The Carved Lions

by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER V.

  AN UNPROMISING BEGINNING.

  My first sight of Miss Ledbury was a sort of agreeable disappointment.She was not the least like what I had imagined, though till I did seeher I do not think I knew that I had imagined anything! She had beenmuch less in my thoughts than her pupils; it was the idea of companions,the charm of being one of a party of other girls, with a place of my ownamong them, that my fancy had been full of. I don't think I cared verymuch what the teachers were like.

  What I did see was a very small, fragile-looking old lady, with quitewhite hair, a black or purple--I am not sure which, anyway it wasdark--silk dress, and a soft fawn-coloured cashmere shawl. She had awhite lace cap, tied with ribbons under her chin, and black lacemittens. Looking back now, I cannot picture her in any other dress. Icannot remember ever seeing her with a bonnet on, and yet she must haveworn one, as she went to church regularly. Her face was small and stillpretty, and the eyes were naturally sweet, sometimes they had a twinkleof humour in them, sometimes they looked almost hard. The truth was thatshe was a gentle, kind-hearted person by nature, but a narrow life andeducation had stunted her power of sympathy, and she thought it wrong togive way to feeling. She was conscious of what she believed to beweakness in herself, and was always trying to be firm and determined.And since her niece had come to live with her, this put-on sternness hadincreased.

  Yet I was never really afraid of Miss Ledbury, though I never--well,perhaps that is rather too strong--almost never, I should say, felt atease with her.

  I was, I suppose, a very shy child, but till now the circumstances of mylife had not brought this out.

  This first time of seeing my future school-mistress I liked her verymuch. There was indeed something very attractive about her--somethingalmost "fairy-godmother-like" which took my fancy.

  We did not stay long. Miss Ledbury was not without tact, and she sawthat the mention of the approaching parting, the settling the day andhour at which I was to come to Green Bank to _stay_, were very, verytrying to mamma. And I almost think her misunderstanding of me beganfrom that first interview. In her heart I fancy she was shocked at mycoolness, for she did not know, or if she ever had known, she hadforgotten, much about children--their queer contradictory ways of takingthings, how completely they are sometimes the victims of theirimagination, how little they realise anything they have had noexperience of.

  All that the old lady did not understand in me, she put down to my beingspoilt and selfish. She even, I believe, thought me forward.

  Still, she spoke kindly--said she hoped I should soon feel at home atGreen Bank, and try to get on well with my lessons, so that when my dearmamma returned she would be astonished at the progress I had made.

  I did not quite understand what she said--the word "progress" puzzledme. I wondered if it had anything to do with the pilgrim's progress, andI was half inclined to ask if it had, and to tell her that I had readthe history of Christian and his family quite through, two or threetimes. But mamma had already got up to go, so I only said "Yes" rathervaguely, and Miss Ledbury kissed me somewhat coldly.

  As soon as we found ourselves outside in the street again, mamma madesome little remark. She wanted to find out what kind of impression hadbeen left on me, though she would not have considered it right to ask mestraight out what I thought of the lady who was going to be mysuperior--in a sense to fill a parent's place to me.

  And I remember replying that I thought Miss Ledbury must be very, veryold--nearly a hundred, I should think.

  "Oh dear no, not nearly as old as that," mamma said quickly. "You mustnot say anything like that, Geraldine. It would offend her. She cannotbe more than sixty."

  I opened my eyes. I thought it would be very nice to be a hundred.

  But before I had time to say more, my attention was distracted. For justat that moment, turning a corner, we almost ran into the procession Iwas so eager to join--Miss Ledbury's girls, returning two and two fromtheir morning constitutional.

  I felt my cheeks grow red with excitement. I stared at them, and someof them, I think, looked at me. Mamma looked at them too, but instead ofgetting red, her face grew pale.

  They passed so quickly, that I was only able to glance at two or threeof the twenty or thirty faces. I looked at the smallest of the trainwith the most interest, though one older face at the very end caught myattention almost without my knowing it.

  When they had passed I turned to mamma.

  "Did you see that little girl with the rosy cheeks, mamma? The one witha red feather in her hat. _Doesn't_ she look nice?"

