_SCHOOL LIFE OVER._
MRS. BRIGSTOCK'S establishment was by no means a "first-rate finishing
school." It lagged very many degrees behind any such attainment of
excellence.
The house was tall and narrow, and it stood at the corner of a
particularly dull side-street, with shops for near neighbours. Bath is
a beautiful town, but even Bath has its unattractive side-streets, and
Mrs. Brigstock had certainly succeeded in finding one for her school.
Fifteen young ladies could, by dint of close packing, be stowed under
the roof, but "packing" had never yet proved necessary. The number
present at once rarely rose above nine or ten, and at the close of
Beryl Fordyce's school life, it had sunk to seven. Beryl was the oldest
of the pupils by a matter of two years, but Annie Jones, the smart
befringed little maiden of fifteen, who came nearest in age, could
surpass Beryl in a class, and plumed herself considerably thereupon.
Annie's father was a wealthy but parsimonious watch-maker, who could
be quite content with a cheap and second-rate education for his clever
daughter. After Annie Jones, came three sisters, varying in age from
fourteen to eleven, daughters of an East Indian coffee-planter. The
eldest of the three was the devoted friend of Annie Jones. The other
two fraternised with two other little girls, about the same age as
themselves, who had lately joined the school. This completed the number.
But Beryl Fordyce stood solitary, and had no friend. She gave out no
love, and she received none. These younger girls never turned to Beryl
for sympathy. She held herself quietly aloof, and went her own way:
always busy—for it was Beryl's nature to find occupation—but doing
everything alone.
The last evening of her school life had come, and no regrets were
expressed at her departure. Beryl had not expected any. She sat in the
window of the big barely-furnished schoolroom, looking through her
small desk, apart from the other six, who did things always by twos.
They were gathered together at the further end of the room, chatting
and working. It was a sunny evening in June; for Mrs. Brigstock kept to
the old-fashioned division of terms.
Beryl joined in none of the conversation. It was "not her way" to
talk much, people said. She was greatly changed by her five years of
schooling. The passionate and impulsive child had developed into a
staid and self-contained girl; square in build still, though not stout,
with a uniform complexion of somewhat muddy paleness. Strangers counted
her "ordinary" as to features, with a "sensible" expression, but on the
whole, decisively and irremediably "uninteresting." She was not even
interestingly ugly, but simply plain, with no redeeming points in the
way of intellect, sparkle, or piquancy; the kind of girl, seemingly,
to go through life in a straightforward downright fashion, making no
attempt to attract others, and quite content to "be" uninteresting.
Beryl was rather an enigma to her teachers. Mrs. Brigstock had fought
some battles with the sullen and headstrong child of earlier years, not
always coming off conqueror. Miss Walker, the "English teacher," had
been at perpetual war with that same child, for her reckless and untidy
ways.
But somehow a change had come about, creeping on in gradual inevitable
fashion, as change creeps over the first young shoot of a tree in its
growth to a sapling. No distinct break between two periods could be
pointed out; yet, during many months past, fault-finding had become
altogether needless with this sensible and self-controlled maiden. No
one counted Beryl clever, and nobody was at all surprised that she did
not excel in her studies; but what she undertook was done commendably
well, minutes were no longer wasted, and disorder was at an end.
Mrs. Brigstock, a woman of clever but shallow mind, and one who never
saw below the surface, counted Beryl a fine result of excellent
training, and was well satisfied. Miss Walker took to holding her up,
as a model of order and good behaviour, to the younger girls, not
greatly to their delectation. None of them exactly disliked Beryl, but
none of them loved her.
The only person who was not content, the only person who really
troubled her brain about Beryl, was the young Swiss teacher, advertised
in the school circulars as imparter of the best Parisian accent,—poor
little thing, she had never been nearer Paris than Geneva in her
life, and did not know the Parisian accent when she heard it. She was
scarcely over twenty, very simple and transparent, but exceedingly
warm-hearted, and her warm heart was utterly nonplussed by the
cold-mannered English girl. She had resided only three months in the
house, though her life in England had extended to nearer three years.
