CHAPTER VIII.
"NOBODY--_NOBODY_."
The history of that first week might stand for the history of severalmonths at Green Bank. That is why I have related it as clearly aspossible. In one sense I suppose people would say my life grew easier tome, that is to say I got more accustomed to it, but with the "growingaccustomed," increased the loss of hope and spring, so I doubt if timedid bring any real improvement.
I became very dull and silent. I seemed to be losing the power ofcomplaining, or even of wishing for sympathy. I took some interest in mylessons, and almost the only pleasure I had was when I got praise forthem. But that did not often happen, not as often as it should havedone, I really believe. For the prejudice against me on the part of theupper teachers did not wear off. And I can see now that I must have beena disagreeable child.
Nor did I win more liking among my companions. They gradually came totreat me with a sort of indifferent contempt.
"It's only that stupid child," I would hear said when I came into theroom.
The Christmas holidays came and went, without much improving matters. Ispent them at school with one or two other pupils, much older than I.Miss Broom went away, and we were under Miss Aspinall's charge, for MissLedbury had caught a bad cold and her niece would not leave her. Ipreferred Miss Aspinall to Miss Broom certainly, but I had half hopedthat Miss Fenmore would have stayed. She too went away, however, havinggot a "holiday engagement," which she was very glad of she told me whenshe bade me good-bye. I did not understand what she meant, beyondhearing that she was glad to go, so I said nothing about being sorry.
"She doesn't care for me," I thought.
I saw nothing of Haddie, though he wrote that he was very happy spendingthe holidays at the house of one of his schoolfellows, and I was glad ofthis, even while feeling so utterly deserted myself.
It was very, very dull, but I felt as if I did not mind. Even mamma'sletters once a fortnight gave me only a kind of tantalising pleasure,for I knew I dared not _really_ answer them. The only thing I felt gladof was that she did not know how lonely and unhappy I was, and that shenever would do so till the day--the day which I could scarcely believewould ever, _ever_ come--when I should see her again, and feel her armsround me, and know that all the misery and loneliness were over!
Some new pupils came after the Christmas holidays, and one or two of theelder girls did not return. But the new boarders were older than I andtook no notice of me, so their coming made no difference. One event,however, did interest me--that was the appearance at certain classes twoor three times a week of a very sweet-looking little girl about my ownage. She was pretty and very nicely dressed, though by no means showily,and her tone of voice and way of speaking were different from those ofmost of my companions. I wished she had come altogether, and then Imight have made friends with her. "Only," I said to myself unselfishly,"she would most likely be as unhappy as I am, so I shouldn't wish forit."
One of the classes she came to was the French one--the class which, as Ihave said, Miss Fenmore taught. And Miss Fenmore seemed to know her,for she called her by her Christian name--"Myra." The first time I heardit I felt quite puzzled. I knew I had heard it before, though I couldnot remember where or when, except that it was not very long ago. Andwhen I heard her last name, "Raby"--"Miss Raby" one of the otherteachers called her--and put the two together--"Myra Raby"--I felt moreand more certain I had heard them spoken of before, though I was equallycertain I had never seen the little girl herself.
I might have asked Miss Fenmore about her, but it did not enter into myhead to do so: that was one of my odd childish ways. And it was partly,too, that I was growing more and more reserved and silent. Even toHarriet Smith I did not talk half as much as at first, and she used totell me I was growing sulky.
I took great interest in watching for Myra's appearance. I daresay if Icould make a picture of her now she would seem a quaint old-fashionedlittle figure to you, but to me she seemed perfectly lovely. She hadpretty brown hair, falling in ringlets round her delicate little face;her eyes were gray, very soft and gentle, and she had a dear littlerosebud of a mouth. She was generally dressed in pale gray merino orcashmere, with white lace frilled round the neck and short sleeves--alllittle girls wore short sleeves then, even in winter; and once when Icaught a glimpse of her getting into a carriage which was waiting forher at the door, I was lost in admiration of her dark green clothpelisse trimmed with chinchilla fur.
"She must be somebody very rich and grand," I thought. But I had noopportunity of getting to know more of her, than a nice little smile ora word or two of thanks if I passed her a book at the class or happenedto sit next her. For she always left immediately after the lesson wasover.