  "She looked a good-humoured little person," said mamma. In her heart shethought the rosy-faced child rather common-looking and far too showilydressed, but that was not unusual among the rich Mexington people, andshe would not have said anything like that to me. "I did notice one_very_ sweet face," she went on, "I mean the young lady at the end--oneof the governesses no doubt."

  I had, as I said, noticed her too, and mamma's words impressed it uponme. Mamma seemed quite cheered by this passing glimpse, and she went onspeaking.

  "She must be one of the younger teachers, I should think. I hope youmay be in her class. You must tell me if you are when you write to me,and tell me her name."

  I promised I would.

  The next two or three days I have no clear remembrance of at all. Theyseemed all bustle and confusion--though through everything I recollectmamma's pale drawn face, and the set look of Haddie's mouth. He was sodetermined not to break down. Of father we saw very little--he wasterribly busy. But when he was at home, he seemed to be alwayswhistling, or humming a tune, or making jokes.

  "How pleased father seems to be about going so far away," I said once toHaddie. But he did not answer.

  He--Haddie--was to go a part of the way in the same train as father andmamma. They were to start on the Thursday, and I was taken to Green Bankon Wednesday morning. Father took me--and Lydia. I was such a littlegirl that mamma thought Lydia should go with me to unpack and arrange mythings, and she never thought that any one could object to this. For shehad never been at school herself, and did not know much about schoolways. I think the first beginning of my troubles and disappointments wasabout Lydia.

  Father and I were shown into the drawing-room. But when the door openedthis time, it was not to admit gentle old Miss Ledbury. Instead of herin came a tall, thin woman, dressed in gray--she had black hair donerather tightly, and a black lace bow on the top of her head.

  Father was standing looking out of the window, and I beside him holdinghis hand. I was not crying. I had had one sudden convulsive fit of sobsearly that morning when mamma came for a moment into my room, and forthe first time it _really_ came over me that I was leaving her. But shealmost prayed me to try not to cry, and the feeling that I was helpingher, joined to the excitement I was in, made it not so very difficult tokeep quiet. I do not even think my eyes were red.

  Father turned at the sound of the door opening.

  "Miss Ledbury," he began.

  "Not Miss Ledbury. I am Miss Aspinall, her _niece_," said the lady; shewas not pleased at the mistake.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," said poor father. "I understood----"

  "Miss Ledbury is not very well this morning," said Miss Aspinall. "Shedeputed me to express her regrets."

  "Oh certainly," said father. "This is my little daughter--you have seenher before, I suppose?"

  "No," said the lady, holding out her hand. "How do you do, my dear?"

  I did not speak. I stared up at her, I felt so confused and strange. Iscarcely heard what father went on to say--some simple messages frommamma about my writing to them, and so on, and the dates of the mails,the exact address, etc., etc., to all of which Miss Aspinall listenedwith a slight bend of her head or a stiff "indeed," or "just so."

  This was not encouraging. I am afraid even father's buoyant spirits wentdown: I think he had had some idea that if he came himself he would beable to make friends with my school-mistress and be able to ensure
herspecial friendliness. But it was clear that nothing of this kind was tobe done with the niece.

  So he said at last,

  "Well, I think that is all. Good-bye, my little woman, then. Good-bye,my darling. She will be a good girl, I am sure, Miss Aspinall; she hasbeen a dear good child at home."

  His voice was on the point of breaking, but the governess stood therestonily. His praise of me was not the way to win her favour. I dobelieve she would have liked me better if he had said I had been sonaughty and troublesome at home that he trusted the discipline of schoolwould do me good. And when I glanced up at Miss Aspinall's face,something seemed to choke down the sob which was beginning again to risein my throat.

  "GOOD-BYE!"]

  "Good-bye, my own little girl," said father. One more kiss and he wasgone.

  My luggage was in the hall--which was really a passage scarcelydeserving the more important name--and beside it stood Lydia. MissAspinall looked at her coldly.

  "Who----" she began, when I interrupted her.

  "It's Lydia," I said. "She's come to unpack my things. Mamma sent her."

  "Come to unpack your things," repeated the governess. "There must besome mistake--that is quite unnecessary. There is no occasion for you towait," she said to poor Lydia, with a slight gesture towards the door.

