Project Gutenberg's The Getting of Wisdom, by Henry Handel Richardson

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Title: The Getting of Wisdom

Author: Henry Handel Richardson

Posting Date: June 20, 2009 [EBook #3728]
Release Date: February, 2003
First Posted: October 10, 2001

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GETTING OF WISDOM ***




Produced by Col Choat.  HTML version by Al Haines.









The Getting of Wisdom


by

Henry Handel Richardson




  TO MY
  UNNAMED
  LITTLE COLLABORATOR



  Wisdom is the principal thing;
  therefore get wisdom: and with
  all thy getting get understanding.

Proverbs, iv, 7



I.


The four children were lying on the grass.

"... and the Prince went further and further into the forest," said the
elder girl, "till he came to a beautiful glade--a glade, you know, is a
place in the forest that is open and green and lovely. And there he saw
a lady, a beautiful lady, in a long white dress that hung down to her
ankles, with a golden belt and a golden crown. She was lying on the
sward--a sward, you know, is grass as smooth as velvet, just like green
velvet--and the Prince saw the marks of travel on her garments. The
bottom of the lovely silk dress was all dirty----"

"Wondrous Fair, if you don't mind you'll make that sheet dirty, too,"
said Pin.

"Shut up, will you!" answered her sister who, carried away by her
narrative, had approached her boots to some linen that was bleaching.

"Yes, but you know Sarah'll be awfly cross if she has to wash it
again," said Pin, who was practical.

"You'll put me out altogether," cried Laura angrily.--"Well, as I said,
the edge of her robe was all muddy--no, I don't think I will say that;
it sounds prettier if it's clean. So it hung in long, straight
beautiful folds to her ankles, and the Prince saw two little feet in
golden sandals peeping out from under the hem of the silken gown,
and----"

"But what about the marks of travel?" asked Leppie.

"Donkey! haven't I said they weren't there? If I say they weren't, then
they weren't. She hadn't travelled at all."

"Oh, parrakeets!" cried little Frank.

Four pairs of eyes went up to the bright green flock that was passing
over the garden.

"Now you've all interrupted, and I shan't tell any more," said Laura in
a proud voice.

"Oh, yes, please do, Wondrous Fair! Tell what happened next," begged
Pin and Leppie.

"No, not another word. You can only think of sheets and parrakeets."

"Please, Wondrous Fair," begged little Frank.

"No, I can't now.--Another thing: I don't mind if you call me Laura
to-day, as it's the last day."

She lay back on the grass, her hands clasped under her head. A voice
was heard, loud, imperative.

"Laura, I want you. Come here."

"That's mother calling," said Pin.

Laura kicked her heels. The two little boys laughed approval.

"Go on, Laura," coaxed Pin. "Mother'll be angry. I'll come, too."

Laura raised herself with a grumble. "It's to try on that horrid dress."

In very fact Mother was standing, already somewhat impatient, with the
dress in her hand. Laura wriggled out of the one she had on, and stood
stiffly and ungraciously, with her arms held like pokers from her
sides, while Mother on her knees arranged the length.

"Don't put on a face like that, miss!" she said sharply on seeing
Laura's air. "Do you think I'm making it for my own pleasure?" She had
sewn at it all day, and was hot and tired.

"It's too short," said Laura, looking down.

"It's nothing of the kind," said Mother, with her mouth full of pins.

"It is, it's much too short."

Mother gave her a slight shake. "Don't you contradict ME! Do you want
to tell me I don't know what length you're to wear your dresses?"

"I won't wear it at all if you don't make it longer," said Laura
defiantly.

Pin's chubby, featureless little face lengthened with apprehension.

"Do let her have it just a tiny bit longer, mother dear, dear!" she
pleaded.

"Now, Pin, what have you got to do with it I'd like to know!" said
Mother, on the verge of losing her temper over the back folds, which
WOULD not hang.