Up to Easter she came regularly. Then we had three weeks' holidays, andas before, Miss Fenmore went away. She was pleased to go, but when shesaid good-bye to me I thought she looked sad, and she called me "my poorlittle girl."
"Why do you say that?" I asked her. She smiled and answered that she didnot quite know; she thought I looked dull, and she wished I were goingtoo.
"Are you less unhappy than when you first came to school?" she said,looking at me rather earnestly. It was very seldom she had anopportunity of speaking to me alone.
"No," I replied, "I'm much unhappier when I think about it. But I'mgetting not to think, so I don't care."
She looked still graver at this. I fancy she saw that what I said wastrue. I was growing dulled and stupefied, as it were, for want of anyone to sympathise with me or draw me out, though I did not know quitehow to put this in words. As I have said before, I was not a child withmuch power of expression.
Miss Fenmore kissed me, but she sighed as she did so.
"I wish----" she began, but then she stopped. "When I come back afterEaster," she said more cheerfully, "I hope I may somehow manage to seemore of you, dear Geraldine."
"Thank you," I answered. I daresay my voice did not sound as if I didthank her or as if I cared, though in my heart I was pleased, and oftenthought of what she had said during the holidays, which I found evenduller than the Christmas ones had been.
They came to an end at last, however, but among the returninggovernesses and pupils there was no Miss Fenmore. Nor did Myra Raby comeagain to the classes she used to attend. I wondered to myself why itwas so, but for some time I knew nothing about Miss Fenmore, and in thequeer silent way which was becoming my habit I did not ask. At last oneday a new governess made her appearance, and then I overheard some ofthe girls saying she was to take Miss Fenmore's place. A sort of chokecame into my throat, and for the first time I realised that I _had_ beenlooking forward to the pretty young governess's return.
I do not remember anything special happening for some time after that. Isuppose Easter must have been early that year, for when the eventsoccurred which I am now going to relate, it was still cold and wintryweather--very rainy at least, and Mexington was always terribly gloomyin rainy weather. It seems a long stretch to look back upon--those weeksof the greatest loneliness I had yet known--but in reality I do notthink it could have been more than three or four.
I continued to work steadily--even hard--at my lessons. I knew that itwould please mamma, and I had a vague feeling that somehow my getting onfast might shorten the time of our separation, though I could not havesaid why. I was really interested in some of my lessons, and anxious todo well even in those I did not like. But I was not quick or clever,and often, very often, my hesitation in expressing myself made me seemfar less intelligent than I actually was. Still I generally got goodmarks, especially for _written_ tasks, for the teachers, though hard andstrict, were not unprincipled. They did not like me, but they were fairon the whole, I think.
Unluckily, however, about this time I got a bad cold. I was notseriously ill, but it hung about me for some time and made me feel verydull and stupid. I think, too, it must have made me a little deaf,though I did not know it at the time. I began to get on less well atlessons, very often making mistakes and replying at
random, for which Iwas scolded as if I did it out of carelessness.
And though I tried more and more to prepare my lessons perfectly, thingsgrew worse and worse.
At last one day they came to a point. I forget what the lesson was, andit does not matter, but every time a question came to me I answeredwrongly. Once or twice I did not hear, and when I said so, Miss Broom,whose class it was, was angry, and said I was talking nonsense. Itended in my bursting into tears, which I had never done before inpublic since I had been at Green Bank.
Miss Broom was very annoyed. She said a great deal to me which betweenmy tears and my deafness I did not hear, and at last she must haveordered me to go up to my room, for her tone grew more and more angry.
"Do you mean to defy me?" she said, so loud that I heard her plainly.
I stared, and I do not know what would have happened if Harriet Smith,who was near me, had not started up in her good-natured way.
"She doesn't hear; she's crying so," she said. "Gerry, dear, Miss Broomsays you're to go up to your room."
I was nothing loth. I got up from my seat and made my way more byfeeling than seeing--so blinded was I by crying--to the door, andupstairs.
Arrived there, I flung myself on to the end of my bed. It was cold, andoutside it was raining, raining--it seems to me now that it never leftoff raining at Mexington that spring; the sky, if I had looked out ofthe window, was one dull gray sheet. But I seemed to care fornothing--just at first the comfort of being able to cry with no one tolook at me was all I wanted. So I lay there sobbing, though not loudly.