Those three months had contained daily additions of perplexity, with
regard to the eldest pupil.
"For Beryl," the Swiss girl pronounced it "Bé-ril," "cares for
none, loves not anybody. It is a life apart and alone. For me, I
cannot comprehend it. She is well-behaved 'à merveille'—she forgets
nothing, neglects nothing. The giddy Annie leaves half of her duties
unaccomplished, but not so Beryl. O no, she is blameless, only she
shows no warmth, no heart."
"It is the change from childhood to girlhood. People often develop
quite differently from what one would expect," Miss Walker said in her
staid fashion. "Beryl was an odd child from the first. I never felt
that I really understood her."
"'Je m'étonne'—does she understand herself, the poor girl?"
Miss Walker did not take up the line of thought suggested. "Beryl's
relatives never show any particular affection for her," she said. "In
fact, I don't think she is one to win love easily. Some people do not
seem to have the power. Though she has been here so many years, she
will be less missed by us all than any one of the other children would
be. I don't know why it is, except that she is proud, and will not take
pains to make herself liked; and also she is very much absorbed in her
own pursuits. She is a singular girl."
Mademoiselle sighed to herself that it was "triste." She went presently
to the schoolroom, and found the pupils as already described, six
grouped together, with minor divisions into couples, and Beryl seated
apart in the farthest window. Was that to be her fashion of going
through life?
Mademoiselle was so young and kindhearted that her presence was not
counted a check, as that of Mrs. Brigstock or Miss Walker would have
been. The children threw her affectionate smiles across the room,—all
except Beryl, who seemed quite wrapped up in her employment. The two
elder of the six sprang up and began to play a lively duet on the
piano, and the other four were chattering merrily.
Mademoiselle Bise stood looking at them. Rather common children they
were in appearance, not very lady-like, with dresses somewhat too
smart, and voices very much too high. Beryl Fordyce, however square and
plain and downright, had a certain something about her which belonged
to a different section of society. Nobody in the house detected the
difference, except Mademoiselle.
Under cover of the rattling tune, she went straight to Beryl's side,
and said softly, "Your last day here. Are you glad or sorry?"
Beryl, though of late a steady worker at lessons, had never succeeded
in mastering French so far as to converse easily in the foreign tongue,
and this evening English was permitted.
"I am not sure," replied Beryl, with a touch of surprise at the
question. "It depends—"
"Depends?" repeated Mademoiselle.
"On how things go on. I suppose I am to live at my aunt's."
"'Chez Madame?'—"
"Mrs. Fenwick. Pearl's—my sister, I mean,—Pearl's home is with her."
"And yours also, without doubt."
"I never think of Aunt Di's house as my home. I believe I am to live
there for the present."
"You have not any other home?"
"No."
"'Pauvre enfant,'" murmured Mademoiselle. "And yet you only
suppose—suppose."
"I shall know soon. Mrs. Fenwick's sister is in Weston-super-Mare, and
I am to go to her first." Beryl paused, and gave a hard little laugh.
"To be inspected, I dare say."
Mademoiselle looked compassionate. "And this sister—Pearl, do you call
her,—does she resemble you?"
Beryl searched in her desk, and presently produced a carte-de-visite.
"That was taken two years ago," she said; "just before I saw Pearl
last. No, she is not like me."
"'Mais qu'elle est gentille!'" Mademoiselle said admiringly.
"Yes, everybody calls Pearl pretty. I don't suppose I shall find her
much changed."
"And she and you are 'only' sisters," said Mademoiselle. "No more
sisters, no brothers, no father and mother; how much then, to draw you
together! If I were you, Beryl, I could keep nothing, nothing, from
that dear only sister, who is all that God has left to you. My very
thoughts would I tell out to her."
"I never tell my thoughts to any one," responded Beryl. "And Pearl is
not particularly fond of me."
"Not!" Mademoiselle was at a loss for words. She spread out her hands
expressively.
"Not particularly. Pearl is very fond of Mrs. Fenwick, and I do not
like Mrs. Fenwick at all."
