ALL SETTLED.
That Sunday--that last Sunday I somehow feel inclined to call it--stands
out in my memory quite differently from its fellows. Both Haddie and I
felt dull and depressed, partly owing no doubt to the weather, but still
more, I think, from that vague fear of something being wrong which we
were both suffering from, though we would not speak of it to each other.
It cleared up a little in the evening, and though it was cold and chilly
we went to church. Mamma had said to us we might if we liked, and Lydia
was going.
When we came in, cook sent us a little supper which we were very glad
of; it cheered us up.
"Aren't you thankful they're coming home to-morrow?" I said to Haddie.
"I've never minded their being away so much before."
They had been away two or three times that we could remember, though
never for longer than a day or two.
"Yes," said Haddie, "I'm very glad."
But that was all he said.
They did come back the next day, pretty early in the morning, as father
had to be at the bank. He went straight there from the railway station,
and mamma drove home with the luggage. She was very particular when she
went to stay with her godmother to take nice dresses, for Mrs. Selwood
would not have been pleased to see her looking shabby, and it would not
have made her any more sympathising or anxious to help, but rather the
other way. Long afterwards--at least some years afterwards, when I was
old enough to understand--I remember Mrs. Selwood saying to me that it
was mamma's courage and good management which made everybody respect
her.
I was watching at the dining-room window, which looked out to the
street, when the cab drove up. After the heavy rain the day before, it
was for once a fine day, with some sunshine. And sunshine was rare at
Great Mexington, especially in late November.
Mamma was looking out to catch the first glimpse of me--of course she
knew that my brother would be at school. There was a sort of sunshine
on her face, at least I thought so at first, for she was smiling. But
when I looked more closely there was something in the smile which gave
me a queer feeling, startling me almost more than if I had seen that she
was crying.
I think for my age I had a good deal of self-control of a certain kind.
I waited till she had come in and kissed me and sent away the cab and we
were alone. Then I shut the door and drew her to father's special
arm-chair beside the fire.
"Mamma, dear," I half said, half whispered, "what is it?"
Mamma gave a sort of gasp or choke before she answered. Then she said,
"Why, dear, why should you think--oh, I don't know what I am saying,"
and she tried to laugh.
But I wouldn't let her.
"It's something in your face, mamma," I persisted.
She was silent for a moment.
"We had meant to tell you and Haddie this evening," she said, "father
and I together; but perhaps it is better. Yes, my Geraldine, there is
something. Till now it was not quite certain, though it has been hanging
over us for some weeks, ever since----"
"Since that day I asked you--the morning after father came home so late
and you had been crying?"
"Yes, since then," said mamma.
She put her arm round me, and then she told me all that I have told
already, or at least as much of it as she thought I could understand.
She told it quietly, but she did not try not to cry--the tears just came
trickling down her face, and she wiped them away now and then. I think
the letting them come made her able to speak more calmly.
And I listened. I was very sorry for her, very _very_ sorry. But you may
think it strange--I have often looked back upon it with wonder myself,
though I now feel as if I understood the causes of it better--when I
tell you that I was _not_ fearfully upset or distressed myself. I did
not feel inclined to cry, _except_ out of pity for mamma. And I listened
with the most intense interest, and even curiosity. I was all wound up
by excitement, for this was the first great event I had ever known, the
first change in my quiet child-life.
And my excitement grew even greater when mamma came to the subject of
what was decided about us children.
"Haddie of course must go to school," she said; "to a larger and better
school--Mrs. Selwood speaks of Rugby, if it can be managed. He will be
happy there, every one says. But about you, my Geraldine."
"Oh, mamma," I interrupted, "do let me go to school too. I have always
wanted to go, you know, and except for being away from you, I would far
rather be a boarder. It's really being at school then. I know they
rather look down upon day-scholars--Haddie says so."
Mamma looked at me gravely. Perhaps she was just a little disappointed,
even though on the other hand she may have felt relieved too, at my
taking the idea of this separation, which to her over-rode _everything_,
which made the next two years a black cloud to her, so very
philosophically. But she sighed. I fancy a suspicion of the truth came
to her almost at once and added to her anxiety--the truth that I did not
the least realise what was before me.
"We _are_ thinking of sending you to school, my child," she said
quietly, "and of course it must be as a boarder. Mrs. Selwood advises
Miss Ledbury's school here. She has known the old lady long and has a
very high opinion of her, and it is not very far from Fernley in case
Miss Ledbury wished to consult Mrs. Selwood about you in any way, or in
case you were ill."
"I am very glad," I said. "I should like to go to Miss Ledbury's."
