Vivien Makes Terms
Mr. George Forrester and Mr. Barton Forrester were brothers, and
partners in the old-established firm of solicitors, Deane and Forrester.
The Barton Forresters lived at the opposite side of Porthkeverne, on the
road to St. Cyr, in an old-fashioned red brick Queen Anne house named
The Firs, with a Greek portico and iron balconies outside the windows.
The George Forresters always decided that the house was the exact
epitome of Aunt Carrie. It was stately, and stood on its dignity, making
you feel that it had a position to keep up, and extended hospitality as
in duty bound, but with no special enthusiasm. Houses are largely a
reflection of their owners, and five minutes in a drawing-room will
often suffice to give you the correct mental atmosphere of a family. If
the picturesque general disorder of Windy Howe suggested art run riot,
the well-kept but tasteless precision of The Firs expressed a totally
opposite temperament. No one could accuse Aunt Carrie of being artistic:
her rooms were handsome and spotlessly neat, but they gave you the sense
of being furnished, not arranged, and their lack of beauty struck a
chill to æsthetic souls.
Aunt Carrie herself was big, and bustling, and overbearing, with
well-cut features, a high colour, and a determined voice. She is
described first, because she was so decidedly the head of the family.
Uncle Barton only came in second. He was a gentle, pleasant little man,
with kindly wrinkles round his eyes, and a habit of whistling under his
breath when things grew stormy at home. In early days of matrimony he
made a struggle for his own way, but abandoned it later in favour of a
peace-at-any-price policy. He was a town councillor, and vicar's warden
at the parish church, as well as a special constable. In his spare time
he lived for golf. Lindon, his only son, was exactly like him, even to
the habit of whistling and the propensity for golf. With Lindon,
however, shells at the present were doing the whistling, and the
trenches took the place of bunkers. His photograph in khaki stood in a
silver frame on the drawing-room mantelpiece.
The three girls--Elsie, Betty, and Vivien--were shaded varieties of
their mother. When Lorraine counted up her blessings, she always placed
Rosemary and Monica as special items. She did not get on with her
cousins.
"I like Uncle Barton and Lindon," she decided. "You never hear them say
a nasty thing about anybody. It's the girls who pick holes in everyone
and everything."
The attitude of the female portion of the family at The Firs was
fiercely critical. It might be amusing to themselves, but it was
uncomfortable for other people. Lorraine, visiting there in a new dress,
literally squirmed when she felt eyes of inspection directed upon it. It
was the same with accomplishments. Both she and Rosemary dreaded to play
or sing at The Firs. The chilly "Thank you!" at the end of the
performance hurt more than brickbats. The Barton Forresters were always
urging on the George Forresters. They started on the assumption that, as
a family, they were more clever, capable, and up-to-date, and therefore
in a position to give good advice. Elsie, recently engaged to a naval
officer, considered that she had scored over Rosemary, who was six
months older and still unappropriated. Betty rubbed in her indispensable
work at the Red Cross Hospital with comments on those slackers who
shirked giving their fair share of help. Vivien's sharp tongue was
Lorraine's chief thorn in the flesh at The Gables.
The fact that Vivien was her cousin made things extremely difficult for
Lorraine. She could have done battle royal with a stranger, and fought
things out in the lists at school and have finished with them. But to
quarrel with Vivien was another matter. It meant also quarrelling with
Aunt Carrie, Elsie, and Betty, who would take affairs to the tribunal of
Pendlehurst and raise a domestic sandstorm.
Long before, when they were quite children, the two girls had
quarrelled, and Aunt Carrie had solemnly, and quite unjustifiably,
complained to her brother-in-law about Lorraine's conduct. Lorraine had
never forgiven her father for not taking her part more firmly on that
occasion. The remembrance of the ready ear he had lent to the enemy's
side of the question had prevented any future appeal to intervention.
Matters with Vivien went on in a species of guerrilla warfare.
As head girl, Lorraine had, of course, the whip hand at The Gables, but
in every fresh scheme she found her cousin a dead weight and an
impediment. Vivien always suggested something different. At committee
meetings she invariably started an opposition to every resolution.
Nothing could be carried without bickering. In her capacity of monitress
Vivien was not a favourite. She was far too high-handed and domineering
to win any measure of popularity among the juniors. Surging discontent
sometimes broke out into rebellion. It is a delicate task for a general
whose aide-de-camp is too officious. Lorraine, with a feeling that she
was treading on eggs, brought up the subject of discipline at the next
committee meeting.
"We must see that rules are kept, naturally," she conceded, "but I think
perhaps lately some of us have just a little exceeded our authority. We
don't want to get snubbed by Miss Kingsley, and told to mind our own
business!"
"If you mean me," retorted Vivien, "I wish you'd say so straight out and
have done with it! I hate innuendoes. I consider that the kids want
keeping in order, and I'm there to do it, whether they like it or
whether they don't."
"We must, of course, keep order; but if we can do it pleasantly, it
makes a far nicer feeling in the school. Some of those babes will do
anything for a monitress they like."
"Oh, it's all very well to go about fishing for popularity, like some
people we know!"