The expression of Beryl's face at that moment was inscrutable to the
young Swiss girl. Something unwonted stirred beneath those composed
eyes. Mademoiselle could not divine its nature.
"But you—you love your sister dearly—love her of all your heart?
'N'est-ce pas?'"
"Yes." Just the monosyllable and no more.
"And you will win her love? You will give yourself no rest, short of
gaining that love?"
"Pearl does not need me," said Beryl, the stir of feeling having
apparently vanished. "She is quite happy with my aunt, and has
everything she cares for. I never thrust myself where I am not wanted."
"But Pearl has need for you,—it must be so. Others cannot make up to
her for you, Beryl. If you could but see it so."
"I should see if it were so. You don't know Pearl or Mrs. Fenwick
either, so how can you be a judge, Mademoiselle?" Beryl asked, with a
touch of impatience. "I used to be unhappy about it, but I have made up
my mind now that it is foolish to worry myself when things cannot be
helped. One must take life as one finds it, I suppose. What is the good
of minding? It is Pearl's fate to be made much of, and it is my fate
to be made nothing of. I dare say I shall get through life as well as
Pearl, in the end. I never talk like this to anybody, as a rule, only
you are making me do it—" and again there was a tinge of vexation, as
if Beryl felt herself to be failing in the programme which she had laid
down, and was annoyed at the failure.
"And I 'will' make you, if I can. I wish from my heart I had made you
speak out thus oftener," Mademoiselle Bise said earnestly. "Anything
rather than to shut up your own self into your own heart, and open
to nobody. It is starvation, Beryl; it is petrifaction. And 'getting
through life' is the least part of what we have to do. And there is no
'fate' for the child of God,—no, nor for any man. Fate is a heathen
word, not Christian. There is God's will, and there is Satan's will,
and there is man's will,—but there is not 'fate.'"
"I used the word in a general sense. Some people seem born to be happy,
and some not."
"And you are not happy?"
It was an assertion rather than a question. Beryl made no answer.
"You have held apart from me, 'mon amie,' and these three long months
have not sufficed for that I should know you. But this evening,—will
you promise me, on the brink of parting, to love me and to let me love
thee?"
Beryl's heart sprang in response, but her face did not light up,
neither did her fingers return the pressure of Mademoiselle's hand laid
upon them.
"I like you better than any one in the house," she said. "But you
do not really care for me, Mademoiselle. If you did, it would be
different."
She saw one of the younger children eyeing their movements, and drew
away her hand. "I should not like any one to call herself my friend,
just out of pity,—I mean, just because she thought I wanted one."
Suzette Bise looked steadily at Beryl, with a sudden sense of
revelation. Pride's presence was not shown in the latter by
aristocratic features or short upper-lip, but there, none the less, he
plainly held his habitation.
"You fear to be patronised," she said. "But think—consider—how might
'I' patronise—I, a poor young governess in a strange land! You shall
pity 'me,' Beryl; and I claim your pity, for I am far from my people,
and I am sad and lonely often. I have no friend in England, and truly
I need one. Will you pity me, and be my friend? Will you write to me,
and let me write to you? I will tell you all about my pleasures and my
troubles, and you shall tell me yours, tell me of your sister and your
aunt and your home. 'N'est'ce pas, mon amie'?' Shall it be a compact?"
"If you wish," Beryl answered. "Yes, I should like that."
"And you will call me Suzette,—not Mademoiselle, after to-morrow. I
have none in England to call me by that name."
The music stopped, and no more could be said.
Mrs. Brigstock presently sent for Beryl to her own sitting-room, and
had some conversation with her, and gave some good advice, couched in
stiff terms, to which Beryl listened superficially. Five years under
the same roof had not linked these two hearts together. Mrs. Brigstock
regretted the loss of another pupil, but for Beryl personally, she
cared little.
Beryl slept in a tiny room alone, and she lay awake that night
unwontedly long, thinking over the past conversation. A stagnant pool
in her heart had been stirred, and the stirring brought some pleasure
and some pain with it.