"I'm going to school to-morrow, and it's a shame," said Laura in the
low, passionate tone that never failed to exasperate Mother, so
different was it from her own hearty fashion of venting displeasure.
Pin began to sniff, in sheer nervous anxiety.

"Very well then, I won't do another stitch to it!" and Mother, now
angry in earnest, got up and bounced out of the room.

"Laura, how can you?" said Pin, dissolving. "It's only you who make her
so cross."

"I don't care," said Laura rebelliously, though she was not far off
tears herself. "It IS a shame. All the other girls will have dresses
down to the tops of their boots, and they'll laugh at me, and call me a
[P.4] baby;" and touched by the thought of what lay before her, she,
too, began to sniffle. She did not fail, however, to roll the dress up
and to throw it unto a corner of the room. She also kicked the ewer,
which fell over and flooded the floor. Pin cried more loudly, and ran
to fetch Sarah.

Laura returned to the garden. The two little boys came up to her; but
she waved them back.

"Let me alone, children. I want to think."

She stood in a becoming attitude by the garden-gate, her brothers
hovering in the background.--Then Mother called once more.

"Laura, where are you?"

"Here, mother. What is it?"

"Did you knock this jug over or did Pin?"

"I did, mother."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Come here to me."

She went, with lagging steps. But Mother's anger had passed: she was at
work on the dress again, and by squinting her eyes Laura could see that
a piece was being added to the skirt. She was penitent at once; and
when Mother in a sorry voice said: "I'm ashamed of you, Laura. And on
your last day, too," her throat grew narrow.

"I didn't mean it, mother."

"If only you would ask properly for things, you would get them."

Laura knew this; knew indeed that, did she coax, Mother could refuse
her nothing. But coaxing came hard to her; something within her forbade
it. Sarah called her "high-stomached", to the delight of the other
children and her own indignation; she had explained to them again and
again what Sarah really meant.

On leaving the house she went straight to the flower-beds: she would
give Mother, who liked flowers very well but had no time to gather
them, a bouquet the size of a cabbage. Pin and the boys were summoned
to help her, and when their hands were full, Laura led the way to a
secluded part of the garden on the farther side of the detached brick
kitchen. In this strip, which was filled with greenery, little sun
fell: two thick fir trees and a monstrous blue-gum stood there; high
bushes screened the fence; jessamine climbed the wall of the house and
encircled the bedroom windows; and on the damp and shady ground only
violets grew. Yet, with the love children bear to the limited and
compact, the four had chosen their own little plots here rather than in
the big garden at the back of the house; and many were the times they
had all begun anew to dig and to rake. But if Laura's energy did not
fizzle out as quickly as usual--she was the model for the rest--Mother
was sure to discover that it was too cramped and dark for them in
there, and send Sarah to drive them off.

Here, safely screened from sight, Laura sat on a bench and made up her
bouquet. When it was finished--red and white in the centre with a
darker border, the whole surrounded by a ring of violet leaves--she
looked about for something to tie it up with. Sarah, applied to, was
busy ironing, and had no string in the kitchen, so Pin ran to get a
reel of cotton. But while she was away Laura had an idea. Bidding
Leppie hold the flowers tight in both his sticky little hands, she
climbed in at her bedroom window, or rather, by lying on the sill with
her legs waving in the air, she managed to grab, without losing her
balance, a pair of scissors from the chest of drawers. With these
between her teeth she emerged, to the excited interest of the boys who
watched her open-mouthed.

