OUT IN THE RAIN.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I did not sleep that night.
Children often sleep very heavily when they are specially unhappy, and I
was unhappy enough, even before Harriet's telling me what she had heard.
But though I did sleep, I shall never forget that night. My dreams were
so miserable, and when I awoke--very early in the morning--I could
scarcely separate them from real things. It was actually not so bad when
I was quite awake, for then I set myself thoroughly to think it all
over.
I could not bear it--I could not go on without knowing if it was true
about father and mamma. I could not bear my life at school, if the
looking forward to being with them again, before _very_ long, was to be
taken from me. I must write a letter to mamma that no one would see; but
first--yes, first I must know how much was true. Whom could I ask?
Haddie? Perhaps he knew no more than I did, and it was just as difficult
to write to him as to mamma. Then suddenly another thought struck
me--Mrs. Selwood, old Mrs. Selwood, if I could but see her. Perhaps if I
wrote to her she would come to see me; mamma always said she was very
kind, though I know she did not care much for children, especially
little girls. Still I thought I would try, though it would be difficult,
for I should not like Miss Ledbury to know I had written to Mrs. Selwood
secretly. She would be so angry, and I did not want to make Miss Ledbury
angry. She was much nicer than the others. Once or twice the idea came
to me of going straight to her and telling her how miserable I was, but
that would bring in Harriet, and oh, how furious the other governesses
would be! No, I would try to write to Mrs. Selwood--only, I did not know
her address. I only knew the name of her house--Fernley--that would not
be enough, at least I feared not. I would try to find out; perhaps
Harriet could ask some one when she went home.
My spirits rose a little with all this planning. I am afraid that the
life I led was beginning to make me unchildlike and concealed in my
ways. I enjoyed the feeling of having a secret and, so to say,
outwitting my teachers, particularly Miss Broom. So, though I was
looking pale and my eyes were still very swollen, I think Harriet was
surprised, and certainly very glad, to find that I was not very
miserable or upset.
A message was sent up to say I was to go down to breakfast with the
others. And after prayers and breakfast were over I went into the
schoolroom as usual.
That morning did not pass badly; it happened to be a day for lessons I
got on well with--written ones principally, and reading aloud. So I got
into no fresh disgrace. It was a very rainy day, there was no question
of going out, and I was sent to practise at twelve o'clock till the
dressing-bell rang for the early dinner. That was to keep me away from
the other girls.
As soon as dinner was over Miss Broom came to me with a French poetry
book in her hand.
"This is the poem you should have learnt yesterday," she said, "though
you denied having been told so. Miss Aspinall desires you to take it
upstairs to your room and learn it, as you can do perfectly, if you
choose, by three o'clock. Then you are to come downstairs to the
drawing-room, where you will find her."
"Very well," I said, as I took the book, "I will learn it."
They were going to let me off rather easily, I thought, and possibly,
just _possibly_, if Miss Ledbury was in the drawing-room too and seemed
kind, I might ask her to give me leave to write to Mrs. Selwood just to
say how very much I would like to see her, and then if I _did_ see her I
could tell her what Harriet had said, without risking getting Harriet
into trouble.
So I set to work at my French poetry with good will, and long before
three o'clock I had learnt it perfectly. There was a clock on the
landing half-way down the staircase which struck the quarters and
half-hours. I heard the quarter to three strike and then I read the poem
right through six times, and after that, closing the book, I said it
aloud to myself without one mistake, and then just as the clock began
"_burr_-ing" before striking the hour I made my way quietly down to the
drawing-room.
I tapped at the door.
"Come in," said Miss Aspinall.
She was standing beside Miss Ledbury, who was sitting in an arm-chair
near the fire. She looked very pale, her face nearly as white as her
hair, and it made me feel sorry, so that I stared at her and forgot to
curtsey as we always were expected to do on entering a room where any of
the governesses were.
"Do you not see Miss Ledbury?" said Miss Aspinall sharply. I felt my
cheeks get red, and I turned back towards the door to make my curtsey.
"I--I forgot," I said, and before Miss Aspinall had time to speak again,
the old lady held out her hand.
