then the obvious moral is, don't do the least little thing."
Dorothy pulled a long face.
"Auntie! You were brought up by a private governess, and you don't know
what it is to go to a huge school. One can't always be absolutely
immaculate; if one could, one would be a saint, not an ordinary girl. I
can't resist talking sometimes, or shuffling my feet, or fidgeting with
my pencil, or--no, no; if you're going to lecture, I shall fly! It's ten
past eight, and it's too wet to take the short cut across the field."
Dorothy certainly considered she had a grievance at present. She had
unfortunately not made a very good impression upon her new teacher. She
could not bear to curry favour, and, seeing that Hope and some of the
others were trying by every means in their power to pay special court to
Miss Pitman, she went to the opposite extreme, and became so abrupt as
to be almost uncivil in her manners.
"I'm not going to bring her flowers every morning, and offer her walnut
creams in the interval," she thought. "It seems like bribery, and I
should think much better of her if she wouldn't accept them. Miss Hardy
never did."
Miss Hardy, the mistress of the Lower Fourth, had been strict but
scrupulously just; she might be sometimes disliked by her pupils, but
she was always respected. Miss Pitman was a totally different type of
teacher: she was younger, better looking, dressed more prettily, and
cared very much more for the social side of life. She lacked power to
enforce good discipline, and tried to supply her deficiency by making a
bid for popularity among her girls. She dearly loved the little
attentions they paid her: she liked to pin a rose on her dress, or carry
home a bunch of hothouse flowers; she found tickets for concerts or
lectures most acceptable; and invitations--provided they were to nice
houses--were not despised. Probably she had not the least idea that she
was allowing her predilection for some of her pupils to bias her
judgment of their capacities in class, but in the few weeks that she had
taught the Upper Fourth she had already gained a reputation for
favouritism.
"She can be so particularly mean," said Dorothy, continuing the recital
of her grievances to Alison in the train. "She deliberately helped
Blanche out with one question yesterday, and she wouldn't give me even
the least hint."
"I don't like her myself," commented Alison, "though she isn't as hard
on me as she is on you. But it's perfectly easy to see what's the matter
with Miss Pitman--she's ambitious to climb. She wouldn't accept the
Parkers' invitation (they only live in a semi-detached villa), and she's
been twice to the Lawsons', who send her home in a motor. Well, she
won't be asked to our house."
"Nor to ours, though I don't suppose she'd want to come. All the same,
it's disgusting, and I've a very poor opinion of her."
That morning Miss Pitman took her classes without her ordinary adornment
in the way of a button-hole. Hope Lawson was absent, and the delicate
Marechal Niel or dainty spray of carnations that usually lay on her desk
at nine o'clock was absent also. Perhaps she missed it, for she was both
impatient and snappy in her manner during the lessons, waxed sarcastic
when Noelle Kennedy demanded an explanation of a rather obvious point,
and made no allowance for slips. She dictated the History notes so
quickly that it was very difficult to follow her, and woe to Dorothy,
who was rash enough to ask her to repeat a sentence!
"Are you deaf, Dorothy Greenfield? Sit up and don't poke. I can't allow
you to stoop over your desk in that way. If you're shortsighted, you
had better go to an oculist and get fitted with glasses."
Dorothy was apt to poke, and her attitude when writing was most
inelegant; but it is difficult to remember physical culture during the
agonies of following a quick dictation. She frowned and looked
thunderous as she made a jerky effort to sit straight.
"Miss Pitman's crosser than usual," she said to Alison at eleven
o'clock. "You'll see, I shall only get 'Moderate' for my literature
exercise, however well I do it."
"You mean she'll mark it low on purpose?"
"Yes; she never judges me fairly."
"But does she look at the names on the labels when she's correcting?"
"You may be sure she does, or Hope wouldn't always have 'Very Good'."
"Then, just as an experiment, let us exchange. I'll write my exercise in
your book, and you can write yours in mine. Our writing's sufficiently
alike."
"Oh, that would be a gorgeous joke! We'll do it; but don't tell a soul.
Let us go upstairs and arrange it now."
Dorothy wrote her literature exercise that morning in the book labelled
"Alison Clarke". She had prepared her subject carefully, and did her
very best not only to put down correct facts, but to attend to points
of composition. She tried to avoid tautology, unduly long sentences, and
various other mistakes to which she was prone, and flattered herself at
the end of the half-hour that she had turned out a decidedly creditable
piece of work. She blotted it with great satisfaction, and by rather
officiously collecting the books of several girls who sat near, and
placing hers in the middle of the pile, she managed to hand it to the
monitress without showing the incriminating "Alison Clarke" on the
cover. There was a singing class from 12 to 12.45, during which time
Miss Pitman always did her corrections. When the girls rushed up to the
classroom at a quarter to one, the books were finished and placed ready
upon the table. Alison and Dorothy each seized her own, and retired
together to a corner of the room.