Laura had dark curls, Pin fair, and both wore them flapping at their
backs, the only difference being that Laura, who was now twelve years
old, had for the past year been allowed to bind hers together with a
ribbon, while Pin's bobbed as they chose. Every morning early, Mother
brushed and twisted, with a kind of grim pride, these silky ringlets
round her finger. Although the five odd minutes the curling occupied
were durance vile to Laura, the child was proud of her hair in her own
way; and when in the street she heard some one say: "Look--what pretty
curls!" she would give her head a toss and send them all a-rippling. In
addition to this, there was a crowning glory connected with them: one
hot December morning, when they had been tangled and Mother had kept
her standing too long, she had fainted, pulling the whole
dressing-table down about her ears; and ever since, she had been marked
off in some mysterious fashion from the other children. Mother would
not let her go out at midday in summer: Sarah would say: "Let that be,
can't you!" did she try to lift something that was too heavy for her;
and the younger children were to be quelled by a threat to faint on the
spot, if they did not do as she wished. "Laura's faint" had become a
byword in the family; and Laura herself held it for so important a fact
in her life that she had more than once begun a friendship with the
words: "Have you ever fainted? I have."

From among these long, glossy curls, she now cut one of the longest and
most spiral, cut it off close to the root, and with it bound the
flowers together. Mother should see that she did know how to give up
something she cared for, and was not as selfish as she was usually
supposed to be.

"Oh .. h .. h!" said both little boys in a breath, then doubled up in
noisy mirth. Laura was constantly doing something to set their young
blood in amazement: they looked upon her as the personification of all
that was startling and unexpected. But Pin, returning with the reel of
thread, opened her eyes in a different way.

"Oh, Laura ...!" she began, tearful at once.

"Now, res'vor!" retorted Laura scornfully--"res'vor" was Sarah's name
for Pin, on account of her perpetual wateriness. "Be a cry-baby, do."
But she was not damped, she was lost in the pleasure of self-sacrifice.

Pin looked after her as she danced off, then moved submissively in her
wake to be near at hand should intercession be needed. Laura was so
unsuspecting, and Mother would be so cross. In her dim, childish way
Pin longed to see these, her two nearest, at peace; she understood them
both so well, and they had little or no understanding for each
other.--So she crept to the house at her sister's heels.

Laura did not go indoors; hiding against the wall of the flagged
verandah, she threw her bouquet in at the window, meaning it to fall on
Mother's lap.

But Mother had dropped her needle, and was just lifting her face,
flushed with stooping, when the flowers hit her a thwack on the head.
She groped again, impatiently, to find what had struck her, recognised
the peace-offering, and thought of the surprise cake that was to go
into Laura's box on the morrow. Then she saw the curl, and her face
darkened. Was there ever such a tiresome child? What in all the world
would she do next?

"Laura, come here, directly!"

Laura had moved away; she was not expecting recognition. If Mother were
pleased she would call Pin to put the flowers in water for her, and
that would be the end of it. The idea of a word of thanks would have
made Laura feel uncomfortable. Now, however, at the tone of Mother's
voice, her mouth set stubbornly. She went indoors as bidden, but was
already up in arms again.

"You're a very naughty girl indeed!" began Mother as soon she appeared.
"How dare you cut off your hair? Upon my word, if it weren't your last
night I'd send you to bed without any supper!"--an unheard-of threat on
the part of Mother, who punished her children in any way but that of
denying them their food. "It's a very good thing you're leaving home
to-morrow, for you'd soon be setting the others at defiance, too, and I
should have four naughty children on my hands instead of one.-- But I'd
be ashamed to go to school such a fright if I were you. Turn round at
once and let me see you!"

Laura turned, with a sinking heart. Pin cried softly in a corner.

"She thought it would please you, mother," she sobbed.

"I WILL not have you interfering, Pin, when I'm speaking to Laura.
She's old enough by now to know what I like and what I don't," said
Mother, who was vexed at the thought of the child going among strangers
thus disfigured.--"And now get away, and don't let me see you again.
You're a perfect sight."

"Oh, Laura, you do look funny!" said Leppie and Frank in weak chorus,
as she passed them in the passage.

"Well, you 'ave made a guy of yourself this time, Miss Laura, and no
mistake!" said Sarah, who had heard the above.

