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THE MANOR SCHOOL
by
MRS. L. T. MEADE
Author of "A Bunch of Cherries," "Daddy's Girl," "The Time of Roses,"
"Bad Little Hannah," etc., etc.
[Illustration: Decoration]
The Mershon Company
Rahway, N. J. New York
Copyright, 1903, by
The Mershon Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ATTIC OF DESIRE, 1
II. THE MYSTERY, 9
III. A WILD SCHEME, 15
IV. GRANDMOTHER'S DINNER, 28
V. CHANGE OF A SOVEREIGN, 41
VI. SIX LONG YEARS, 49
VII. "THE REFORMATORY SCHOOL IS THE PUNISHMENT FOR ME," 57
VIII. PLAY-ACTING, 67
IX. A NIGHT IN THE SLUMS, 80
X. JUDITH FORD, 92
XI. LITTLE PROVIDENCES, 102
XII. GOING TO SCHOOL, 112
XIII. THE MANOR SCHOOL, 124
XIV. SCHOOLGIRLS, 134
XV. THE ORDEAL AND THE VICTIM, 145
XVI. SUSAN MARSH, 158
XVII. THE BOUDOIRS, 169
XVIII. "I AM AFRAID," 179
XIX. DAWSON'S BILL, 189
XX. NOBLESSE OBLIGE, 197
XXI. STAR'S PURSE, 206
XXII. THE BOWLING-ALLEY, 214
XXIII. THE RESOLVE OF THE BODYGUARD, 220
XXIV. MISS PEACOCK, 228
XXV. THE LETTER, 248
XXVI. THE CLEW TO THE MYSTERY, 270
XXVII. GOD'S WILL, 293
XXVIII. GOOD NEWS, 299
XXIX. ROSE TO THE RESCUE, 309
XXX. A PRISONER IN THE TOOL-HOUSE, 320
XXXI. MIDNIGHT AT THE GREENGROCER'S, 328
XXXII. THE TRIUMPH OF GOODNESS, 334
THE MANOR SCHOOL
CHAPTER I
THE ATTIC OF DESIRE
Christian Mitford was thirteen years of age. She was a tall girl with a
pale face, a little pronounced in expression, and quantities of thick,
untidy, very bright fair hair, which had a habit of tumbling in a great
mass over her eyes and round her shoulders. She was supposed to be much
spoilt, and it was well known she had a will of her own.
Christian was an only child. Her home was in a big house in Russell
Square. The house was large enough to have been the abode of princes in
bygone days. It had enormous, lofty rooms, wide halls, great corridors,
spacious landings, and, above all things, charming attics. The attics
were not only very big and very roomy, but they were also not required
for the use of the family at all. In consequence Christian took
possession of them. She had adopted them for her own use when she was
quite a little girl, not more than seven or eight years of age.
It was in the attics that Christian lived her real life. She made
a fairy world for herself, and there she was happy. In the great
front attic, which ran right across the house, she kept her dolls.
Christian had twelve dolls, and they all had special characteristics
and specially interesting histories. The adventures those dolls went
through would have delighted any other little girl; Christian took
these things as a matter of course. If Rosabel, the doll in the blue
frock, would run away at night to live with the gypsies for a long
time, she deserved punishment, and would be treated accordingly. If
Abelard, who was dressed in the costume of an old crusader, would fight
his enemies until he himself was all to pieces, and had to lie in bed
without arms or legs, surely that also was his own fault, and his
punishment served him right. Christian's cheeks used to blaze and her
eyes grow bright as these adventurous dolls went through their career
of naughtiness in her presence. She was so imaginative that she got
herself to believe that they really did these things without any help
from her, and sometimes she would sigh and shake her head and think
herself much to be pitied for having such a fearfully troublesome, not
to say dangerous family to manage.
But the dolls, with their dolls'-house for the respectable members of
the family, and with their forests full of bandits, their crusades,
their land of Palestine, their troubadours for the others, had had
their day. Christian grew old enough to feel the glamour of the dolls
depart. It was ridiculous to suppose that Abelard had really got
that ghastly wound in his side, or that he had really lost his legs,
fighting the Saracens. Yes, the dolls had had their day. But the
fairy tales could be read and lived through, and she herself could be
the heroine of adventure; and what a time she had when she was the
voiceless Mermaid who loved a Prince and for his sake had her tongue
cut out! Or how depressed she was when she acted the Ugly Duckling;
and how she had, as the little Tin Soldier, adored the little Paper
Princess!
