It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely
three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the
scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a
Midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday
perfect--for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful
competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for
they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl
who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those
who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent
elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs
Willis's pupils on this day.
Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for
prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In
play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their
books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any
hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just
now.
No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful
occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble.
According to our old friend, Dr Watts, people who are healthily busy
have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for
idle hands that mischief is prepared.
Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites,
some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently
peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet
and good, was not without its serpent.
Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the
prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the
first place, this was known to be Mrs Willis's own favourite subject.
She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly--she had a
greater wish that, if possible, they should think.
"Never was there so much written and printed," she was often heard to
say; "but can anyone show me a book with thoughts in it? Can anyone
show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes,
these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them,
very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too
quickly. All great things, great books amongst them, must be evolved
slowly."
Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this.
"In these days," she would say, "all girls are what is called highly
educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations,
must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence.
The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for
reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you
do not digest your intellectual food."
Mrs Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in
her girls' prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the
essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished.
"Never mind," she would say, "here is an idea--or at least half an idea.
This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor
imitation of Sir Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay."
Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these
little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it
ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more
technical parts.
More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting
herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her
school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to
work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete
with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt.
Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt.
She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and
manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do
credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch.
There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any
wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good,
her trees were real trees, and the colouring of her water-colour
sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct
accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora
was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically,
and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and
seemed confident of being the successful competitor.
"You won't like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest," they would
laughingly remark; whereupon Dora's calm face would slightly flush and
her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she
could not bear it was to be beaten.
"Why do you try for it, Dora?" her class-fellows would ask; but here
Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself.
The fact was Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and
who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined
to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to
hear a conversation between Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which
something was said about a gold locket with Mrs Willis's portrait
inside.
Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great
prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well
the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she
determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare
idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and
methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing
something of Mrs Willis's peculiarities, she determined that her theme
should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself
freely and with power if only she could secure an un-hackneyed subject.
Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She
would call her composition "The River." This should not bear reference
to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should
trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora's imagination, which,
as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many
places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and
worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of
manuscript paper with pencilled jottings, and arranging and rearranging
her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded
period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote.
For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of
Addison's _Spectator_; but after a time she gave up this course of
study, for she found it so difficult to mould her English to Addison's
that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly
obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to "The River" she
must trust to her own unaided genius.
At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon
with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations
from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had
already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past
sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the
golden-haired children played.
Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see
her way clearly--there would be a very powerful passage as the river
approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and
pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a
suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would
lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest
connection between her river, and Kingsley's well-known song, "Clear and
cool."
She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of
her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind.
This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revellers through the
dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger
classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a
few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their
suppers of thick bread-and-butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamt
happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any
mischief was about to be performed.
Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard
at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen "Marie
Antoinette" as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the
beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself
into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had
scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the
historical facts.
Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself
for the great work. She thought little or nothing about the prize; she
only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate Queen of France. She was
in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly
remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her
school-desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss
Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let
her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special
book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and
she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to
She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to
do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to
her.
She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after
lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip downstairs, enter
the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike
eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss
Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss
Danesbury's step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of
bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door, ran swiftly
down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall
which led to the school-room.
She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she
entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her
desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to
return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the
room where the first-class girls sat. The next moment somebody came
heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon which was just
beginning to rise fell for an instant on a girl's face. Hester
recognised the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here?
She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting
the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan's
steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property,
returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep.