GATHERING CLOUDS.
After that first day at Green Bank, the remembrance of things in detail
is not so clear to me.
To begin with, the life was very monotonous. Except for the different
lessons, one day passed much like another, the principal variety being
the coming of Sunday and the two weekly half-holidays--Wednesday and
Saturday. But to me the half-holidays brought no pleasure. I think I
disliked them more than lesson days, and most certainly I disliked
Sundays most of all.
Looking back now, I think my whole nature and character must have gone
through some curious changes in these first weeks at school. I grew
older very rapidly.
There first came by degrees the great _disappointment_ of it all--for
though I am anxious not to exaggerate anything, it was a bewildering
"disillusionment" to me. Nobody and nothing were what I had imagined
they would be. Straight out of my sheltered home, where every thought
and tone and word were full of love, I was tossed into this world of
school, where, though no doubt there were kind hearts and nice natures
as there are everywhere, the whole feeling was different. Even the
good-nature was rough and unrefined--the tones of voice, the ways of
moving about, the readiness to squabble, though very likely it was more
a kind of bluster than anything worse, all startled and astounded me, as
I gradually awoke from my dream of the delights of being at school
surrounded by companions.
And there was really a prejudice against me, both among teachers and
pupils. A story had got about that my family was very, very poor, that
father had had to go abroad on this account, and that my schooling was
to be paid for out of charity. So even my gentleness, my soft way of
speaking, the surprise I was too innocent to conceal at much that I saw,
were all put down to my "giving myself airs." And I daresay the very
efforts I made to please those about me and to gain their affection did
more harm than good. Because I clung more or less to Harriet Smith, my
room-mate, and the nearest to me in age, I was called a little sneak,
trying to get all I could "out of her," as she was such a rich little
girl.
I overheard these remarks once or twice, but it was not for some time
that I in the least knew what they meant, and so I daresay the
coarse-minded girls who made them thought all the worse of me because I
did not resent them and just went quietly on my own way.
What I did want from Harriet was sympathy; and when she was in the
humour to pay attention to me, she did give me as much as it was in her
to give.
I shall never forget the real kindness she and Emma too showed me that
first night at Green Bank, when a great blow fell on me after we went
upstairs to go to bed.
Some one had unpacked my things. My night-dress was lying on the bed, my
brushes and sponges were in their places, and when I opened the very
small chest of drawers I saw familiar things neatly arranged in them.
But there seemed so few--and in the bottom drawer only one frock, and
that my oldest one, not the pretty new one mamma had got me for Sundays
or any special occasion.
"Where can all my other things be?" I said to Harriet, who was greatly
interested in my possessions.
"What more have you?" she said, peering over my shoulder.
I named several.
"And all my other things," I went on, "not clothes, I don't mean, but my
workbox and my new writing-desk, and the picture of father and mamma and
Haddie"--it was before the days of "carte-de-visite" or "cabinet"
photographs; this picture was what was called a "daguerreotype" on
glass, and had been taken on purpose for me at some expense--"and my
china dog and the rabbits, and my scraps of silk, and all my puzzles,
and, and----" I stopped short, out of breath with bewilderment. "Can
they be all together for me to unpack myself?" I said.
Emma, the most experienced of the three, shook her head.
"I'm afraid," she was beginning, when the door opened, and Miss Broom's
face appeared.
"Young ladies," she said, "I cannot have this. No talking after the last
bell has rung. My dear Miss Smith, you are not usually so forgetful. If
it is _you_, Miss Marchant, it is a very bad beginning, disobedience the
very first evening."
"She didn't know," said both the girls. "It isn't her fault." "And if
she had known," Harriet went on, "she couldn't have helped it. Miss
Broom, somebody's took such lots of her things. Tell her, Gerry."
Under her protection I repeated the list of missing articles, but before
I had got to the end the governess interrupted me.
"You are a most impertinent child," she said, "to say such a thing.
There are no thieves at Green Bank--what a mind you must have! Your
things are safely packed away. Such as you really need you shall have
from time to time as I or Miss Aspinall think fit. The frock you have on
must be kept as your best one, and you must wear the brown check every
day. You have far too many clothes--absurd extravagance--no wonder----"
but here she had the sense to stop short.
I did not care so much about my clothes.
"It's the other things I mind," I began, but Miss Broom, who was already
at the door, again interrupted.
"Nonsense," she said. "We cannot have the rooms littered with rubbish.
Miss Aspinall left it to me. You may have your Biblical dissected maps
on Sundays, and perhaps some of the other puzzles during the Christmas
holidays, but young ladies do not come to school to amuse themselves,
but to work hard at their lessons."
