A Crisis
Winona had been more than a month, nearly five weeks indeed, at the
Seaton High School. In the first few days of her introduction to
V.a. she had told herself that the difficulty of the work
consisted largely in its newness, and that as soon as she grew
accustomed to it she would sail along as swimmingly as Garnet Emerson,
or Olave Parry, or Hilda Langley, or Agatha James. Most unfortunately
she found her theory acted in the opposite direction. Closer
acquaintance with her Form subjects proved their extreme toughness. She
was not nearly up to the standard of the rest of the girls. Her Latin
grammar was shaky, her French only a trifle better, she had merely a
nodding acquaintance with geometry, and had not before studied
chemistry. Her teacher seemed to expect her to understand many things of
which she had hitherto never heard, and was apparently astounded at her
ignorance. Winona puzzled over her text-books during many hours of
preparation, but she made little headway. The royal road to learning,
which she had fondly hoped to tread, was proving itself a stony and
twisting path.
"_You_ seem to get on all right?" she said wistfully to Garnet one day.
"Why, yes. Of course one has to work," admitted her friend. "Miss
Huntley keeps one up to the mark. But one must expect that in
V.a. They don't put scholarship holders in the Preparatory."
"I was all at sea in math. this morning."
"You were rather a duffer, certainly. The problems weren't as difficult
as the ones they gave us in the entrance exam. If those didn't floor
you, why couldn't you work these?"
"But they did floor me. I barely managed half the paper. I reckoned I'd
failed in it."
Garnet looked surprised.
"Then your other subjects must have been extremely good to make up for
it. I was told that we should probably stand or fall by maths. You were
ripping in everything else, I suppose? Scored no end?"
Winona did not answer the question. She was conscious that none of her
papers could have merited such an eulogium. She envied Garnet's grasp of
the form work. Try as she would, her own exercises and translations were
poor affairs, and her ill-trained memory found it difficult to marshal
the enormous number of facts that were daily forced upon it. Miss
Huntley at first was patient, but as the weeks wore on, and Winona still
wallowed in a quagmire of amazing mistakes, she grew sarcastic. The girl
winced under some of her cutting remarks. Apparently the mistress
imagined her failure to be due to laziness and inattention, and sooner
than confess that she could not understand the work, Winona was silent.
She never mentioned the long hours she spent poring over her books in
Aunt Harriet's dining-room. After all, it was better to be thought idle
than stupid. But it was humiliating to feel that she was counted among
the slackers of the Form, while Garnet was already winning laurels. The
contrast between the two scholarship holders could not fail to be
noticed.
Miss Huntley (privately known to the Form as "Bunty") was a clever, but
rather remorseless teacher. She had been on the staff since the opening
of the school two years before, and she was determined at all costs to
maintain the high standard inaugurated at its foundation. She was
herself the product of High School education, and knew to the last
scruple how much to require from girls in V.a. To those who
appeared to be really trying their best she was ready to give
intelligent help, but she had no mercy for slackers. She was possessed
of a certain amount of dry humor, greatly appreciated by the form _en
bloc_, though each quaked privately lest, through some unlucky slip, she
might find herself the object of the smart but withering satires.
Despite her strictness, "Bunty" was popular. She was an admirable tennis
player, and a formidable champion in a match "Mistresses _v._ Girls."
Her strong personality fascinated Winona, who would have done much to
gain her approval. So far, however, she was entirely on Miss Huntley's
black list.
Matters came to a crisis over a difficult bit of Vergil. Latin was,
next to mathematics, the most painfully wobbling of Winona's shaky
subjects. She had puzzled in vain over this particular piece of
translation. The words, indeed, she had found in the dictionary, but she
could not twist them into sense.
"Old Vergil's utterly stumped me to-day!" she mourned to Garnet, as they
met in the dressing-room before nine o'clock. "If Bunty puts me to
construe anywhere on page 21, I'm a gone coon. I'm feeling in a blue
funk, I can tell you."
"Poor old bluebottle! Don't wrinkle up your forehead like that--you're
making permanent lines! It's a bad trick, and just spoils you."
"I can't help it when I'm worried!"
"Then don't worry."
"Oh, it's easy enough for you; you don't have to receive the vials of
Bunty's scorn."