But even the fairy-tale stage came to an end, and the history books had
now their turn. Christian was William Tell, and her hand shook as she
fired at the apple. Or she was Joan of Arc in prison, and putting on
her armor when there was no one by to see. Or she was Charlotte Corday
at the moment of her great inspiration. Or, again, she was on the way
to the guillotine as that great hero of fiction, Sidney Carton.
The world knew nothing about Christian. They saw a dull little girl who
flitted through life demurely and never expressed any strong feelings
about anything.
"She is a child without character," her French governess said of
Christian.
"She is a good girl, but she will never play--at least, except in the
ordinary way," her music-master said.
"If she had only a little imagination she would do so much better over
her poetry and history," her English mistress declared.
It was only her dancing-mistress who now and then expressed approval as
Christian flitted about on her small feet, curvetting and curtsying,
bending and bowing, and doing all these things with an inborn grace.
"Ah, that child!" said this discerning person; "has she not the very
essence of poetry--the thing itself?"
But Christian did not even hear her dancing-mistress praise her. She
was accustomed to being found fault with: even her mother only bestowed
faint praise upon her; and as to her father, he scarcely noticed her at
all.
Never mind, her real home was in the front attic. The grown people of
the house had very little idea how much of Christian's time was spent
in this attic. But however cold the weather, Christian never felt it
up there. She would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after
hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene
which she had conjured up. Of course, she got many a cold in this way.
The colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a
moment traced them to their true cause.
There came an afternoon soon after Christmas, cold and dreary, when
icy blasts of wind banged up against the dormer-windows of Christian's
attic, and such piles of snow were heaped up on the roofs hard by that
the young girl could only picture herself as the Ice Maiden. At last
the cold became unbearable, and she stepped out of fairyland and ran
swiftly downstairs.
On the floor just below the attics were the nurseries and her
schoolroom. In the front nursery sat old nurse. She was mending some of
Christian's stockings. She had spectacles on her nose, and was singing
softly to herself. Christian loved her perhaps better than anyone else
in the world, but she did not wait to speak to her now. She hurried
past the nurseries; their day was over. She used to sigh when she
remembered how many days were over. The dolls' day, the fairy-tales
day, and of course the nursery day. But, thank goodness, the hero and
heroine day would never be over!
"When I am grown up," thought the child, "I shall be a real one. I mean
to do something very big, very great, very grand. I am preparing--I
know I am preparing--all this time."
Christian also hurried past the schoolroom, which was quite comfortable
and snugly furnished, with big fires in the grates. She passed the
next floor, and presently found herself on the one where the drawing
rooms were situated. Here, beyond the two great drawing rooms, was a
small and very comfortable boudoir. The door of the room was slightly
open, and Christian observed that heavy curtains were drawn across
the windows. The logs on the fire blazed up merrily and a grateful
breath of heat came out to the child. Christian went in at once and
stood by the fire. She had just begun to thaw when she heard footsteps
approaching. Now, if she made for the door she would certainly meet
the intruder. This was not to be borne. She flew across the room,
pushed aside the heavy curtains which sheltered one of the windows, and
curling herself up on the window ledge, was completely lost to view.
There were double windows and shutters, and the shutters were fastened.
There was, therefore, not the slightest draught, and the window ledge
itself was soft with cushions, and had a down pillow at one end.
Christian had often lain there before to sleep. The little nook was
warm and, compared with the attic, most comfortable. She cuddled
herself up amongst the cushions and lay quiet. Of course, she would not
stay long; she would just get warm, and then go upstairs to her lessons.
But the footsteps she had heard did not enter the room, and presently
drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. When she awoke it was
to the sound of voices. She raised herself very carefully, taking care
not to make the slightest noise, and, dividing the curtains about a
quarter of an inch, peeped out. Her mother, Mrs. Mitford, was sitting
near the fire with her back to Christian. She was a pretty little
woman, very young-looking for her age, and dressed in the height of
fashion. A tempting looking tea equipage stood on a small table near,
and as Christian watched, her mother raised a small silver teapot and
poured out a cup of tea. She handed it across to a lady whom Christian
knew well and hated violently. She was a certain Miss Neil, who often
visited her mother. Christian had long ago pronounced Miss Neil a
frumpy, tiresome, cross old woman.
"I do dislike her!" she said now to herself. "I wonder my darling mumsy
can stand her."
