STAR'S PURSE
When Star ceased speaking she took out her purse, opened it, and
produced the bill. It was folded into very minute compass, but it was
there, thin and aggravating, with its items quite perceptible even in
the somewhat dim light of the attic.
As she turned to go she put the bill back into her purse, and slipped
the purse into her pocket; then she left the room. Christian followed
her, feeling very much as though she were beaten all over. When they
arrived in the corridor which led to the white rooms, Star turned and
spoke.
"I believe," she said--and there was a kind tone in her voice--"that I
have misunderstood you. I shall know better to-morrow night. You made
a vast mistake in confiding your secret, whatever it may happen to be,
to those girls. You should have told me. I am not immaculate, and I
can understand even if a girl has got into a little scrape. Don't cry,
Christian; I won't be hard on you--I promise that--only don't take up
with that lot; they are, I assure you, beneath you. If I were a girl
like you, and had a father such as I hear yours is, to say nothing of
your pretty mother--for I have heard of her too--I wouldn't touch that
sort of girl; I'd let her go by; I'd say to myself, 'She's not for
me; she's not the sort I want to know.' Now go to bed and to sleep.
Good-night."
Christian said nothing; she felt absolutely tongue-tied. She entered
her little room. It was late--very late; the whole school was supposed
to be sunk in slumber. She did not even dare to light her candle. She
slipped off her clothes and got into bed. A chink of light from the
moon came through the curtain of the window. The light lay in two very
bright bars on the bed, and as the solitary moon went on her majestic
way the bars of light moved, until presently they reached the young
girl's shoulder, and then her ear, and then fell across her face. She
gave a smothered cry, for once in her home she had read about a woman
who was supposed to go mad when the moonlight covered her. Christian
felt almost mad that night. She could not sleep; she lay and tossed
from side to side until the morning.
The next day happened to be very wet; the sky was covered with a heavy
curtain of cloud. There was a sea-fog, too, so that even the beautiful,
fresh, sparkling Atlantic could not be seen. But the muffled roar of
the waves broke on the stillness; otherwise there was no sound.
As Christian dressed she noticed people, looking large and indistinct
in the fog, coming to the house and leaving it. Life at Penwerne Manor
would go on just the same whether the outside world was foggy or full
of sunshine, and whether young girls were happy or miserable. The
school was a strict one, and the hours were rigorously employed; the
rules were insisted on no matter whether Christian had a headache or
not. Nothing short of absolute illness could excuse lessons not being
performed.
She rose and went downstairs, feeling as though the weight of centuries
were resting on her shoulders. She entered the long preparation-hall
where the girls usually assembled when they first went downstairs.
There she stood disconsolately near the door. Presently Star, looking
bright and breezy and independent, passed her. She went up to Angela
Goring, and standing near her, took her hand with an affectionate
squeeze. Susan Marsh had not put in appearance.
Presently a teacher entered, looking sleepy and somewhat depressed. She
went through the roll-call. Susan Marsh came in at the last moment,
just in time to save herself from a bad mark.
The girls then went into the wide, pleasant-looking refectory, where
a wholesome breakfast was provided for them. After breakfast came
prayers, and then the usual lessons of the day.
Christian felt all the time as though she were living in a dream. So
occupied was her mind, and so absolutely miserable and bewildered did
she feel, that for the first time since her appearance in the school
she disappointed her teachers. There was a special professor who always
came on Wednesdays to give the girls recitation and reading lessons. He
was a very irascible person, and could not stand any inattention on the
part of his pupils. To find a girl like Christian, so intelligent, so
full of soul and true appreciation, was like honey and ambrosia to the
poor professor. To hear her read, with her pure Saxon accent and her
perfect pronunciation, soothed him, he was fond of saying, as though it
were the sweetest music.
He desired her to stand up now and read one of the most celebrated and
magnificent passages from Milton's Paradise Lost. She had left off at
a certain stanza at the previous lesson, and he desired her to proceed
from the line she had last read. Christian took her accustomed place.
Now, it so happened that Miss Peacock herself came into the classroom
on this occasion. Mr. Penrose had described to Miss Peacock how
splendidly Christian Mitford read, how in all respects she was unlike
the ordinary schoolgirl of her age. He was so enthusiastic about her
that Miss Peacock decided to hear the young girl herself.
"You must not spoil her by too much praise," she had said to the
professor. "I am much interested in Christian Mitford, and will do all
in my power for her, but I have to think of more than just the making
of a brilliant elocutionist."
"But she will be far better than that," said the professor. "I am
convinced she has a beautiful soul. The girl is a sort of genius,
although all is more or less in embryo at present."
Now, just as Christian stood up with the open book in her hand and most
eyes were fixed on her, the door opened at the farther end of the room
and Miss Peacock came slowly forward. Star, who was in the same class,
raised her bright eyes and fixed them first on Miss Peacock and then on
Christian.
Christian had been looking pale--pale as death--but now a warm wave
of color passed over her young cheeks and mounted to her smooth brow.
She looked up at Miss Peacock, and even that lady, accustomed as she
was to all phases of girl character, was startled at the anguish in
Christian's gaze.
"Begin, Miss Mitford," said the professor--"begin." He stamped his foot
with some impatience. He murmured a word or two of the opening lines,
and Christian read.