My fancy had been tickled by seeing the girls at her school walking out
two and two in orthodox fashion. I thought it must be delightful to
march along in a row like that, and to have a partner of your own size
to talk to as much as you liked.
Mamma said no more just then. I think she felt at a loss what to say.
She was afraid of making me unnecessarily unhappy, and on the other hand
she dreaded my finding the reality all the worse when I came to contrast
it with my rose-coloured visions.
She consulted father, and he decided that it was best to leave me to
myself and my own thoughts.
"She is a very young child still," he said to mamma. (All this of course
I was told afterwards.) "It is quite possible that she will _not_ suffer
from the separation as we have feared. It may be much easier for her
than if she had been two or three years older."
Haddie had no illusions. From the very first he took it all in, and
that very bitterly. But he was, as I have said, a very good boy, and a
boy with a great deal of resolution and firmness. He said nothing to
discourage me. Mamma told him how surprised she was at my way of taking
it, and he agreed with father that perhaps I would not be really
unhappy.
And I do think that my chief unhappiness during the next few weeks came
from the sight of dear mamma's pale, worn face, which she could not
hide, try as she might to be bright and cheerful.
There was of course a great deal of bustle and preparation, and all
children enjoy that, I fancy. Even Haddie was interested about his
school outfit. He was to go to a preparatory school at Rugby till he
could get into the big school. And as far as school went, he told me he
was sure he would like it very well, it was only the--but there he
stopped.
"The what?" I asked.
"Oh, the being all separated," he said gruffly.
"But you'd have had to go away to a big school some day," I reminded
him. "You didn't want always to go to a day-school."
"No," he allowed, "but it's the holidays."
The holidays! I had not thought about that part of it.
"Oh, I daresay something nice will be settled for the holidays," I said
lightly.
In one way Haddie was very lucky. Mrs. Selwood had undertaken the whole
charge of his education for the two years our parents were to be away.
And after that "we shall see," she said.
She had great ideas about the necessity of giving a boy the very best
schooling possible, but she had not at all the same opinion about
_girls'_ education. She was a clever woman in some ways, but very
old-fashioned. Her own upbringing had been at a time when _very_ little
learning was considered needful or even advisable for our sex. And as
she had good practical capacities, and had managed her own affairs
sensibly, she always held herself up both in her own mind and to others
as a specimen of an _un_learned lady who had got on far better than if
she had had all the "'ologies," as she called them, at her fingers'
ends.
This, I think, was one reason why she approved of Miss Ledbury's school,
which, as you will hear, was certainly not conducted in accordance with
the modern ideas which even then were beginning to make wise parents
ask themselves if it was right to spend ten times as much on their sons'
education as on their daughters'.
"Teach a girl to write a good hand, to read aloud so that you can
understand what she says, to make a shirt and make a pudding and to add
up the butcher's book correctly, and she'll do," Mrs. Selwood used to
say.
"And what about accomplishments?" some one might ask.
"She should be able to play a tune on the piano, and to sing a nice
English song or two if she has a voice, and maybe to paint a wreath of
flowers if her taste lies that way. That sort of thing would do no harm
if she doesn't waste time over it," the old lady would allow, with great
liberality, thinking over her own youthful acquirements no doubt.
I daresay there was a foundation of solid sense in the first part of her
advice. I don't see but that girls nowadays might profit by some of it.
And in many cases they _do_. It is quite in accordance with modern
thought to be able to make a good many "puddings," though home-made
shirts are not called for. But as far as the "accomplishments" go, I
should prefer none to such a smattering of them as our old friend
considered more than enough.
So far less thought on Mrs. Selwood's part was bestowed on
Geraldine--that is myself, of course--than on Haddon, as regarded the
school question. And mamma _had_ to be guided by Mrs. Selwood's advice
to a great extent just then. She had so much to do and so little time to
do it in, that it would have been impossible for her to go hunting about
for a school for me more in accordance with her own ideas. And she knew
that personally Miss Ledbury was well worthy of all respect.
She went to see her once or twice to talk about me, and make the best
arrangements possible. The first of these visits left a pleasanter
impression on her mind than the second. For the first time she saw Miss
Ledbury alone, and found her gentle and sympathising, and full of
conscientious interest in her pupils, so that it seemed childish to take
objection to some of the rules mentioned by the school-mistress which in
her heart mamma did not approve of.
One of these was that all the pupils' letters were to be read by one of
the teachers, and as to this Miss Ledbury said she could make no
exception. Then, again, no story-books were permitted, except such as
were read aloud on the sewing afternoons. But if I spent my holidays
there, as was only too probable, this rule should be relaxed.