After some little time had passed the downstairs bell rang--it wasafternoon, and the bell meant, I knew, preparation for tea. So I was notvery surprised when the door opened and Emma and Harriet came in--theywere both kind, Harriet especially, though her kindness was chieflyshown by loud abuse of Miss Broom.
"You'd better take care, Harry," said her sister at last, "or you'll begetting into disgrace yourself, which certainly won't do Gerry any good.Do be quick and make yourself tidy, the tea-bell will be ringing in amoment. Hadn't you better wash your face and brush your hair, Gerry--youdo look such a figure."
"I can't go down unless Miss Broom says I may," I replied, "and I don'twant any tea," though in my heart I knew I was feeling hungry. Muchcrying often makes children hungry; they are not like grown-up people.
"Oh, nonsense," said Emma. "You'd feel ever so much better if you hadsome tea. What _I_ think you're so silly for is _minding_--why need youcare what that old Broom says? She daren't beat you or starve you, andonce you're at home again you can snap your fingers at school andgovernesses and----"
Here Harriet said something to her sister in a low voice which I did nothear. It made Emma stop.
"Oh, well, I can't help it," she said, or something of that kind. "Itdoesn't do any good to cry like that, whatever troubles you have," shewent on.
I got up slowly and tried to wash away some of the traces of my tears byplunging my face in cold water. Then Harriet helped me to smooth my hairand make myself look neat. Emma's words had had the effect of making meresolve to cry no more if I could help it. And a moment or two later Iwas glad I had followed her advice, for one of the elder girls came toour room with a message to say that I was to go down to tea, and aftertea I was to stay behind in the dining-room as Miss Aspinall wished tospeak to me.
"Very well," I said. But the moment the other girl had gone both Emmaand Harriet began again.
"That horrid old Broom," said Harriet, "just fancy her complaining toMiss Aspinall."
And "Promise me, Gerry," said Emma, "not to mind what she says, andwhatever you do, don't cry. There's nothing vexes old Broom so much asseeing we don't care--mean old cat."
I could scarcely help laughing, my spirits had got up a little--that isto say, I felt more angry than sad now. I felt as if I really did _not_much care what was said to me.
And I drank my tea and ate my slices of thick bread and butter with agood appetite, though I saw Miss Broom watching me from her end of thetable; and when I had finished I felt, as Emma had said I should, "everso much better"--that is to say, no longer in the least inclined to cry.
Nor did I feel nervous or frightened when Miss Aspinall--all the othershaving gone--seated herself in front of me and began her talk. It beganquite differently from what I had expected. She was a good woman, andnot nearly so bad-tempered as Miss Broom, though hard and cold, and I amsure she meant to do me good. She talked about how changed I had been oflate, my lessons so much less well done, and how careless andinattentive I seemed. There was some truth in it. I knew my lessons hadnot been so well done, but I also knew I had not been careless orinattentive.
"And worst of all," continued the governess, "you have got into such ahabit of making excuses that it really amounts to telling untruths.Several times, Miss Broom tells me, you have done a wrong lesson or notdone one at all, and you have maintained to her that you had not beentold what you _had_ been told--there was something about your Frenchpoetry yesterday, which you _must_ have known you were to learn. MissBroom says you positively denied it."
I was getting very angry now--I had wanted to say I was sorry about mylessons, but now that I was accused of not speaking the truth I feltnothing but anger.
"I never tell stories," I said very loudly; "and if Miss Broom says Ido, I'll write to mamma and tell her. I _won't_ stay here if you saysuch things to me."
Miss Aspinall was quite startled; she had never seen me in a passionbefore, for I was usually considered in the school as sulky rather thanviolent-tempered. For a moment or two she stared, too astonished tospeak. Then,
"Go back to your room," she said. "I am sorry to say I must lay thisbefore Miss Ledbury."
I got up from my seat--Miss Aspinall had not kept me standing--and wentupstairs again to my room, where I stayed for the rest of the evening,my supper--a cup of milk and a piece of dry bread--being brought me by aservant, and with it a message that I was to undress and go to bed,which I was not sorry to do.