"I suppose you mean _me_?" said Patsie quickly.
"If the cap fits, put it on."
Nellie and Claire began to giggle at the prospect of a spar between
Patsie and Vivien. Dorothy was fiddling with her pencil and frowning.
"I don't let the kiddies take liberties with me," she vouchsafed; "yet
they escort me home in relays every day."
"A monitress ought surely to be _liked_!" said Audrey plaintively.
"What I feel is, that we ought to work more in harmony," explained
Lorraine. "It doesn't do for one monitress to allow a thing, and another
to forbid it. The juniors don't know where they are."
"Yes, we can't each run the show on our own," agreed Patsie.
"Couldn't we draw up a sort of general list to go upon?"
"A black-list?"
"Well, I mean some general guiding rules."
"It's quite unnecessary," demurred Vivien. "My advice is to keep the
kids in their places, and there'll be no more bother with them. It's
that sloppy sentimental truckling to them that's at the bottom of all
the trouble. I've got to go home now. You may make any rules you like,
but I shan't promise to keep them."
Vivien scraped back her chair and clumped noisily from the room, leaving
the majority of the committee indignant. They consulted together, and by
general consent drew up a short code for the use of monitresses. They
handed a copy of it to Vivien next morning. She glanced at it casually,
and flung it into the waste-paper basket.
"I'm a monitress as much as the rest of you," she remarked, "and I have
my authority from Miss Kingsley. I can't see that I'm answerable to
anyone else."
Among the juniors, Vivien's reputation was not pleasant. Naturally, they
talked over the monitresses among themselves. Juniors are sharp-eyed
little mortals, and they had a very good idea of how matters stood.
"Vivien loves to boss," said Nan Carson. "She's wild because she's not
head, and she takes it out of us in exchange."
"I don't see why she should order us about so."
"She's not a mistress!"
"No, only a monitress."
"It's not fair."
"I shall tell her so, some day."
"She's a mean old thing!"
"Why should we obey her?"
So matters jogged along till one day they reached a crisis. Vivien
happened to be passing the door of Form II at about ten minutes to nine.
It was, of course, before the official school hour, and Miss Poole had
not yet entered to take the call-over. Some of the children were getting
out books, some were making a last effort to learn lessons, and a few
were talking, laughing, and throwing paper pellets at one another. They
were not making very much noise, and most monitresses would have just
walked past the door and taken no notice. Not so Vivien. She bustled in,
and commanded order.
"Marjorie, sit down! Connie, shut your desk! Doris, stop talking! Effie,
pick up those pieces of paper at once! You ought all to be quietly in
your places."
"It's only ten minutes to nine," grumbled the girls.
"I don't care what time it is. If you're here at half-past eight you'll
have to behave yourselves. I shall come in again in a few minutes, and
if any girl is talking I shall put her name down."
Vivien stalked away, leaving mutiny behind her.
"No one's ever told us before that we weren't to talk before Miss Poole
came into the room."
"It's absurd nonsense!"
"_Everybody_ talks before nine!"
"You bet Vivien does herself!"
"I'm not going to sit still," piped Effie.
"Remember Vivien's coming back," warned Marjorie.
"She won't come back for a few minutes!" grinned Effie, hopping between
the desks, "and I don't care if she does, either! I'm not afraid of
Vivien! She may jaw away as much as she likes. It amuses her, and it
doesn't hurt me. So there we are. See?"
Some of the girls sniggered, and Effie, encouraged by popular
approbation, waxed more reckless still. She danced to the blackboard,
seized the chalk, and began to draw.
"Here's Vivien's portrait," she announced. "This is her long nose, and
this is her mouth, and this is her hair."
"Oh, it _is_ like her!" chirruped Gracie.
"The very image!" hinnied Doris.
"Shut up, Effie, and rub it off, you silly cockchafer," recommended
Marjorie, giggling in spite of herself.
"No, no! I haven't finished. I must put her blouse and swanky tie. Wait
a sec!" cried the artist, drawing in those details and adding a large
balloon issuing from the mouth of her model, and containing the words:
"No talking, girls!"
"You'll be caught," urged Marjorie, seizing the duster to clean the
blackboard. Effie snatched it out of her hand.
"All right, Grannie. Half a sec. more! I've just time!"
And she scrawled hastily over the top of the portrait: "This is old
Vivien."
The last half second was the undoing of Effie, for at that very same
instant the monitress reentered the room. Effie wiped the blackboard
with frantic speed, but not before Vivien had caught a clear view of her
portrait. She glared first at Effie, who had skipped back to her place,
then at the nine other conscious faces. Finally she announced:
"You'll every one of you report yourselves to me at four o'clock this
afternoon. I shall expect you in the handicraft room, and you'll each
bring a poetry book with you. I shall stay here now until Miss Poole
comes. I'm not going to have this form a bear-garden."
The mistress, entering almost immediately, looked rather astonished to
see Vivien standing by her desk. Her enquiring glance asked an
explanation.
"It was necessary for someone to come in here and keep order, Miss
Poole," vouchsafed Vivien.
The mistress turned a reproachful eye on her flock.
