A NEW WORLD.
I could read aloud well, unusually well, I think, for mamma had taken
great pains with my pronunciation. She was especially anxious that both
Haddie and I should speak well, and not catch the Great Mexington
accent, which was both peculiar and ugly.
But the book which Miss Broom had put before me was hardly a fair test.
I don't remember what it was--some very dry history, I think, bristling
with long words, and in very small print. I did not take in the sense of
what I was reading in the very least, and so, of course, I read badly,
tumbling over the long words, and putting no intelligence into my tone.
I think, too, my teacher was annoyed at the purity of my accent, for no
one could possibly have mistaken _her_ for anything but what she was--a
native of Middleshire. She corrected me once or twice, then shut the
book impatiently.
"Very bad," she said, "very bad indeed for eleven years old."
"I am not eleven, Miss Broom," I said. "I am only nine past."
[Illustration: "LITTLE GIRLS MUST NOT CONTRADICT, AND MUST NOT BE
RUDE."]
"Little girls must not contradict, and must not be rude," was the reply.
What had I said that could be called rude? I tried to think, thereby
bringing on myself a reprimand for inattention, which did not have the
effect of brightening my wits, I fear.
I think I was put through a sort of examination as to all my
acquirements. I know I came out of it very badly, for Miss Broom
pronounced me so backward that there was no class, not even the
youngest, in the school, which I was really fit for. There was nothing
for it, however, but to put me into this lowest class, and she said I
must do extra work in play hours to make up to my companions.
Even my French, which I now _know_ must have been good, was found fault
with by Miss Broom, who said my accent was extraordinary. And certainly,
if hers was Parisian, mine must have been worse than that of
Stratford-le-Bow!
Still, I was not unhappy. I thought it must be always like that at
school, and I said to myself I really would work hard to make up to
the others, who were so much, much cleverer than I. And I sat
contentedly enough in my place, doing my best to learn a page of English
grammar by heart, from time to time peeping round the table, till, to my
great satisfaction and delight, I caught sight of the rosy-cheeked
damsel at the farther end of the table.
I was so pleased that I wonder I did not jump up from my place and run
round to speak to her, forgetful that though I had thought so much of
her, she had probably never noticed me at all the only other time of our
meeting, or rather passing each other.
But I felt Miss Broom's eye upon me, and sat still. I acquitted myself
pretty fairly of my page of grammar, leading to the dry remark from the
governess that it was plain I "could learn if I chose." As this was the
first thing I had been given to learn, the implied reproach was not
exactly called for. But none of Miss Broom's speeches were remarkable
for being appropriate. They depended much more on the mood she happened
to be in herself than upon anything else.
I can clearly remember most of that day. I have a vision of a long
dining-table, long at least it seemed to me, and a plateful of roast
mutton and potatoes which I could not manage to finish, followed by rice
pudding with which I succeeded better, though I was not the least
hungry. Miss Aspinall was at one end of the table, Miss Broom at the
other, and Miss Fenmore, who seemed always to be jumping up to ring the
bell or hand the governesses something or other that had been forgotten
by the servant, sat somewhere in the middle.
No one spoke unless spoken to by one of the teachers. Miss Aspinall shot
out little remarks from time to time about the weather, and replied
graciously enough to one or two of the older girls who ventured to ask
if Miss Ledbury's cold, or headache, was better.
Then came the grace, followed by a shoving back of forms, and a march in
order of age, or place in class rather, to the door, and thence down the
passage to what was called the big schoolroom--a room on the ground
floor, placed where by rights the kitchen should have been, I fancy. It
was the only large room in the house, and I think it must have been
built out beyond the original walls on purpose.
And then--there re-echo on my ears even now the sudden bursting out of
noise, the loosening of a score and a half of tongues, girls' tongues
too, forcibly restrained since the morning. For this was the recreation
hour, and on a wet day, to make up for not going a walk, the "young
ladies" were allowed from two to three to chatter as much as they
liked--in English instead of in the fearful and wonderful jargon yclept
"French."
I stood in a corner by myself, staring, no doubt. I felt profoundly
interested. This was a _little_ more like what I had pictured to myself,
though I had not imagined it would be quite so noisy and bewildering.
But some of the girls seemed very merry, and their laughter and chatter
fascinated me--if only I were one of them, able to laugh and chatter
too! Should I ever be admitted to share their fun?
The elder girls did not interest me. They seemed to me quite grown-up.
Yet it was from their ranks that came the first token of interest in
me--of notice that I was there at all.
"What's your name?" said a tall thin girl with fair curls, which one
could see she was very proud of. She was considered a beauty in the
school. She was silly, but very good-natured. She spoke with a sort of
lisp, and very slowly, so her question did not strike me as rude. Nor
was it meant to be so. It was a mixture of curiosity and amiability.
"My name," I repeated, rather stupidly. I was startled by being spoken
to.
"Yes, your name. Didn't Miss Lardner say what's your name? Dear
me--don't stand gaping there like a monkey on a barrel-organ," said
another girl.