But where was the enthusiasm, where the go, the fire, the pathos,
of her delivery a week ago? Her voice shook with emotion then; she
forgot herself in the grandeur of the scene. Now she thought only of
herself--or rather she thought only of that awful hour to-night when
all would be known, and she would be disgraced and made miserable
forever.
The book suddenly dropped from her hand; she burst into tears.
"I'm not well; I can't do it," she said.
By this frank admission she saved herself from censure. The professor
muttered an apology, looked at Miss Peacock as much as to say, "Don't
judge her by this ignominious failure," and went on with the lesson.
Star Lestrange was then asked to read the page aloud, and she did so
with as much fire and interest as she was capable of.
Christian resumed her seat in the class, and buried her head in her
hands. When the professor's hour was over Miss Peacock went up to her
and asked if she would like to rest in the library.
"You are not fit for lessons," she said; "you have a bad headache. What
can be the matter?"
"My head does ache, but I am quite well. I did not sleep last night;
that is the reason. There is really nothing the matter. I would rather
go on with my lessons please."
"You are not fit for them, dear. Obey me. There is perfect quiet in the
library at present; go there and sleep. If you go, I promise that you
shall not be disturbed until dinner-time."
Christian went away at once. The library was a very pleasant apartment,
given over partly to the use of the elder girls and partly to the
teachers. Christian entered it, sought a chair by the fire, and lay
back in it, soothed for the time being by the stillness and the sleepy
crackle of the flames. She was just dozing off into real sleep when a
girl entered and said:
"Do you know where Star Lestrange is?"
"No," said Christian, "I don't. What is it, Alice?"
"How bad you look, Christian! What is the matter?"
"What do you want Star for?" repeated Christian.
"I wanted to give her her purse. She sent me upstairs to fetch it. She
wanted it in a great hurry for some reason or other. Oh, dear! I have
to go into Tregellick at once with my music-mistress. What is to be
done?"
"Give it to me," said Christian; "I'll see that she gets it."
"Thank you so much!" said Alice. "Give it to her as soon as you see
her, please; she wanted it at once."
"Yes," replied Christian.
Alice dropped the purse into Christian's lap and ran out of the
library. She was a merry, lively girl, and did not give another thought
to the purse. Christian let it lie in her lap and also forgot it; all
her thoughts were centered round the evening, and round what would
happen then. What was to be done? How could she live through her life
in the school when all was known?
"I could run away again," she thought. "Oh, what a mistake I made to
run away the last time! What an awful, awful thing it is for any girl
to do the sort of wrong I did then! I should be so happy but for that.
I should never take the slightest notice of a girl like Susan Marsh;
and I should be very fond of Star, and Angela, and Lucy, and Louisa,
and even of Jane. Jane is quite a good sort of girl. They are all of
them nice--all except Susan, and perhaps Maud Thompson. Oh, what is to
be done?"
She writhed in her misery, but once again the absolute stillness
soothed her, and she was dozing off to sleep when she heard a door open
at the far end of the room. A girl's voice said "Hush!" and then there
was silence. Christian turned her head.
"Is there anybody there?" she called out; but there was no answer,
only she fancied that she heard a rustle.
She was half-disposed to rise and go down the long room to find
out who was hiding; but after all, she thought, it did not matter.
She was yielding more and more each moment to the influence of her
comfortable seat, the pleasant fire, and the feeling of warmth and
rest. Her troubles did not press her so close; they seemed to go away
from her, to recede in the distance. It seemed to her that she did not
greatly care what happened. She could not help herself. How sleepy she
was! How pleasant the flames looked! When she shut her eyes she saw
pictures. They were pictures of her old life--her mother's boudoir,
and the nest of all nests behind the curtains--the softness of those
pillows on which her head had once rested. Then she was in the attic
with her dreams of past and future glory, her romances, her spells of
idealism. Or she was with her father, and he was telling her about her
grandmother, and what he hoped she herself would be. Then, again, she
was in those awful slums near Paddington, and Mrs. Carter was looking
in at the window. Christian cried out in her sleep:
"Go away! Don't touch me."
She started up as she spoke, and was wide awake again. A girl was
walking down the room. Star's purse still lay in Christian's lap.
"What is it? What are you doing? You frightened me," said Christian.
"Sorry," replied Susan in a nonchalant voice. "I came to look for a
book--the 'Heir of Redclyffe.' Don't you like it? Don't you think it a
beautiful story?"
"I read it a couple of years ago; I forgot it now," replied Christian.
"Are you better for your sleep?"
"Yes, thank you."
Susan opened the door. Christian suddenly seemed to remember something.
She started up, clasped Star's purse in her hand, and ran towards the
open door.
"What are you going to do about--about to-night?" she said.
Susan laughed. "Nothing at all," she said.
Just at that moment Star came in.
"Oh, Christian," she said, "you have got my purse! What a search I have
had for it! I sent Alice up to my room for it."
"She gave it to me," said Christian quite calmly. "She had to hurry out
to her music lesson at Tregellick. She could not find you."
"I was in the bowling-alley. I want it."
Star snatched up her purse and slipped it into her pocket. She then
left the room, and Christian returned to her place by the fire. Her
sleep had wonderfully soothed her.
After all, nothing mattered--that is, nothing mattered much. Seven
o'clock in the bowling-alley seemed a long way off. Her headache was
better--nearly gone; she could endure life once more.