Laura went into her own room and locked the door, a thing Mother did
not allow. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried. Mother had not
understood in the least; and she had made herself a sight into the
bargain. She refused to open the door, though one after another rattled
the handle, and Sarah threatened to turn the hose in at the window. So
they left her alone, and she spent the evening in watery dudgeon on her
pillow. But before she undressed for the night she stealthily made a
chink and took in the slice of cake Pin had left on the door-mat. Her
natural buoyancy of spirit was beginning to reassert itself. By
brushing her hair well to one side she could cover up the gap, she
found; and after all, there was something rather pleasant in knowing
that you were misunderstood. It made you feel different from everyone
else.

Mother--sewing hard after even the busy Sarah had retired--Mother
smiled a stern little smile of amusement to herself; and before locking
up for the night put the dark curl safely away.




II.


Laura, sleeping flat on her stomach, was roused next morning by Pin who
said:

"Wake up, Wondrous Fair, mother wants to speak to you. She says you can
get into bed in my place, before you dress." Pin slept warm and cosy at
Mother's side.

Laura rose on her elbow and looked at her sister: Pin was standing in
the doorway holding her nightgown to her, in such a way as to expose
all of her thin little legs.

"Come on," urged Pin. "Sarah's going to give me my bath while you're
with mother."

"Go away, Pin," said Laura snappily. "I told you yesterday you could
say Laura, and ... and you're more like a spider than ever."

"Spider" was another nickname for Pin, owed to her rotund little body
and mere sticks of legs--she was "all belly" as Sarah put it--and the
mere mention of it made Pin fly; for she was very touchy about her legs.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Laura sprang out of bed and,
waiting neither to wash herself nor to say her prayers, began to pull
on her clothes, confusing strings and buttons in her haste, and quite
forgetting that on this eventful morning she had meant to dress herself
with more than ordinary care. She was just lacing her shoes when Sarah
looked in.

"Why, Miss Laura, don't you know your ma wants you?"

"It's too late. I'm dressed now," said Laura darkly.

Sarah shook her head. "Missis'll be fine an' angry. An' you needn't
'ave 'ad a row on your last day."

Laura stole out of the door and ran down the garden to the
summer-house. This, the size of a goodly room, was formed of a single
dense, hairy-leafed tree, round the trunk of which a seat was built.
Here she cowered, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Her
face wore the stiff expression that went by the name of "Laura's
sulks," but her eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared
animal. If Sarah came to fetch her she would hold on to the seat with
both hands. But even if she had to yield to Sarah's greater
strength--well, at least she was up and dressed. Not like the last
time--about a week ago Mother had tried this kind of thing. Then, she
had been caught unawares. She had gone into Pin's warm place, curious
and unsuspecting, and thereupon Mother had begun to talk seriously to
her, and not with her usual directness. She had reminded Laura that she
was growing up apace and would soon be a woman; had told her that she
must now begin to give up childish habits, and learn to behave in a
modest and womanly way--all disagreeable, disturbing things, which
Laura did not in the least want to hear. When it became clear to her
what it was about, she had thrown back the bedclothes and escaped from
the room. And since then she had been careful never to be long alone
with Mother.

But now half an hour went by and no one came to fetch her: her grim
little face relaxed. She felt very hungry, too, and when at length she
heard Pin calling, she jumped up and betrayed her hiding-place.

"Laura! Laura, where are you? Mother says to come to breakfast and not
be silly. The coach'll be here in an hour."

Taking hands the sisters ran to the house.

In the passage, Sarah was busy roping a battered tin box. With their
own hands the little boys had been allowed to paste on this a big sheet
of notepaper, which bore, in Mother's writing, the words:

Miss Laura Tweedle Rambotham The Ladies' College Melbourne.

Mother herself was standing at the breakfast-table cutting sandwiches.

"Come and eat your breakfast, child," was all she said at the moment.
"The tea's quite cold."

Laura sat down and fell to with appetite, but also with a side-glance
at the generous pile of bread and meat growing under Mother's hands.

"I shall never eat all that," she said ungraciously; it galled her
still to be considered a greedy child with an insatiable stomach.