"You must try to be more thoughtful," she said, but her voice was
gentle. "Now give me your book," she went on, "I want to hear your
French verses myself."
I handed her the book, which was open at the place. I felt very glad I
had learnt the poetry so well, as I wished to please Miss Ledbury.
"Begin, my dear," she said.
I did so, repeating the six or eight verses without any mistake or
hesitation.
Miss Ledbury seemed pleased and relieved.
"Very well said--now, my dear child, that shows that you can learn well
when you try."
"Of course she can," said Miss Aspinall.
"But more important than learning your lessons well," continued Miss
Ledbury, "is to be perfectly truthful and honest. What has distressed
me, Geraldine, has been to hear that when--as may happen to any
child--you have forgotten a lesson, or learnt it imperfectly, instead of
at once owning your fault, you have tried to screen yourself behind
insincere excuses. That was the case about these very verses, was it
not, Miss Aspinall?" (Miss Ledbury always called her niece "Miss
Aspinall" before any of us.)
"It was," replied Miss Aspinall. "Miss Broom will tell you all the
particulars," and as she spoke Miss Broom came in.
Miss Ledbury turned to her.
"I wish you to state exactly what you have had to complain of in
Geraldine Le Marchant," she said. And Miss Broom, with a far from
amiable expression, repeated the whole--my carelessness and ill-prepared
lessons for some time past, the frequent excuses I made, saying that she
had not told me what she certainly _had_ told me, my forgetting my
French poetry altogether, and persisting in denying that it had been
given out.
I did not hear clearly all she said, but she raised her voice at the
end, and I caught her last words. I felt again a sort of fury at her,
and I gave up all idea of confiding in Miss Ledbury, or of trying to
please any one.
Miss Ledbury seemed nervous.
"Geraldine has said her French poetry perfectly," she said. "I think she
has taken pains to learn it well."
"It is some time since she has said any lesson perfectly to _me_, I am
sorry to say," snapped Miss Broom.
Miss Ledbury handed her the book.
"You can judge for yourself," she said. "Repeat the verses to Miss
Broom, Geraldine."
Then a strange thing happened. I really wanted to say the poetry well,
partly out of pride, partly because again something in Miss Ledbury's
manner made me feel gentler, but as I opened my mouth to begin, the
words entirely left my memory. I looked up--possibly a little help, a
syllable just to start me, would have set me right, but instead of that
I saw Miss Broom's half-mocking, half-angry face, and Miss Aspinall's
cold hard eyes. Miss Ledbury I did not look at. In reality I think both
she and Miss Aspinall were afraid of Miss Broom. I do not think Miss
Aspinall was as hard as she seemed.
I drew a long breath--no, it was no use. I could not recall one word.
"I've forgotten it," I said.
Miss Aspinall gave an exclamation--Miss Ledbury looked at me with
reproach. Both believed that I was not speaking the truth, and that I
had determined not to say the verses to Miss Broom.
"Impossible," said Miss Aspinall.
"Geraldine," said Miss Ledbury sadly but sternly, "do not make me
distrust you."
I grew stony. Now I did not care. Even Miss Ledbury doubted my word. I
almost think if the verses had come back to me then, I would not have
said them. I stood there, dull and stupid and obstinate, though a
perfect fire was raging inside me.
"Geraldine," said Miss Ledbury again, still more sadly and sternly.
I was only a child, and I was almost exhausted by all I had gone
through. Even my pride gave way. I forgot all that Emma and Harriet had
said about not crying, and, half turning away from the three before me,
I burst into a loud fit of tears and sobbing.
Miss Ledbury glanced at her niece. I think the old lady had hard work to
keep herself from some impulsive kind action, but I suppose she would
have thought it wrong. But Miss Aspinall came towards me, and placed her
arm on my shoulders.
"Geraldine," she said, and her voice was not unkind, "I beg you to try
to master this naughty obstinate spirit. Say the verses again, and all
may be well."
"No, no," I cried. "I can't, I can't. It is true that I've forgotten
them, and if I could say them I wouldn't now, because you all think me a
story-teller."