Winona hoped against hope that the difficult page might fall to somebody
else's turn. Miss Huntley took no particular order, but selected girls
at random to construe the lesson. In a Form of twenty it was possible
not to be chosen at all. Winona kept very quiet, so as not to attract
the mistress' attention. Marjorie Kemp and Olave Parry had already
translated half of the fatal page, with tolerable credit. Miss Huntley's
eye was wandering in the direction of Irene Mills. Winona dared to
breathe. Then, alas! alas! Some unlucky star caused the mistress to look
back towards the middle of the room. In a spasm of nervousness, Winona
jerked her elbow, and away went her pencil-box, clattering on to the
floor, and dispersing its collection of pens, pencils, nibs and other
treasures beneath the neighboring desks. There was a dead silence, and
the culprit was instantly the center of attention.
"A clumsy thing to do! Leave those things where they are! You can pick
them up after the lesson," observed Miss Huntley grimly. "Go on now with
the translation."
Winona's hot face had been hidden under Audrey Redfern's desk. She rose
reluctantly. Her confusion made the hard passage seem twice as
difficult. Even the words which she had carefully looked up in the
dictionary and learned by heart escaped her fickle memory. She stumbled
and floundered hopelessly, getting redder and redder with shame. Miss
Huntley preserved an ominous silence, and did not attempt to help her
out.
"That will do!" she said, at the end of about eight lines. "After such a
complete exhibition of incompetence we won't inflict any more of your
bungling upon the form. We must see if we can find a way of sharpening
your wits. Your brain seems to have been lying fallow since you came to
school! You will report yourself to Miss Bishop at four o'clock this
afternoon."
The rest of the morning passed like a bad dream to Winona. It was a rare
event for a teacher to send a girl to the head mistress. The prospect of
the coming interview made her cold with apprehension. She avoided Garnet
at one o'clock, and hurried out of the dressing-room without speaking
to any one. She had a wild project of pleading a headache, and begging
Aunt Harriet to let her stop at home for the rest of the day. But then
to-morrow's explanations would be infinitely worse. No, it was better to
face the horrible ordeal and get it over. As it happened, Miss Beach had
gone out to lunch, so that leave of absence was an impossibility. Winona
ate her early dinner alone.
"Aren't you well, miss? Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"
asked Alice the housemaid, noticing that the pudding was unappreciated,
and divining that something must be amiss.
"No, thanks! I'm in a hurry, and must fly off to school as quickly as I
can. It's my early afternoon."
Winona had a music lesson at a quarter past two on Thursdays. It was
always rather a rush to get back in time for it. She crammed her "Bach's
Preludes" and "Schubert's Impromptus" automatically into her portfolio,
and started. It was only when she was half-way down Church Street that
she remembered she had left her book of studies on the top of the piano.
Needless to say, her lesson that day was hardly a success. In the
disturbed state of her mind she was quite incapable of concentrating her
attention on music. Miss Catteral looked surprised at her wrong notes
and imperfect phrasing.
"I shall expect to find some improvement in this 'Impromptu' next week,"
she remarked. "Have you practiced your hour daily? You must take these
bars, which I have marked, separately, and play each twenty times in
succession, slowly at first and then faster, and remember here that it
is the left hand which gives the melody, and the right is only the
accompaniment. I thought you had sufficient music in you to appreciate
that! The way you thumped out those chords was painful. I am not pleased
at all."
Miss Catteral so rarely scolded that Winona felt doubly humiliated. It
was all a part and parcel of the general ill-luck of the day. She
fetched her drawing-board, and went to the art class. Here at least she
would have peace for an hour, though every one of the sixty minutes was
bringing her nearer to her dreaded interview. At four o'clock, with a
horrible sinking feeling in her heart, and a trembling sensation in her
knees, she knocked at the door of the head-mistress's study, and entered
in response to the "Come in!" which followed. Miss Bishop looked up from
some papers, motioned her to a chair, and went on writing for several
minutes. To Winona it seemed worse than waiting at the dentist's. The
suspense was ghastly.
At last the Principal paused, laid down her pen, and blotted her pages.
"Come here, Winona Woodward," she said quietly. "I wish to have a
straight talk with you."
Miss Bishop's eyes were her most striking feature. They were large and
clear, but the pupils were unusually small, appearing mere black specks
in the midst of a wide circle of blue. This peculiarity gave her a
particularly intense and penetrating expression. Winona, standing at
attention beside the desk, dropped her own eyes before the steady,
searching gaze.