"I thought I could have trusted you, girls! I'm sorry to hear you've not
been behaving yourselves."
The form focused indignant glances at Vivien, but dared not utter a
protest. Their wrath, overflowed, however, at the earliest opportunity
for conversation.
"Sneak!"
"Tell-tale-tit!"
"Mean thing!"
"And we've actually got to report ourselves to her at four o'clock."
"It's the limit!"
Though the juniors might rage, the established tradition of The Gables
compelled them to comply with the monitress's orders. They grumbled, but
obeyed. Directly afternoon school was over, ten sullen and sulky girls
presented themselves at the door of the handicraft room. This was
situated at the opposite end of the playground, and was, in fact, the
old coach-house converted into a sort of joiner's shop. The school, in
relays, learned wood-carving here, and carpentry, and clay modelling,
and any other crafts which made too much mess inside the form rooms or
the gymnasium.
Vivien was busy at the bench, planing a piece of wood. She greeted the
victims grimly.
"If you can't remember to behave yourselves in school, you'll have to
have something to remind you," she remarked. "You may all sit down
there. Have you brought your poetry books? Very well, turn to page
sixteen and learn the first three verses of Lochinvar. You'll stay here
till you know them."
As a matter of fact, Vivien was entirely exceeding her authority. Miss
Kingsley had never given the monitresses leave to keep girls in, or give
them punishment lessons. Such privileges belonged to mistresses only.
The form, however, was not aware of this, and supposed that she had
received instructions from head-quarters. They took their places like
martyrs, and opened their poetry books, outwardly submissive, but with
black rebellion raging in their hearts.
Vivien, going on with her carpentering, kept a strict eye upon them, and
said "Hush!" if any one attempted to con her task even in a whisper. She
heard each child recite her verses separately, and would not let any of
them go till all had said their portions perfectly. By the time they had
completely finished it was a quarter to five.
"You may trot home now if you like," allowed the monitress. "And just
let this be a lesson to you for the future. Go in order and close the
door after you."
The martyrs made a decent exit, but once outside they stood and pulled
faces at the closed door.
"She's an absolute beast!"
"It's abominable!"
"To keep us all this time!"
"And learning hateful poetry!"
"And we hadn't done anything to deserve it, either!"
"What can we do to pay her out?"
"I know," said Effie. "Hush!"
She held up a warning hand and ran back to the coach-house door. The key
was on the outside, in the lock. She stood and listened for a moment,
then turned it and fled across the playground, followed by the rest of
the form. Instead of going home, however, they stayed in the cloak-room,
giggling over their achievement.
"If she's so fond of the handicraft room, she may stay there!"
"She shall just be kept in herself, to see what it feels like."
"_Won't_ she just be savage!"
"Serve her right!"
Vivien, having finished to her satisfaction the particular little bit
of carpentering upon which she had been engaged, put away her tools at
last, and turned to leave. She was very much surprised to find that she
could not open the door. She rattled the handle, thinking it had stuck.
Then she suddenly realized that it was locked, and that she was a
prisoner. She hammered till her knuckles were sore, and shouted, but
nobody came. It struck her that she was in an exceedingly awkward
position. The handicraft room was some little distance from the house.
It was improbable that Miss Kingsley, Miss Janet or the maids would hear
her. The window was nailed up, and would not open, so escape that way
was impossible. Had those wretched juniors locked her in on purpose, and
scooted off home? She stamped with wrath at the idea. Yet it seemed only
too probable. If so, would she have to spend the night here? The
prospect was appalling. She made a last despairing assault on the door.
To her immense relief a voice on the other side responded. It was a
deep, gruff, evidently feigned voice, and it said:
"Hullo, there!"
"Hullo! Let me out!" shouted Vivien.
"No, thanks! You're better where you are!"
"Let me out, I tell you!"
"Gently! Gently! Don't show temper!"
Vivien seized the handle again, and rattled lustily, but with no effect.
She thought she heard a noise like suppressed chuckling.
"_Will_ you unlock this door and let me out?"
"If we do, will you promise not to boss so hard again?"
"I shan't promise anything of the sort!"
"Right oh! Ta-ta!"
The little wretches surely were not going?
"Here! Come back!" Vivien shouted.
She was allowed a moment or two for reflection, then the gruff voice
again began to parley.
"Will you promise?"
"I shall do my duty as a monitress."
"But you won't _exceed_ it?"
"All right!" rather sulkily.
"Honour bright, and no bunkum?"
"I've told you so."
The bottom of the door did not fit closely to the step, and presently
through this small aperture the key was pushed. There was a sound of
pelting footsteps. By the time Vivien had managed to unlock the door,
nobody was in sight. She had the wisdom not to report the matter at
head-quarters. She knew that she had exceeded her authority in keeping
the children in, and doubted whether Miss Kingsley would back her up. It
was too humiliating an experience to relate to her fellow-monitresses,
so she kept it to herself. She utterly ignored it when she met the
members of Form II next morning. Several of them blushed so consciously
that she easily guessed who had been the ringleaders, but she judged it
discreet to take no more notice. The sinners, giggling over the joke
among themselves, decided that they were now quits with Vivien.