She turned away, really grieved and shocked.
"Take her upstairs to her room again," said Miss Ledbury. "Geraldine,
your tears are only those of anger and temper."
I did not care now. I suffered myself to be led back to my room, and I
left off crying almost as suddenly as I had begun, and when Miss
Aspinall shut the door, and left me there without speaking to me again,
I sat down on the foot of my bed as if I did not care at all, for again
there came over me that strange stolid feeling that nothing mattered,
that nothing would ever make me cry again.
It did not last long, however. I got up in a few minutes and looked out
of the window. It was the dullest afternoon I had ever seen, raining,
raining steadily, the sky all gloomy no-colour, duller even than gray.
It might have been any season, late autumn, mid-winter; there was not a
leaf, or the tiniest beginning of one, on the black branches of the two
or three trees in what was called "the garden"--for my window looked to
the back of the house--not the very least feeling of spring, even though
we were some way on in April. I gave a little shiver, and then a sudden
thought struck me. It would be a very good time for getting out without
any one seeing me--no one would fancy it possible that I would venture
out in the rain, and all my schoolfellows and the governesses were still
at lessons. What was the use of waiting here? They might keep me shut up
in my room for--for ever, perhaps--and I should never know about father
and mamma, or get Mrs. Selwood's address or be allowed to write to her,
or--or any one. I would go.
It took but a few minutes to put on my things. As I have said, there was
a queer mixture of childishness and "old-fashionedness," as it is
called, about me. I dressed myself as sensibly as if I had been a
grown-up person, choosing my thickest boots and warm jacket, and arming
myself with my waterproof cape and umbrella. I also put my purse in my
pocket--it contained a few shillings.
Then I opened the door and listened, going out a little way into the
passage to do so. All was quite quiet--not even a piano was to be heard,
only the clock on the landing sounded to me much louder than usual. If I
had waited long, it would have made me nervous. I should have begun to
fancy it was talking to me like Dick Whittington's bells, though, I am
sure, it would not have said anything half so cheering!
[Illustration: I CREPT DOWNSTAIRS, PAST ONE SCHOOLROOM WITH ITS CLOSED
DOOR.]
But I did not wait to hear. I crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with
its closed door, and a muffled sound of voices as I drew quite close to
it, then on again, past the downstairs class-room, and along the hall to
the front door. For that was what I had made up my mind was the best,
bold as it seemed. I would go right out by the front door. I knew it
opened easily, for we went out that way on Sundays to church, and once
or twice I had opened it. And nobody would ever dream of my passing out
that way.
It was all managed quite easily, and almost before I had time to take
in what I had done, I found myself out in the road some little distance
from Green Bank, for as soon as the gate closed behind me I had set off
running from a half-nervous fear that some one might be coming in
pursuit of me. I ran on a little farther, in the same direction, that of
the town, for Miss Ledbury's house was in the outskirts--then, out of
breath, I stood still to think what I should do.
I had really not made any distinct plan. The only idea clearly in my
mind was to get Mrs. Selwood's address, so that I could write to her.
But as I stood there, another thought struck me. I would go home--to the
house in the dull street which had never seemed dull to me! For there, I
suddenly remembered, I might find one of our own servants. I recollected
Lydia's telling me that cook was probably going to "engage" with the
people who had taken the house. And cook would be sure to know Mrs.
Selwood's address, and--_perhaps_--cook would be able to tell me
something about father and mamma. She was a kind woman--I would not mind
telling her how dreadfully frightened I was about them since Harriet
Smith had repeated what she had heard.
I knew the way to our house, at least I thought I did, though afterwards
I found I had taken two or three wrong turnings, which had made my
journey longer. It was scarcely raining by this time, but the streets
were dreadfully wet and muddy, and the sky still dark and gloomy.
