_May 13th, 1895_.
Lena Streatham gave me this diary. I can't think what possessed her,
for she has been simply hateful to me sometimes this last term. Perhaps
it was remorse, because it's awfully handsome, with just the sort of
back I like--soft Russia leather, with my initials in the corner, and a
clasp with a dear little key, so that you can leave it about without
other people seeing what is inside. I always intended to keep a diary
when I left school and things began to happen, and I suppose I must have
said so some day; I generally do blurt out what is in my mind, and Lena
heard and remembered. She's not a bad girl, except for her temper, but
I've noticed the hasty ones are generally the most generous. There are
hundreds and hundreds of leaves in it, and I expect it will be years
before it's finished. I'm not going to write things every day--that's
silly! I'll just keep it for times when I want to talk, and Lorna is
not near to confide in. It's quite exciting to think all that will be
written in these empty pages! What fun it would be if I could read them
now and see what is going to happen! About half way through I shall be
engaged, and in the last page of all I'll scribble a few words in my
wedding-dress before I go on to church, for that will be the end of Una
Sackville, and there will be nothing more to write after that. It's
very nice to be married, of course, but stodgy--there's no more
excitement.
There has been plenty of excitement to-day, at any rate. I always
thought it would be lovely when the time came for leaving school, and
having nothing to do but enjoy oneself, but I've cried simply
bucketfuls, and my head aches like fury. All the girls were so
fearfully nice. I'd no idea they liked me so much. Irene May began
crying at breakfast-time, and one or another of them has been at it the
whole day long. Maddie made me walk with her in the crocodile, and
said, "Croyez bien, ma cherie, que votre Maddie ne vous oubliera
jamais." It's all very well, but she's been a perfect pig to me many
times over about the irregular verbs! She gave me her photograph in a
gilt frame--not half bad; you would think she was quite nice-looking.
The kiddies joined together and gave me a purse--awfully decent of the
poor little souls--and I've got simply dozens of books and ornaments and
little picture things for my room. We had cake for tea, but half the
girls wouldn't touch it. Florence said it was sickening to gorge when
your heart was breaking. She is going to ask her mother to let her
leave next term, for she says she simply cannot stand our bedroom after
I'm gone. She and Lorna don't get on a bit, and I was always having to
keep the peace. I promised faithfully I would write sheets upon sheets
to them every single week, because my leaving at half term makes it
harder for them than if they were going home too.
"We shall be so flat and dull without you, Circle!" Myra said. She
calls me "Circle" because I'm fat--not awfully, you know, but just a
little bit, and she's so thin herself. "I think I'll turn over a new
leaf and go in for work. I don't seem to have any heart for getting
into scrapes by myself!"
"Well, we _have_ kept them going, haven't we!" I said. "Do you
remember," and then we talked over the hairbreadth escapes we had had,
and groaned to think that the good times were passed.
"I will say this for Una," said Florence, "however stupid she may be at
lessons, I never met a girl who was cleverer at scenting a joke!"
When Florence says a thing, she _means_ it, so it was an awful
compliment, and I was just trying to look humble when Mary came in to
say Miss Martin wanted me in the drawing-room. I did feel bad, because
I knew it would be our last real talk, and she looked simply sweet in
her new blue dress and her Sunday afternoon expression. She can look as
fierce as anything and snap your head off if you vex her, but she's a
darling all the same, and I adore her. She's been perfectly sweet to me
these three years, and we have had lovely talks sometimes--serious
talks, I mean--when I was going to be confirmed, and when father was
ill, and when I've been homesick. She's so good, but not a bit goody,
and she makes you long to be good too. She's just the right person to
have a girls' school, for she understands how girls feel, and that it
isn't natural for them to be solemn, unless of course they are prigs,
and they don't count.
I sat down beside her and we talked for an hour. I wish I could
remember all the things she said, and put them down here to be my rules
for life, but it's so difficult to remember.
She said my gaiety and lightness of heart had been a great help to them
all, and like sunshine in the school. Of course, it had led me into
scrapes at times, but they had been innocent and kindly, and so she had
not been hard upon me. But now I was grown up and going out into the
battle of life, and everything was different.
"You know, dear, the gifts which God gives us are our equipments for
that fight, and I feel sure your bright, happy disposition has been
given to you to help you in some special needs of life."
I didn't quite like her saying that! It made me feel creepy, as if
horrid things were going to happen, and I should need my spirit to help
me through. I want to be happy and have a good time. I never can
understand how people can bear troubles, and illnesses, and being poor,
and all those awful things. I should die at once if they happened to
me.
She went on to say that I must make up my mind from the first not to
live for myself; that it was often a very trying time when a girl first
left school and found little or nothing to occupy her energies at home,
but that there were so many sad and lonely people in the world that no
one need ever feel any lack of a purpose in life, and she advised me not
to look at charity from a general standpoint, but to narrow it down till
it came within my own grasp.
"Don't think vaguely of the poor all over the world; think of one person
at your own gate, and brighten that life. I once heard a very good man
say that the only way he could reconcile himself to the seeming
injustice between the lots of the poor and the rich was by believing
that each of the latter was deputed by God to look after his poorer
brother, and was _responsible_ for his welfare. Find someone whom you
can take to your heart as your poor sister in God's great family, and
help her in every way you can. It will keep you from growing selfish
and worldly. In your parents' position you will, of course, go a great
deal into society and be admired and made much of, as a bright, pretty
girl. It is only natural that you should enjoy the experience, but
don't let it turn your head. Try to keep your frank, unaffected
manners, and be honest in words and actions. Be especially careful not
to be led away by greed of power and admiration. It is the best thing
that can happen to any woman to win the love of a good, true man, but it
is cruel to wreck his happiness to gratify a foolish vanity. I hope
that none of my girls may be so forgetful of all that is true and
womanly."
She looked awfully solemn. I wonder if she flirted when she was young,
and he was furious and went away and left her! We always wondered why
she didn't marry. There's a photograph of a man on her writing-table,
and Florence said she is sure that was him, for he is in such a lovely
frame, and she puts the best flowers beside him like a shrine.
Florence is awfully clever at making up tales. She used to tell us them
in bed, (like that creature with the name in the _Arabian Nights_). We
used to say:
"Now then, Florence, go on--tell us Fraulein's love-story!" and she
would clear her throat, and cough, and say--"It was a glorious summer
afternoon in the little village of Eisenach, and the sunshine peering
down through the leaves turned to gold the tresses of young Elsa Behrend
as she sat knitting under the trees."
It was just like a book, and so true too, for Fraulein is always
knitting! The Romance de Mademoiselle was awfully exciting. There was
a duel in it, and one man was killed and the other had to run away, so
she got neither of them, and it was that that soured her temper.
I really must go to bed--Lorna keeps calling and calling--and Florence
is crying still--I can hear her sniffing beneath the clothes. We shall
be perfect wrecks in the morning, and mother won't like it if I go home
a fright. Heigho! the very last night in this dear old room! I hate
the last of anything--even nasty things--and except when we've
quarrelled we've had jolly times. It's awful to think I shall never be
a school-girl any more! I don't believe I shall sleep a wink all night.
I feel wretched.
PS--Fancy calling me pretty! I'm so pleased. I shall look nicer still
in my new home clothes.