"Miss Huntley's report of your work is not at all satisfactory," began
Miss Bishop. "I have been watching your progress since you joined the
school, and I cannot think you are trying your best. At first, when you
were totally new to your Form, I suspended judgment, but you have been
here nearly half a term now--quite long enough to accustom yourself to
our methods. I confess I am greatly disappointed. I had hoped for better
things from the holder of a County Scholarship."
Winona remained silent. She could think of nothing to say in
self-defense.
"It must be sheer lack of grit and effort," continued Miss Bishop. "I
cannot understand how a girl who did so remarkably well in the entrance
examination can rest content with such a low record. How long do you
take over your preparation?"
"Until my aunt sends me to bed," replied Winona, in a very subdued
voice. "I spend the whole evening at my lessons."
Miss Bishop looked puzzled.
"Then the work must be too difficult for you. If that is the case, I
must remove you to V.b."
V.b. was notorious in the school as a refuge for incompetence.
It was mainly composed of girls of sixteen and seventeen who could not
reach the standard of the Sixth, and who went by the nickname of "owls"
or "stupids." The prospect of being relegated to such an intellectual
backwater spread palpable dismay over Winona's face. Miss Bishop smiled
rather grimly.
"We can't win honors without paying the price! You must know that
already by experience. I conclude that you studied hard for the
Scholarship examination? Well, your Form work requires equally close
application. Here is Miss Huntley's report: 'French, weak; Latin,
beneath criticism; mathematics, extremely bad.' Yet in all these three
subjects you gained a high percentage in the entrance examination. I
have your papers here--yes, Latin 85, French 87, mathematics 92"
(rapidly turning over the pages), "it is simply incredible how you have
fallen off."
Winona was gazing at the sheets of foolscap in the Principal's hand.
"Those aren't my papers," she faltered.
"Certainly they are. They're marked with your number, 11."
"But I wasn't number 11, I was number 10."
Miss Bishop stooped, opened a drawer in her bureau, and took out a book.
"Here it is in black and white," she replied. "No. 11, Winona Woodward."
Winona's shaking hands clutched the edge of the bureau. In a flash the
whole horrible truth was suddenly revealed to her. Until that moment she
had almost forgotten how she and the ruddy-haired girl had collided at
the door of the examination-room, and dropped their cards. In picking
them up, they must have effected an exchange. She remembered that she
had been too agitated to notice her number until after the accident had
happened. She now related the circumstance as best she could. Miss
Bishop listened aghast.
"What number did you say you took in the examination-room? Ten? That is
entered in my book as Marjorie Kaye. I have the rest of the candidates'
papers in this bundle. Let me see--yes, here is No. 10. Is this your
handwriting? Then I'm afraid there has been a terrible blunder, and the
scholarship has been awarded to the wrong girl."
The Principal's consternation was equalled by Winona's. To the latter
the ground seemed slipping from under her feet. She tried to speak, but
failed. A great lump rose in her throat. For a moment the room whirled
round.
"This set of papers, No. 10, was marked so low as to be out of the
running," continued Miss Bishop. "It is a most unfortunate mistake, and
places the school in an extremely awkward position. I must consult with
the Governors at once. Pending their decision, it will be better not to
mention the matter to anybody. You may go now."
Winona managed somehow to get herself out of the study, to put on her
hat and coat, and to walk home to Abbey Close. Her aunt was still
absent, for which she was intensely thankful, and ignoring the tea that
was waiting on the dining-room table, she rushed upstairs to her
bedroom. Her one imperative need was to be alone. She must face the
situation squarely. Her world had suddenly turned topsy-turvy; instead
of being the winner of the County Scholarship, she was among the
rejected candidates. In her heart of hearts she had always marveled how
her indifferent papers could have scored such a success. She wondered
this explanation had never occurred to her before. All this time she had
been wearing another girl's laurels. What was going to happen next? She
supposed the scholarship would be taken from her, and given to its
rightful owner. And herself? She would probably be packed home, as Percy
had prophesied, "like a whipped puppy." Possibly Aunt Harriet might
offer to pay her fee as an ordinary pupil at the High School, but in
either case the humiliation would be supreme.