At last I found myself at the well-known corner of our street--how often
I had run round it with Haddie, when we had been allowed to go on some
little errand by ourselves! I had not passed this way since mamma went,
and the feeling that came over me was very strange. I went along till I
came to our house, number 39; then, in a sort of dream, I mounted the
two or three steps to the door, and rang the bell. How well I knew its
sound! It seemed impossible to believe that Lydia would not open to me,
and that if I hurried upstairs I should not find mamma sitting in her
usual place in the drawing-room!
But of course it was not so. A strange face met me as the door drew
back, and for a moment or two I felt too confused to speak, though I saw
the servant was looking at me in surprise.
"Is--can I see cook?" I got out at last.
"Cook," the maid repeated. "I'm sure I can't say. Can't you give me
your message--Miss?" adding the last word after a little hesitation.
"I'd rather see her, please. I want to ask her for Mrs. Selwood's
address. Mrs. Selwood's a friend of mamma's, and I'm sure cook would
know. We used to live here, and Lydia said cook was going to stay."
The servant's face cleared, but her reply was not encouraging.
"Oh," she said, "I see. But it's no use your seeing our cook, Miss.
She's a stranger. The other one--Sarah Wells was her name----"
"Yes, yes," I exclaimed, "that's her."
"She's gone--weeks ago. Her father was ill, and she had to go home. I'm
sorry, Miss"--she was a good-natured girl--"but it can't be helped. And
I think you'd better go home quick. It's coming on to rain again, and
it'll soon be dark, and you're such a little young lady to be out
alone."
"Thank you," I said, and I turned away, my heart swelling with
disappointment.
I walked on quickly for a little way, for I felt sure the servant was
looking after me. Then I stopped short and asked myself again "what
should I do?" The girl had advised me to go "home"--"home" to Green
Bank, to be shut up in my room again, and be treated as a story-teller,
and never have a chance of writing to Mrs. Selwood or any one! No, that
I would not do. The very thought of it made me hasten my steps as if to
put a greater distance between myself and Miss Ledbury's house. And I
walked on some way without knowing where I was going except that it was
in an opposite direction from school.
It must have been nearly six o'clock by this time, and the gloomy day
made it already dusk. The shops were lighting up, and the glare of the
gas on the wet pavement made me look about me. I was in one of the
larger streets now, a very long one, that led right out from the centre
of the town to the outskirts. I was full of a strange kind of
excitement; I did not mind the rain, and indeed it was not very heavy; I
did not feel lonely or frightened, and my brain seemed unusually active
and awake.
"I know what I'll do," I said to myself; "I'll go to the big grocer's
where they give Haddie and me those nice gingerbreads, and I'll ask
_them_ for Mrs. Selwood's address. I remember mamma said Mrs. Selwood
always bought things there. And--and--I won't write to her. I'll go to
the railway and see if I've money enough to get a ticket, and I'll go
to Mrs. Selwood and tell her how I can't bear it any longer. I've got
four shillings, and if that isn't enough I daresay the railway people
wouldn't mind if I promised I'd send it them."
I marched on, feeling once more very determined and valiant. I thought I
knew the way to the big grocer's quite well, but when I turned down a
street which looked like the one where it was, I began to feel a little
confused. There were so many shops, and the lights in the windows
dazzled me, and worst of all, I could not remember the name of the
grocer's. It was something like Simpson, but not Simpson. I went on,
turning again more than once, always in hopes of seeing it before me,
but always disappointed. And I was beginning to feel very tired; I must,
I suppose, have been really tired all the time, but my excitement had
kept me up.
At last I found myself in a much darker street than the others. For
there were few shops in it, and most of the houses were offices of some
kind. It was a wide street and rather hilly. As I stood at the top I saw
it sloping down before me; the light of the tall lamps glimmered
brokenly in the puddles, for it was raining again more heavily now.
Suddenly, as if in a dream, some words came back to me, so clearly that
I could almost have believed some one was speaking. It was mamma's
voice.
"You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," I seemed to hear her
say, and then I remembered it all--it came before me like a
picture--that rainy evening not many months ago when mamma and Haddie
and I had walked home so happily, we two tugging at her arms, one on
each side, heedless of the rain or the darkness, or anything except that
we were all together.
I stood still. Never, I think, was a child's heart more nearly
breaking.