All that existed of the impassive in Beryl's nature was not indigenous
to the soil, but rather was fruit of cultivation or outer influences.
There were certain depths below which "could" be lashed into a
tempest,—and not a tempest of the mere storm-in-a-teacup description.
Childish storms were over now, however, lying in the far background;
and with the growth of her girlish common-sense and philosophical
resolution to make the best of things, Beryl counted herself to have
passed quite beyond any danger of unnecessary heart-tempests. What good
would they do to her or to anybody? Only it vexed her a little, this
particular night, that, between Suzette's words and her own uncertainty
as to her future, she could not settle quietly off to sleep as usual,
but found herself compelled to toss restlessly to and fro, with wakeful
heart-communings.
Suddenly the door opened, and a little figure glided in.
"'Dormes-tu?'" whispered a voice.
"No," Beryl said.
Mademoiselle struck a match, lighted a candle, and bent over the bed.
"One word with you. See—I have brought something—"
"What?" Beryl found lying in her hand a plain gold ring, with a few
neat pearls set in a row on one side.
"It shall be thine own, 'mon amie,' as a link between us."
Beryl was startled. She had had no present for a very long while.
Nobody had cared to give her presents. She had schooled herself often
against feelings of envy for others upon whom loving gifts were
showered. Now she looked wonderingly in Mademoiselle's face, where
tears were running freely from the black eyes. Not in the least pretty
was Suzette's little brown face, with its most irregular of features,
but it had the light of a loving spirit shilling through from within.
"It shall be your own, Beryl. Listen,—my father gave me this before he
died, and for his sake, I love it well. But I have other gifts of his,
and this shall be yours, to bind us together when far parted. See, it
will slip on your finger, and it is for mine too large. I have not worn
it since I was a young girl, fatter and plumper than now. But take it
off once more, and look,—nay, you cannot see by candle-light. There are
tiny words printed within the ring. Let me tell you them:—
"'Or ils seront les Miens, a dit le Seigneur des armées, lorsque je
mettrai à part mes plus précieux joyaux.'
"I know not the words in your English Bible, but you shall find them
in the third 'chapitre' of Malachi. Stay,—here is your Bible. Will you
that I look? 'Ah, les voici.'
"'And they shall be Mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I
make up My jewels."
Suzette Bise returned the Bible to its place, and clasped her hands
over one of Beryl's.
"'Mon amie,' it is in my heart this night to desire and to pray that
this shall be truth of 'you,'—that you shall be a jewel in the crown
of the Lord of Hosts,—thou a pure Beryl in His crown, and thy sister a
fair white Pearl. And the ring shall bring to mind this wish of mine."
Mademoiselle came to a pause in her earnest speech, and sat on the side
of the bed, waiting.
"I never pretend to be what I am not," Beryl said at length. "I do not
suppose I am so religious as you."
"For the religiousness, I ask not. But are you His? That is the
question for us. In that day when He shall make up His jewels,—oh,
Beryl, shall Christ the King be able to say to thee lovingly, 'THOU ART
MINE,'—or shall He have to cast thee aside, as worthless? 'Pardon',—but
it must be the one thing or the other. There are jewels in the earth
never made meet for the King's use. And even the fairest must still be
cleansed and shaped."
"But what must I do?" asked Beryl.
Perplexity and uneasiness were struggling with displeasure. Suzette saw
all three.
"The King's own blood can cleanse thee, and the King's own hand can
shape thee," she said. "Only go to Him in time. He can make thee pure
and beautiful,—fit for His diadem. And keep this ring, to bring to mind
what we have said."
"You are very kind," Beryl answered, with something of shyness. "I
don't know whether you ought to part with the ring. But if you really
wish me to have it, I'll—I'll promise not to forget, and not to give it
away. And I will write to you."
Then they kissed and parted.
Beryl lay long awake, thinking. "Does Mademoiselle 'really' care for
me, or is it only because she fancies that I am lonely?" The proud
spirit wanted to know.