Winona dreaded returning home. In spite of the difficulty of the work,
the High School had opened a fresh world to her. She could never again
be content with the old rut. Miss Harmon's dull lessons would be
intolerable, and life without Garnet's friendship would seem a blank.
The companionship of her three little sisters was totally inadequate for
a girl who was fast growing up. She shrank from speculating how her
mother would receive the bad news. Mrs. Woodward was one of those
parents who expect their children to gain the prizes which they were
incapable of winning for themselves. She had claimed a kind of
second-hand credit in her daughter's triumph. Winona knew from past
experience that so keen a disappointment would involve a string of
reproaches, regrets and fretting. She would probably never hear the
last of it. The family hopes had been pinned upon her success, and to
frustrate them was to court utter disgrace. For the present she must
live with this sword of Damocles hanging over her head, but she hoped
the Governors would decide the matter speedily, and put her out of her
misery.
There is one virtue in a supreme trouble--it dwarfs all minor griefs.
Percy's secret, which had been felt as a continual burden, seemed to
sink into comparative obscurity, and the worry of school work and the
dread of Miss Huntley's sarcasm were mere flies in the ointment. Winona
never quite knew how she got through the week that followed. It stayed
afterwards in her memory as a period of black darkness, a valley of
humiliation, in which her old childish self slipped away, and a new,
stronger and more capable personality was born to face the future. She
had resigned herself so utterly to the inevitable, that when at last
Miss Bishop's summons came, she was able to walk quite calmly into the
study. The Principal was seated as usual at her bureau; Winona's
entrance examination papers lay before her. Her manner was
non-committal; her blue eyes looked even more penetrating than usual.
"You will have been wondering what was going to happen about the matter
of the scholarship," she began.
"Yes, Miss Bishop," answered Winona meekly. She did not add that she had
spent eight days in a mental purgatory.
"I of course placed the facts before the Governors, and we at once
communicated with the parents of Marjorie Kaye. We find, however, that
in the meantime she has been elected a scholar of the Maria Harvey
Foundation, and will therefore be unable to accept this scholarship. Her
papers and those of Garnet Emerson were the only ones of outstanding
merit. In re-examining the remaining eighteen we find a uniform level of
mediocrity. As regards your set of papers, the general standard is low,
with one exception. We consider that your essay on Lady Jane Grey shows
an originality and a capacity for thought which may be worthy of
training. On the strength of this--and this alone--the Governors have
decided to allow you to retain your scholarship. In so doing they are
perfectly within their rights. They did not undertake to grant free
tuition to the candidate who scored the highest number of marks, but to
the one who, in their opinion, was most likely to benefit by the school
course. It was a matter to be settled entirely at their discretion. I
have carefully re-read your papers, and compared them with your form
record, and I come to the conclusion that you are backward and
ill-instructed in many subjects, but that you are not idle or stupid. I
shall make arrangements for you to have special coaching in mathematics,
Latin and chemistry until you can keep up with the rest of the Form. I
find your reports for history and English literature are good, which
confirms my opinion that you do not lack ability. You will need to work
very hard, especially at those subjects in which you are so deficient,
but I trust you will soon show a marked improvement, and thus justify
the decision of the Governors. Are you prepared to try?"
"I don't know how to thank you--I'll do my very best!" stammered Winona,
quite overcome by this unexpected _dénouement_.
"Then that is all that need be said. Miss Lever will take you every day
from 3.30 to 4.15 for private tuition. Mark that on your time-table, and
go to her this afternoon in the Preparatory Room. You may tell Miss
Garside that I am disengaged now, and at liberty to speak to her."
Winona left the study with very different feelings from those with which
she had entered. Her spirits were so high that she wanted to dance along
the corridor. She could hardly believe her good fortune. Those great and
important gentlemen, the Governors, had actually approved of her essay
to the extent of allowing it to stand as her qualification for the
Scholarship! She blessed Lady Jane Grey, and Edgar Allan Poe, and
Browning, and André de Chénier, and the happy chance that had made her
combine them all. She was glad she had paid that visit to Hampton Court,
and that she had seen Lady Jane Grey's portrait, and had been able to
describe both. Life was going to be a very exhilarating business, now
her position in the school was once more secure.
"I'll show them how I can work," she thought. "They shan't be sorry that
they let me stay after all! Oh, I am in luck! Yes, I'm the luckiest girl
in the school!"