I lay there, not asleep, and still burning with indignation, whenHarriet came up to bed. She had not been told not to speak to me, verylikely the teachers thought I would be asleep, and she was very curiousto know what had passed. I told her all. She was very sympathising, butat the same time she thought it a pity I had lost my temper with MissAspinall.
"I don't know how you'll get on now," she said, "with both her and MissBroom so against you. You should just not have minded--like Emma said."
"Not mind her saying I told stories!" I burst out. Harriet did not seemto think there was anything specially annoying in that. "Well," I wenton, "_I_ mind it, whether you do or not. And I'm _going_ to mind it. Ishall write to mamma and tell her I can't stay here any more, and I'msure when she hears it she'll do _something_. She won't let me stayhere. Or--or--perhaps father will fix to come home again and not stay aslong as two years there."
"I don't think he'll do that," said Harriet mysteriously.
"What do you mean? What do you know about it?" I asked, for something inher voice struck me.
"Oh, nothing--I shouldn't have said it--it was only something I heard,"she replied, looking rather confused.
"Something you heard," I repeated, starting up in bed and catching holdof her. "Then you _must_ tell me. Do you mean there's been letters ornews about father and mamma that I don't know about?"
"No, no," said Harriet. "Of course not."
"Then what do you mean? You shall tell me--if you don't," I went on,more and more excitedly, "I'll--" I hesitated--"I'll tell you what I'lldo, I'll go straight downstairs, just as I am, in my nightgown, to MissLedbury herself, and tell her what you've said. I don't care if shebeats me, I don't care what she does, but I _will_ know."
Harriet tried to pull herself away.
"What a horrid temper you're getting, Gerry," she said complainingly."Just when I hurried up to bed as quick as I could to talk to you. It'snothing, I tell you--only something I heard at home, and Emma said Iwasn't ever to tell
it you."
I clutched her more firmly.
"You shall tell me, or I'll do what I said."
Harriet looked really frightened.
"You'll not tell Emma, then? You promise?"
I nodded. "I promise."
"Well, then, it was only one day--papa was talking about somebody goingto South America, and I said that was where your papa and mamma hadgone, and papa asked your name, and then he said he had seen your papaat the bank, and it was a pity he hadn't been content to stay there. Itwas such a bad climate where he'd gone--lots of people got ill and diedthere, unless they were rich enough to live out of the town, and hedidn't suppose any one who'd only been a clerk in the bank here would bethat. And Emma said, couldn't your papa and mamma come back if they gotill, and he said if they waited till then it would be rather too late.There's some fever people get there, that comes all of a sudden. Andbesides that, your papa must have promised he'd stay two years--theyalways do."
As she went on, my heart fell lower and lower--for a moment or two Icould not speak. All sorts of dreadful fears and imaginings began tofill my mind; perhaps my parents had already got that terrible illnessHarriet spoke of, perhaps one or both of them had already died. I couldhave screamed aloud. I felt I could not bear it--I must write to mamma aletter that nobody should read. I must see somebody who would tell methe truth--Haddie, perhaps, knew more than I did. If I could go to him!But I had no money and no idea of the way, and Miss Aspinall wouldnever, _never_ let me even write to ask him. Besides, I was in disgrace,very likely they would not believe me if I told them why I was somiserable; they had already said I told stories, and then I must not getHarriet into trouble.
What _should_ I do? If only Miss Fenmore had still been there, I feltshe would have been sorry for me, but there was nobody--_nobody_.
I turned my face away from my little companion, and buried it in thepillow. Harriet grew frightened.
"What are you doing, Gerry?" she said. "Why don't you speak? Are yougoing to sleep or are you crying? Very likely your papa and mamma won'tget that illness. I wish I hadn't told you."
"Never mind," I said. "I'm going to sleep."
"And you won't tell Emma?" Harriet repeated.
"Of course not--don't you believe my word? Do you too think that I tellstories?"
I tried to get rid of my misery by letting myself grow angry.
"You're very cross," said Harriet; but all the same I think sheunderstood me better than she could express, for she kissed me and said,"Do go to sleep--don't be so unhappy."
The Carved Lions Page 8