  Lydia grew very red.

  "Miss Geraldine won't know about them all, I'm afraid," she began. "Shehas not been used to taking the charge of her things yet."

  "Then the sooner she learns the better," said Miss Aspinall, and Lydiadared not persist. She turned to me, looking ready to burst out cryingagain, though, as she had been doing little else for three days, onemight have thought her tears were exhausted.

  "Good-bye, dear Miss Geraldine," she said, half holding out her arms. Iflew into them. I was beginning to feel very strange.

  "Good-bye, dear Lydia," I said.

  "You will write to me, Miss Geraldine?"

  "Of course I will; I know your address," I said. Lydia was going to herown home to work with a dressmaker sister in hopes of coming back to usat the end of the two years.

  "Miss Le Marchant" (I think I have never said that our family name wasLe Marchant), said a cold voice, "I really cannot wait any longer; youmust come upstairs at once to take off your things."

  Lydia glanced at me.

  "I beg pardon," she said; and then she too was gone.

  Long afterwards the poor girl told me that her heart was nearly burstingwhen she left me, but she had the good sense to say nothing to add tomamma's distress, as she knew that my living at Green Bank was allsettled about. She could only hope the other governesses might be kinderthan the one she had seen.

  Miss Aspinall walked upstairs, telling me to follow her. It was not avery large house, but it was a high one and the stairs were steep. Itseemed to me that I had climbed up a long way when at last she opened adoor half-way down a dark passage.

  "This is your room," she said, as she went in.

  I followed her eagerly. I don't quite know what I expected. I had notbeen told if I was to have a room to myself or not. But at first I thinkI was rather startled to see three beds in a room not much larger thanmy own one at home--three beds and two wash-hand stands, a large and asmall, two chests of drawers, a large and a small also, which wereevidently considered to be toilet-tables as well, as each had alooking-glass, and three chairs.

  My eyes wandered round. It was all quite neat, though dull. For the onewindow looked on to the side-wall of the next-door house, and muchlight could not have got in at the best of times, added to which, theday was a very gray one. But the impression it made upon me was morethat of a tidy and clean servants' room than of one for ladies, eventhough only little girls.

  I stood still and silent.

  "This is your bed," said Miss Aspinall next, touching a small whitecounterpaned iron bedstead in one corner--I was glad it was in a corner."The Miss Smiths are your companions. They share the large chest ofdrawers, and your things will go into the smaller one."

  "There won't be nearly room enough," I said quickly. I had yet to learnthe habit of not saying out whatever came into my head.

  "Nonsense, child," said the governess. "There must be room enough foryou if there is room enough for much older and----" she stopped. "Atyour age many clothes are not requisite. I think, on the whole, it willbe better for you not to unpack or arrange your own things. One of thegovernesses shall do so, and all that you do not actually require muststay in your trunk and be put in the box-room."

  I did not pay very much attention to what she said. I don't think Iclearly understood it, for, as I have said, in some ways I was rather aslow child. And my thoughts were running more on the Miss Smiths and therest of my future companions than on my wardrobe. If I had taken in thatit was not only my clothes that were in question, but that my littlehousehold gods, my special pet possessions, were not to be left in myown keeping, I would have minded much more.

  "Now take off your things at once," said Miss Aspinall. "You must keepon your boots till your shoes are got out, but take care not to stumpalong the passages. Do your hands want washing? No, you have your gloveson. As soon as you are ready, go down two flights of stairs till youcome to the passage under this on the next floor. The door at the end isthe second class schoolroom, where you will be shown your place."

  Then she went away, leaving me to my own reflections. Not a word ofsympathy or encouragement, not a pat on my shoulder as she passed me,nor a kindly glance out of her hard eyes. But at the time I scarcelynoticed this. My mind was still full of not unpleasant excitement,though I was beginning to feel tired and certainly very confused andbewildered.

  I sat down for a moment on the edge of my little bed when Miss Aspinallleft me, without hastening to take off my coat and bonnet. We worebonnets mostly in those days, though hats were beginning to come intofashion for young girls.