By this time a little group had gathered round me. The girls composing
it all laughed, and though it does not sound very witty--to begin with,
I never heard of a monkey "gaping"--I have often thought since that
there was some excuse for the laughter. I was small and thin, and I had
a trick of screwing up my eyes which made them look smaller than they
really were. And my frock was crimson merino with several rows of black
velvet above the hem of the skirt.
I was not offended. But I did not laugh. The girl who had spoken last
was something of a tomboy, and looked upon also as a wit. Her name was
Josephine Mellor, and her intimate friends called her Joe. She had very
fuzzy red hair, and rather good brown eyes.
"I say," she went on again, "what _is_ your name? And are you going to
stay to dinner every day, or only when it rains, like Lizzie Burt?"
Who was Lizzie Burt? That question nearly set my ideas adrift again. But
the consciousness of my superior position fortunately kept me to the
point.
"I am going to be at dinner always," I said proudly. "I am a boarder."
The girls drew a little nearer, with evidently increased interest.
"A boarder," repeated Josephine. "Then Harriet Smith'll have to give up
being baby. You're ever so much younger than her, I'm sure."
"What are you saying about me?" said Harriet, who had caught the sound
of her own name, as one often does.
"Only that that pretty snub nose of yours is going to be put out of
joint," said Miss Mellor mischievously.
Harriet came rushing forward. She was my rosy-cheeked girl! Her face was
redder than usual. I felt very vexed with Miss Mellor, even though I did
not quite understand her.
"What are you saying?" the child called out. "I'm not going to have any
of your teasing, Joe."
"It's not teasing--it's truth," said the elder girl. "You're not the
baby any more. _She_," and she pointed to me, "she's younger than you."
"How old are you?" said Harriet roughly.
"Nine past," I said. "Nine and a half."
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Harriet. "I'm only nine and a month. I'm still
the baby, Miss Joe."
She was half a head at least taller than I, and broad in proportion.
"What a mite you are, to be sure," said Miss Mellor, "nine and a half
and no bigger than that."
I felt myself getting red. I think one or two of the girls must have had
perception enough to feel a little sorry for me, for one of them--I
fancy it was Miss Lardner--said in a good-natured patronising way,
"You haven't told us your name yet, after all."
"It's Geraldine," I said. "That's my first name, and I'm always called
it."
"Geraldine what?" said the red-haired girl.
"Geraldine Theresa Le Marchant--that's all my names."
"My goodness," said Miss Mellor, "how grand we are! Great Mexington's
growing quite aristocratic. I didn't know monkeys had such fine names."
Some of the girls laughed, some, I think, thought her as silly as she
was.
"Where do you come from?" was the next question.
"Come from?" I repeated. "I don't know."
At this they all did laugh, and I suppose it was only natural. Suddenly
Harriet Smith made a sort of dash at me.
"Oh, I say," she exclaimed. "I know. She's going to sleep in our room. I
saw them putting sheets on the bed in the corner, but Jane wouldn't tell
me who they were for. Emma," she called out loudly to a girl of fourteen
or fifteen, "Emma, I say, she's going to sleep in our room I'm sure."
Emma Smith was taller and thinner and paler than her sister, but still
they were rather like. Perhaps it was for that very reason that they got
on so badly--they might have been better friends if they had been more
unlike. As it was, they quarrelled constantly, and I must say it was
generally Harriet's fault. She was very spoilt, but she had something
hearty and merry about her, and so had Emma. They were the daughters of
a rich Great Mexington manufacturer, and they had no mother. They were
favourites in the school, partly I suspect because they had lots of
pocket money, and used to invite their companions to parties in the
holidays. But they were not mean or insincere, though rough and
noisy--more like boys than girls.
Emma came bouncing forward.
"I say," she began to me, "if it's true you're to sleep in our room I
hope you understand you must do what I tell you. I'm the eldest. You're
not to back up Harriet to disobey me."
"No," I said. "I don't want to do anything like that."
"Well, then," said Harriet, "you'll be Emma's friend, not mine."
My face fell, and I suppose Harriet saw it. She came closer to me and
looked at me well, as if expecting me to answer. But for the first time
since I had been in my new surroundings I felt more than bewildered--I
felt frightened and lonely, terribly lonely.
"Oh, mamma," I thought to myself, "I wish I could see you to tell you
about it. It isn't a bit like what I thought it would be."
But I said nothing aloud. I think now that if I had burst out crying it
would have been better for me, but I had very little power of expressing
myself, and Haddie had instilled into me a great horror of being a
cry-baby at school.
In their rough way, however, several of the girls were kind-hearted, the
two Smiths perhaps as much so as any. Harriet came close up to me.
"I'm only in fun," she said; "of course we'll be friends. I'll tell you
how we'll do," and she put her fat little arm round me in a protecting
way which I much appreciated. "Come over here," she went on in a lower
voice, "where none of the big ones can hear what we say," and she drew
me, nothing loth, to the opposite corner of the room.
As we passed through the group of older girls standing about, one or two
fragments of their talk reached my ears.
"Yes--I'm sure it's the same. He's a bank clerk, I think. I've heard
papa speak of them. They're awfully poor--come-down-in-the-world sort of
people."
"Oh, then, I expect when she's old enough she'll be a governess--perhaps
she'll be a sort of teacher here to begin with."