"You've got 'Fair' in my book," whispered Dorothy. "Now let me see what
I've got in yours."
"'Excellent'!"
"Fiddlesticks!"
"Well, look for yourself."
"It actually is! Oh! Miss Pitman would never have given me 'Excellent'
if she'd known it was mine. I feel I've scored no end. Doesn't it show
her up?"
"Rather!"
"Excellent" was the very highest mark possible, and it was rarely given
at the College. To receive it was certainly a great honour, and showed
the merit of the exercise. The two conspirators thought they had been
extremely clever, and congratulated themselves upon the success of their
little plot; but it was to have a sequel which neither of them expected
in the least. Miss Tempest taught literature throughout the school, and
though she delegated the correction of exercises to assistant
mistresses, she occasionally made some enquiry about the written portion
of the work. That afternoon she entered the Upper Fourth classroom.
"I wish to know the results of your literature exercises," she
announced. "I myself set the paper this week, and I want to see what
standard you have reached individually. Will each girl in turn repeat
her mark, beginning with Noelle Kennedy?"
Dorothy was in a quandary: she did not know what she ought to say. Must
she give the mark that was written in her book, or the one she had
really gained? Justice seemed to point to the latter, so when it came to
her turn she answered "Excellent". Alison, taking the cue from her,
answered "Fair". Evidently the exercises had not reached a very high
standard of merit that day. There were a few "Goods", a great many
"Moderates" and "Fairs", and even one or two "Weaks" and "Faulties". At
the end of the recital the head mistress was just about to give her
comment, when Miss Pitman intervened.
"May I say a word, Miss Tempest? One girl has not stated her mark
correctly. Dorothy Greenfield said 'Excellent'. Now I particularly
remember that I only gave one 'Excellent' this morning, and that was not
to Dorothy."
Miss Tempest turned to Dorothy with her sternest look.
"Repeat your mark!" she ordered.
"Excellent," quavered Dorothy, sticking to her point, though she foresaw
a storm.
"Hand me your exercise!"
Dorothy fumbled in her desk with trembling fingers. She knew she was
involved in a most awkward situation. She was very pale as she passed up
the book. Miss Tempest opened it and glared first at the "Fair", written
plainly in Miss Pitman's handwriting, and then at the embarrassed face
of her pupil.
"I should not have thought you would consider it worth while to attempt
to deceive me with so palpable a falsehood, Dorothy Greenfield!" she
said scornfully.
Dorothy turned all colours. For once her wits deserted her. She could
not imagine how to explain the matter. The whole thing had happened so
suddenly that there seemed no time to cudgel up a word in self-defence.
A groan of indignation passed round the class, which Miss Tempest
instantly suppressed.
"Well, what have you to say for yourself, Dorothy? Do you consider such
conduct worthy of a girl who was nominated for the Wardenship?"
"Please, Miss Tempest, may I speak?" said a voice at the back; and
Alison Clarke stood up, blushing scarlet, but determined to have her
say.
"Do you know anything about this, Alison?"
"Yes; it's my fault. We changed exercise books. The one in Dorothy's
book marked 'Fair' is really mine, and here is Dorothy's, marked
'Excellent', in my book. If you'll please look at it you'll see it's her
own writing--she makes Greek e's, and I never do."
Miss Tempest frowned, but she nevertheless examined the exercise, which
a row of eager hands passed up to her.
"Is this Dorothy Greenfield's writing, Miss Pitman?" she asked.
"It certainly has all the characteristics," admitted the Form mistress.
"Why were you writing in each other's book?" enquired Miss Tempest
sharply.
Alison's scarlet face took an even deeper shade of crimson.
"Oh--just silliness!" she murmured. "But it seemed more honest each to
take the mark we'd really gained. I couldn't give in 'Excellent' when
I'd only had 'Fair'."
"Take care such a thing never happens again," said Miss Tempest, eyeing
both the culprits, who at that moment would have given a great deal to
have been a little less clever. "You will each put down 'Fair' in your
reports."
"So I've lost my 'Excellent'," lamented Dorothy after school. "Miss
Pitman will be rejoicing; I believe she 'twigged'."
"I'm almost certain she did, she was looking at you so keenly. Well,
there's one good thing, it will show her that we think she favours."
"Much she'll care!"
"Oh, I don't know! No teacher likes to be accused of unfairness."
"I know one thing--I should have got into an uncommonly big scrape if
you hadn't put in a word."
"Well, it was much easier for me than for you, as you'd got the
'Excellent'."
"But I haven't got it now, worse luck! And probably I shan't have
another all this term," groaned Dorothy.