As the child watched she saw Miss Neil help herself to a piece of
buttered toast, and at the same time her mother said:
"Whatever happens, I shall give her a first-rate outfit; I have made up
my mind to that."
Christian's heart made a great bound. She dropped back into the shadow,
making a slight creaking noise as she did so. Mrs. Mitford glanced
round her nervously.
"Don't you hear someone in the room, Julia?"
"No, dear; only mice in the wainscot," was Miss Neil's reply. "But, as
you were saying, you will send Christian provided with a good outfit.
That is so like you; you always were such a thoughtful, excellent
mother."
Mrs. Mitford liked to be praised, and Miss Neil was aware of that fact.
Mrs. Mitford's placid face shone with satisfaction.
"I should be sorry," she said, "if I failed in my motherly duties. The
mother of one child has a great responsibility thrust upon her."
"Your poor little girl won't like the change--eh?" said Miss Neil.
"I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Mitford, with a shrug of her dainty
shoulders. "The school her father has selected for her is, I
understand, very severe in tone. Discipline is much exercised there;
but my dear husband insists. He says that we are spoiling Christian."
Christian, at the other side of the curtains, dug her nails into her
flesh. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep from
screaming aloud.
"I want you to help me, Julia," continued Mrs. Mitford. "We'll have the
carriage out immediately after breakfast to-morrow and go round to the
different shops. We really have no time to lose. I mean to give her
two good, serviceable school frocks, two best frocks for Sunday--one
is all that is necessary, but I want her to look really nice--an
everyday evening frock, and a full-dress party one. Then she must have
a tailor-made coat and skirt, and about half a dozen blouses."
"An abundance," said Miss Neil. "Too much, I should say. I never think
there is any use in pampering young girls."
"Don't you, you old skinflint?" thought Christian at the other side of
the curtain.
"Of course, there are a thousand and one other things," continued Mrs.
Mitford; "but everything must be got in a great hurry, for she goes
next week."
"Next week," thought Christian. "Oh!"
Her thoughts flew to the attic. In the attic she was Charlotte Corday:
she had arrived at Paris; the greatest moment of her life was at hand.
In the boudoir she was a little girl eavesdropping. Yes, it was an ugly
position. She wriggled, then remained quiet, for the most awful thing
of all would be to be found out.
"What day did you say the dear child was to go to her school?" asked
Miss Neil.
"Next Tuesday. This is Wednesday--not a week off now."
"By the way, Mary," said Miss Neil suddenly, "have you told the child?"
"I have not Julia; and, what is more, I do not intend to. I shan't say
anything whatever about it until the night before. What is the use in
making her miserable? When she hears she will have no time to be sorry;
she will be far too surprised; and when she gets to school her new and
pleasant life will absorb her altogether. I want you to take her, by
the way, Julia, for neither her father nor I can spare the time."
"When do you start yourselves?"
"Early on Tuesday morning. It is all so sudden. Of course, my dear
husband is greatly pleased, for a great honor has been conferred on
him. But for this we should not have sent Christian from home."
Miss Neil slowly and deliberately stirred her tea, and by-and-by she
put down the empty cup and saucer.
Christian again raised herself and peeped through the curtain. She
watched her mother's straight little profile--the pretty lips, the
resolute chin, the low forehead, the pretty brown eyes.
"And yet she is hard," thought the child. "She speaks as though she did
not care. I always thought mumsy pretty, but somehow I don't think her
pretty to-night. She is hard; yes, that's it--hard."
Miss Neil began to draw on her gloves.
"I will call at eleven o'clock to-morrow," she said. "And rest assured,
Mary, I shall help you by every means in my power."
"Thank you, dear; I am sure you will. Good-by for the present. Please
make a list to-night of what you think will be required for a child
whose parents will be in Persia for four or five years. Of course, she
must have fresh things from time to time, but I want her to take all
that is necessary for her."
"I will indeed; I will with pleasure do what I can for your little
Christian. Good-by for the present."
Just as Miss Neil was leaving the room, and before Christian had fully
made up her mind whether she would dart from her shelter and confront
her mother with the fact that she had heard all, Mrs. Mitford took out
her watch, uttered a shriek, and cried:
"Why, I ought to be at the War Office now to meet Henry!" and she
rushed from the room.
Christian crouched back amongst her pillows. She stuffed her
handkerchief into her mouth to prevent her sobs from being heard. What
did it all mean? She could not understand.