Then followed some remark about looking far ahead, and a laugh at the
idea of "the monkey" ever developing into a governess.
But after my usual fashion it was not till I thought it over afterwards
that I understood that it was I and my father they had been discussing.
In the meantime I was enjoying a confidential talk with Harriet
Smith--that is to say, I was listening to all she said to me; she did
not seem to expect me to say much in reply.
I felt flattered by her condescension, but I did not in my heart feel
much interest in her communications. They were mostly about Emma--how
she tried to bully her, Harriet, because she herself was five years
older, and how the younger girl did not intend to stand it much longer.
Emma was as bad as a boy.
"As bad as a boy," I repeated. "I don't know what you mean."
"That's because you've not got a brother, I suppose," said Harriet. "Our
brother's a perfect nuisance. He's so spoilt--papa lets him do just as
he likes. Emma and I hate the holidays because of him being at home. But
it's the worst for me, you see. Emma hates Fred bullying her, so she
might know I hate her bullying me."
This was all very astonishing to me.
"I have a brother," I said after a moment or two's reflection.
"Then you know what it is. Why didn't you say so?" asked Harriet.
"Because I don't know what it is. Haddie never teases me. I love being
with him."
"My goodness! Then you're not like most," said Harriet elegantly,
opening her eyes.
She asked me some questions after this--as to where we lived, how many
servants we had, and so on. Some I answered--some I could not, as I was
by no means as worldly-wise as this precocious young person.
She gave me a great deal of information about school--she hated the
governesses, except the old lady, and she didn't care about her much.
Miss Broom was her special dislike. But she liked school very well,
she'd been there a year now, and before that she had a daily governess
at home, and it was very dull indeed. What had I done till now--had I
had a governess?
"Oh no," I said. "I had mamma."
"Was she good to you," asked my new friend, "or was she very strict?"
I stared at Harriet. Mamma was strict, but she was very, very good to
me. I said so.
"Then why are you a boarder?" she asked. "_We_'ve not got a mamma, but
even if we had I'm sure she wouldn't teach us herself. I suppose your
mamma isn't rich enough to pay for a governess for you."
"I don't know," I said simply. I had never thought in this way of
mamma's teaching me, but I was not at all offended. "I don't think any
governess would be as nice as mamma."
"Then why have you come to school?" inquired Harriet.
"Because"--"because father and mamma have to go away," I was going to
say, when suddenly the full meaning of the words seemed to rush over me.
A strange giddy feeling made me shut my eyes and I caught hold of
Harriet's arm.
"What's the matter?" she said wonderingly, as I opened my eyes and
looked at her again.
"I'd rather not talk about mamma just now," I said. "I'll tell you
afterwards."
"Up in our room," said Harriet, "oh yes, that'll be jolly. We've got all
sorts of dodges."
But before she had time to explain more, or I to ask her why "dodges"--I
knew the meaning of the word from Haddie--were required, a bell rang
loudly.
Instantly the hubbub ceased, and there began a sort of silent
scramble--the elder girls collecting books and papers and hurrying to
their places; the younger ones rushing upstairs to the other schoolroom,
I following.
In a few minutes we were all seated round the long tables. It was a
sewing afternoon, and to my great delight I saw that Miss Fenmore, the
pretty governess whom I had taken such a fancy to, though I had not yet
spoken to her, was now in Miss Broom's place.
Mamma had provided me with both plain work and a little simple fancy
work, but as my things were not yet unpacked, I had neither with me, and
I sat feeling awkward and ashamed, seeing all the others busily
preparing for business.
"Have you no work, my dear?" said Miss Fenmore gently. It was the first
kind speech I had had from a governess.
"It isn't unpacked," I said, feeling my cheeks grow red, I did not know
why.
Miss Fenmore hesitated for a moment. Then she took out a stocking--or
rather the beginning of one on knitting-needles.
"Can you knit?" she asked.
"I can knit plain--plain and purl--just straight on," I said. "But I've
never done it round like that."
"Never mind, you will learn easily, as you know how to knit. Come and
sit beside me, so that I can watch you."
She made the girls sit a little more closely, making a place for me
beside her, and I would have been quite happy had I not seen a cross
expression on several faces, and heard murmurs of "favouring," "spoilt
pet," and so on.
Miss Fenmore, if _she_ heard, took no notice. And in a few moments all
was in order. We read aloud in turns--the book was supposed to be a
story-book, but it seemed to me very dull, though the fault may have
lain in the uninteresting way the girls read, and the constant change of
voices, as no one read more than two pages at a time. I left off trying
to listen and gave my whole attention to my knitting, encouraged by Miss
Fenmore's whispered "very nice--a little looser," or "won't it be nice
to knit socks for your father or brother, if you have a brother?"
I nodded with a smile. I was burning to tell her everything. Already I
felt that I loved her dearly--her voice was as sweet as her face. Yet
there were tones in the former and lines in the latter telling of much
sorrow and suffering, young as she was. I was far too much of a child to
understand this. I only felt vaguely that there was something about her
which reminded me of mamma as she had looked these last few weeks.
And my heart was won.