  "I wish there were only two beds, not three," I said to myself. "And Iwould like the little girl with the rosy face to sleep in my room. Iwonder if she's Miss Smith perhaps. I wonder if there's several littlegirls as little as me. I'd like to know all their names, so as to writeand tell them to mamma and Haddie."

  The inclination to cry had left me--fortunately in some ways, thoughperhaps if I had made my _debut_ in the schoolroom looking verywoe-begone and tearful I should have made a better impression. My futurecompanions would have felt sorry for me. As it was, when I had taken offmy things I made my way downstairs as I had been directed, and openingthe schoolroom door--I remember wondering to myself what second classschoolroom could mean: would it have long seats all round, somethinglike a second-class railway carriage?--walked in coolly enough.

  The room felt airless and close, though it was a cold day. And at thefirst glance it seemed to me perfectly full of people--girls--womenindeed in my eyes many of them were, they were so much bigger and olderthan I--in every direction, more than I could count. And the hum ofvoices was very confusing, the _hums_ I should say, for there were twoor three different sets of reading aloud, or lessons repeating, going onat once.

  I stood just inside the door. Two or three heads were turned in mydirection at the sound I made in opening it, but quickly bent over theirbooks again, and for some moments no one paid any attention to me. Thensuddenly a governess happened to catch sight of me. It was the samesweet-faced girl whom mamma had noticed at the end of the long file inthe street.

  She looked at me once, then seemed at a loss, then she looked at meagain, and at last said something to the girl beside her, and getting upfrom her seat went to the end of the room, and spoke to a small elderlywoman in a brown stuff dress, who was evidently another governess.

  This person--I suppose I should say lady--turned round and stared at me.Then she said something to the younger governess, nothing very pleasant,I fancy, for the sweet-looking one--I had better call her by her name,which was Miss Fenmore--went back to her place with a heightened colour.

  You may ask how I can remember all these
little particulars so exactly.Perhaps I do not quite do so, but still, all that happened just thenmade a very strong impression on me, and I have thought it over so muchand so often, especially since I have had children of my own, that it isdifficult to tell quite precisely how much is real memory, how much theafter knowledge of how things must have been, to influence myself andothers as they did. And later, too, I talked them over with those whowere older than I at the time, and could understand more.

  So there I stood, a very perplexed little person, though still moreperplexed than distressed or disappointed, by the door. Now and thensome head was turned to look at me with a sort of stealthy curiosity,but there was no kindness in any of the glances, and the young governesskept her eyes turned away. I was not a pretty child. My hair wasstraight and not noticeable in any way, and it was tightly plaited, aswas the fashion, _unless_ a child's hair was thick enough to make prettyringlets. My face was rather thin and pale, and there was nothing ofdimpling childish loveliness about me. I was rather near-sighted too,and I daresay that often gave me a worried, perhaps a fretfulexpression.

  After all, I did not have to wait very long. The elderly governessfinished the page she was reading aloud--she may have been dictating toher pupils, I cannot say--and came towards me.

  "Did Miss Aspinall send you here?" she said abruptly.

  I looked up at her. She seemed to me no better than our cook, and nothalf so good-natured.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Yes," she repeated, as if she was very shocked. "Yes _who_, if youplease? Yes, Miss ----?"

  "Yes, Miss," I said in a matter-of-fact way.

  "What manners! Fie!" said Miss ----; afterwards I found her name wasBroom. "I think indeed it was quite time for you to come to school. Ifyou cannot say my name, you can at least say ma'am."

  I stared up at her. I think my trick of staring must have been ratherprovoking, and perhaps even must have seemed rude, though it aroseentirely from my not understanding.

  "I don't know your name, Miss--ma'am," I said. I spoke clearly. I wasnot frightened. And a titter went round the forms. Miss Broom was angryat being put in the wrong.

  "Miss Aspinall sent you to my class, _Miss Broom's_ class," she said.

  "No, ma'am--Miss Broom--she didn't."

  The governess thought I meant to be impertinent--impertinent, poor me!

  And with no very gentle hand, she half led, half pushed me towards herend of the room, where there was a vacant place on one of the forms.

  "Silence, young ladies," she said, for some whispering was taking place."Go on with your copying out."

  And then she turned to me with a book.

  "Let me hear how you can read," she said.