I dared not say anything more. There may have been some reason in
putting away a certain number of my treasures, for dear mamma, in her
wish to do all she possibly could for my happiness, had very probably
sent more things with me than was advisable. But I was not a silly
spoilt child; I had always been taught to be reasonable, and I would
have given in quite cheerfully if Miss Broom had put it before me in any
kindly way.
I was not left quite without defence, however.
"I don't see but what you might let her have some things out," said
Emma. "Harry and I have. Look at the mantelpiece--the china figures and
the Swiss chalets are our ornaments, and there's quite room for some
more."
But Miss Broom was by this time at the door, which shut after her
sharply without her saying another word.
"Horrid old cat," said both the Smiths.
I said nothing, for if I had I knew I should have burst into tears. But
after I was ready for bed and had said my prayers, I could not help the
one bitter complaint.
"I wouldn't mind anything else if only she'd let me have papa and
mamma's picture," I said.
"_Of course_ you should have that," said Emma. "I'm sure Miss Ledbury
would let you have it. I think even Miss Aspinall would. Don't be
unhappy, Gerry, I'll see if I can't do something for you to-morrow."
And with this consolation I fell asleep. Nor did Emma forget her
promise. The next day I found my daguerreotype installed on the
mantelpiece, where it stayed all the time I was at school.
My happiest days were those of our French lessons, for then Miss Fenmore
was the teacher. She spoke French very well, and she was most kind and
patient. Yet for some reason or other she was not much liked in the
school. There was a prejudice against her as there was against me:
partly, because she did not belong to that part of the country, she was
said to "give herself airs"; partly, I think, because she was quiet and
rather reserved; partly, I am afraid, because some of the elder girls
were jealous of her extreme loveliness. She was as kind to me as she
dared to be, but I had no lessons from her except French, and she has
since told me that she did not venture to show me anything like
partiality, as it would only have made my life still harder and
lonelier.
The remembrances which stand out the most clearly in my mind will give a
fair idea of my time at Green Bank. The next great trouble I had came on
my first Sunday there.
It had been settled that I was to write to mamma once a week--by every
mail, that is to say. The usual day for writing home was Wednesday, the
half-holiday, but as the South American mail left England that very day,
mamma had arranged with Miss Ledbury that I should be allowed to add a
little on Sundays to my letter, as otherwise my news would be a whole
week late before it left.
So on the first Sunday afternoon I got out my writing things with great
satisfaction, and when Miss Broom asked me what I was going to do, I was
pleased to be able to reply that Miss Ledbury had given leave for a
Sunday letter. Miss Broom said something to Miss Aspinall, but though
they both looked very disapproving, they said no more.
I wrote a long letter. This time, of course, it had to be a complete
one, as I had only come to Green Bank on the Thursday. I poured out my
heart to mamma, but yet, looking back now and recalling, as I know I
can, pretty correctly, all I said, I do not think it was exaggerated or
wrong. I tried to write cheerfully, for childish as I was in many ways,
I did understand that it would make mamma miserable to think I was
unhappy.
I was just closing the envelope when Miss Broom entered the room.
"What are you doing?" she said. "Dear, dear, you don't mean to say you
have been all this afternoon writing that letter? What a waste of time!
No, no, you must not do that. Miss Ledbury will seal it."
"It doesn't need sealing," I replied. "It is a gumming-down envelope."
But she had come close to me, and drew it out of my hand.
"No letters leave this house without being first read by Miss Ledbury or
Miss Aspinall," she said. "Why do you stare so? It is the rule at every
school," and so in those days I suppose it was. "If you have written
nothing you should not, you have no reason to dread its being seen."
"Yes, I have," I replied indignantly. Even the three or four days I had
been at school had made me months older. "I have," I repeated. "Nobody
would say to strangers all they'd say to their own mamma."
I felt my face growing very red; I pulled the letter out of the envelope
and began to tear it across. But Miss Broom's strong hands caught hold
of mine.
"You are a very naughty girl," she said, "a very naughty girl indeed. I
saw at once how spoilt and self-willed you were, but I never could have
believed you would dare to give way to such violent temper."
She dragged the letter out of my fingers--indeed, I was too proud to
struggle with her--and left the room. I sat there in a sort of stupefied
indifference. That day had been the worst I had had. There was not the
interest of lessons, nor the daily bustle which had always something
enlivening about it. It was so dull, and oh, so different from home! The
home-sickness which I was too ignorant to give a name to began to come
over me with strides; but for my letter to mamma I felt as if I could
not have lived through that afternoon. For even the Smiths were away.
They were what was called "weekly boarders," going home every Saturday
at noon and staying till Monday morning.