The plan for Sundays, too, struck my mother disagreeably.
"My poor Geraldine," she said to father, when she was telling him all
about it, "I don't know how she will stand such a dreary day."
Father suggested that I should be allowed to write my weekly letter to
them on Sunday, and mamma said she would see if that could be.
And then father begged her not to look at the dark side of things.
"After all," he said, "Geraldine is very young, and will accommodate
herself better than you think to her new circumstances. She will enjoy
companions of her own age too. And we know that Miss Ledbury is a good
and kind woman--the disadvantages seem trifling, though I should not
like to think the child was to be there for longer than these two
years."
Mamma gave in to this. Indeed, there seemed nothing else to do. But the
second time she went to see Miss Ledbury, the school-mistress
introduced her niece--her "right hand," as she called her--a woman of
about forty, named Miss Aspinall, who, though only supposed to be second
in command, was really the principal authority in the establishment,
much more than poor old Miss Ledbury, whose health was failing, realised
herself.
Mamma did not take to Miss Aspinall. But it was now far too late to make
any change, and she tried to persuade herself that she was nervously
fanciful.
And here, perhaps, I had better say distinctly, that Miss Aspinall was
not a bad or cruel woman. She was, on the contrary, truly conscientious
and perfectly sincere. But she was wanting in all finer feelings and
instincts. She had had a hard and unloving childhood, and had almost
lost the power of caring much for any one. She loved her aunt after a
fashion, but she thought her weak. She was just, or wished to be so, and
with some of the older pupils she got on fairly well. But she did not
understand children, and took small interest in the younger scholars,
beyond seeing that they kept the rules and were not complained of by the
under teachers who took charge of them. And as the younger pupils were
very seldom boarders it did not very much matter, as they had their own
homes and mothers to make them happy once school hours were over.
Mamma did not know that there were scarcely any boarders as young as I,
for when she first asked about the other pupils, Miss Ledbury, thinking
principally of lessons, said, "oh yes," there was a nice little class
just about my age, where I should feel quite at home.
A few days before _the_ day--the day of separation for us all--mamma
took me to see Miss Ledbury. She thought I would feel rather less
strange if I had been there once, and had seen the lady who was to be my
school-mistress.
I knew the house--Green Bank, it was called--by sight. It was a little
farther out of the town than ours, and had a melancholy bit of garden in
front, and a sort of playground at the back. It was not a large
house--indeed, it was not really large enough for the number of people
living in it--twenty to thirty boarders, and a number of day-scholars,
who of course helped to fill the schoolrooms and to make them hot and
airless, four resident teachers, and four or five servants. But in those
days people did not think nearly as much as now about ventilation and
lots of fresh air, and perfectly pure water, and all such things, which
we now know to be quite as important to our health as food and clothes.
Mamma rang the bell. Everything about Green Bank was neat and orderly,
prim, if not grim. So was the maid-servant who opened the door, and in
answer to mamma's inquiry for Miss Ledbury, showed us into the
drawing-room, a square moderate-sized-room, at the right hand of the
passage.
I can remember the look of that room even now, perfectly. It was
painfully neat, not exactly ugly, for most of the furniture was of the
spindle-legged quaint kind, to which everybody now gives the general
name of "Queen Anne." There were a few books set out on the round table,
there was a cottage piano at one side, there were some faint
water-colours on the wall, and a rather nice clock on the white marble
mantelpiece, the effect of which was spoilt by a pair of huge "lustres,"
as they were called, at each side of it. The carpet was very ugly, large
and sprawly in pattern, and so was the hearth-rug. They were the newest
things in the room, and greatly admired by Miss Ledbury and her niece,
who were full of the bad taste of the day in furniture, and would
gladly have turned out all the delicate spidery-looking tables and
chairs to make way for heavy and cumbersome sofas and ottomans, but for
the question of expense, and perhaps for the sake of old association on
the elder lady's part.
There was no fire, though it was November, and mamma shivered a little
as she sat down, possibly, however not altogether from cold. It was
between twelve and one in the morning--that was the hour at which Miss
Ledbury asked parents to call.
Afterwards, when I got to know the rules of the house, I found that the
drawing-room fire was never lighted except on Wednesday and Saturday
afternoons, or on some very special occasion.
I stood beside mamma. Somehow I did not feel inclined to sit down. I was
full of a strange kind of excitement, half pleasant, half frightening. I
think the second half prevailed as the moments went on. Mamma did not
speak, but I felt her hand clasping my shoulder.
Then at last the door opened.