The indifference did not last long. Gradually both it and the
indignation broke down. I laid my head on the table before me and burst
into convulsive crying.
I do not think I cried loudly. I only remember the terrible sort of
shaking that went through me--I had never felt anything like it in my
life--and I remember trying to choke down my sobs for fear of Miss Broom
hearing me and coming back.
[Illustration: "MY POOR LITTLE GIRL, WHAT _IS_ THE MATTER?"]
Some one opened the door and looked in. I tried to be perfectly quiet.
But the some one, whoever it was, had seen and perhaps heard me, for she
came forward, and in another moment I felt an arm steal gently round me,
while a kind voice said softly, very softly,
"My poor little girl, what _is_ the matter?" and looking up, I saw that
the new-comer was Miss Fenmore.
"Oh," I said through my tears, "it's my letter, and she's taken it
away--that horrid, _horrid_ Miss Broom."
And I told her the whole story.
Miss Fenmore was very wise as well as kind. I have often wondered how
she had learnt so much self-control in her short life, for though she
then seemed quite "old" to me, I now know she cannot have been more than
eighteen or nineteen. But she had had a sad life--that of an orphan
since childhood. I suppose sorrow had done the work of years in her
case--work that is indeed often not done at all! For she had a character
which was good soil for all discipline. She was naturally so sweet and
joyous--she seemed born with rose-coloured spectacles.
"Dear child," she said, "try not to take this so much to heart. I
daresay your letter will be sent just as it is. Miss Broom is sure to
apply to Miss Aspinall, perhaps to Miss Ledbury. And Miss Ledbury is
really kind, and she must have had great experience in such things."
But the last words were spoken with more hesitation. Miss Fenmore knew
that the class of children composing Miss Ledbury's school had not had a
home like mine.
Suddenly she started up--steps were coming along the passage.
"I must not talk to you any more just now," she said, "I came to fetch a
book."
After all, the steps did not come to the schoolroom. So after sitting
there a little longer, somewhat comforted by the young governess's
words, I went up to my own room, where I bathed my eyes and smoothed my
hair, mindful of Haddie's warning--not to get the name of a cry-baby!
Late that evening, after tea, I was sent for to Miss Ledbury in the
drawing-room. It was a very rainy night, so only a few of the elder
girls had gone to church. Miss Ledbury herself suffered sadly from
asthma, and could never go out in bad weather. This was the first time I
had seen her to speak to since I came.
I was still too unhappy to feel very frightened, and I was not naturally
shy, though I seemed so, owing to my difficulty in expressing myself.
And there was something about the old lady's manner, gentle though she
was, which added to my constraint. I have no doubt she found me very
dull and stupid, and it must have been disappointing, for she did mean
to be kind.
She spoke to me about my letter which she had read, according to her
rule, to which she said she could make no exceptions. I did not clearly
understand what she meant, so I just replied "No, ma'am," and "Yes,
ma'am." She said the letter should be sent as it was, but she gave me
advice for the future which in some ways was very good. Could I not
content myself with writing about my own affairs--my lessons, the books
I was reading, and so on? What was the use of telling mamma that I did
not like Miss Aspinall, and that I could not bear Miss Broom? Would it
please mamma, or would it make school-life any happier for me to take up
such prejudices? These ladies were my teachers and I must respect them.
How could I tell at the end of three days if I should like them or not?
I felt I _could_ tell, but I did not dare to say so. All I longed for
was to get away. So when the old lady went on putting words into my
mouth, as it were, about being wiser for the future, and not touchy and
fanciful, and so on, I agreed with her and said "No, ma'am" and "Yes,
ma'am" a few more times, meekly enough. Then she kissed me, and again I
felt that she meant to be kind and that it was wrong of me to disappoint
her, but somehow I could not help it. And I went upstairs to bed feeling
more lonely than ever, now that I quite understood that my letters to
mamma must never be anything more than I might write to a stranger--a
mere mockery, in short.
There was but one person I felt that I could confide in. That was Miss
Fenmore. But the days went on and she seemed to take less instead of
more notice of me. I did not understand that her position, poor girl,
was much more difficult than mine. If she had seemed to pet me or make
much of me it would only have made Miss Broom still more severe to me,
and angry with her. For, as was scarcely to be wondered at, Miss Broom
was very indignant indeed at the way I had spoken of her in my letter to
mamma. And Miss Fenmore was entirely at that time dependent upon her
position at Green Bank. She had no home, and if she brought displeasure
upon herself at Miss Ledbury's her future would look very dark indeed.
Yet she was far from selfish. Her caution was quite as much for my sake
as for her own.