"I know better than you do what you'll eat," said Mother. "You'll be
hungry enough by this evening I can tell you, not getting any dinner."

Pin's face fell at this prospect. "Oh, mother, won't she really get any
dinner?" she asked: and to her soft little heart going to school began
to seem one of the blackest experiences life held.

"Why, she'll be in the train, stupid, 'ow can she?" said Sarah. "Do you
think trains give you dinners?"

"Oh, mother, please cut ever such a lot!" begged Pin sniffing valiantly.

Laura began to feel somewhat moved herself at this solicitude, and
choked down a lump in her throat with a gulp of tea. But when Pin had
gone with Sarah to pick some nectarines, Mother's face grew stern, and
Laura's emotion passed.

"I feel more troubled about you than I can say, Laura. I don't know how
you'll ever get on in life--you're so disobedient and self-willed. It
would serve you very well right, I'm sure, for not coming this morning,
if I didn't give you a penny of pocket-money to take to school."

Laura had heard this threat before, and thought it wiser not to reply.
Gobbling up the rest of her breakfast she slipped away.

With the other children at her heels she made a round of the garden,
bidding good-bye to things and places. There were the two summer-houses
in which she had played house; in which she had cooked and eaten and
slept. There was the tall fir-tree with the rung-like branches by which
she had been accustomed to climb to the very tree-top; there was the
wilderness of bamboo and cane where she had been Crusoe; the ancient,
broadleaved cactus on which she had scratched their names and drawn
their portraits; here, the high aloe that had such a mysterious charm
for you, because you never knew when the hundred years might expire and
the aloe burst into flower. Here again was the old fig tree with the
rounded, polished boughs, from which, seated as in a cradle, she had
played Juliet to Pin's Romeo, and vice versa--but oftenest Juliet: for
though Laura greatly preferred to be the ardent lover at the foot, Pin
was but a poor climber, and, as she clung trembling to her branch,
needed so much prompting in her lines--even then to repeat them with
such feeble emphasis--that Laura invariably lost patience with her and
the love-scene ended in a squabble. Passing behind a wooden fence which
was a tangle of passion-flower, she opened the door of the fowl-house,
and out strutted the mother-hen followed by her pretty brood. Laura had
given each of the chicks a name, and she now took Napoleon and
Garibaldi up in her hand and laid her cheek against their downy
breasts, the younger children following her movements in respectful
silence. Between the bars of the rabbit hutch she thrust enough
greenstuff to last the two little occupants for days; and everywhere
she went she was accompanied by a legless magpie, which, in spite of
its infirmity, hopped cheerily and quickly on its stumps. Laura had
rescued it and reared it; it followed her like a dog; and she was only
less devoted to it than she had been to a native bear which died under
her hands.

"Now listen, children," she said as she rose from her knees before the
hutch. "If you don't look well after Maggy and the bunnies, I don't
know what I'll do. The chicks'll be all right. Sarah'll take care of
them, 'cause of the eggs. But Maggy and the bunnies don't have eggs,
and if they're not fed, or if Frank treads on Maggy again, then they'll
die. Now if you let them die, I don't know what I'll do to you! Yes, I
do: I'll send the devil to you at night when the room's dark, before
you go to sleep.--So there!"

"How can you if you're not here?" asked Leppie.

Pin, however, who believed in ghosts and apparitions with all her
fearful little heart, promised tremulously never, never to forget; but
Laura was not satisfied until each of them in turn had repeated, in a
low voice, with the appropriate gestures, the sacred secret, and
forbidden formula:

  Is my finger wet?
  Is my finger dry?
  God'll strike me dead,
  If I tell a lie.


Then Sarah's voice was heard calling, and the boys went out into the
road to watch for the coach. Laura's dressing proved a lengthy
business, and was accomplished amid bustle, and scolding, and little
peace-making words from Pin; for in her hurry that morning Laura had
forgotten to put on the clean linen Mother had laid beside the bed, and
consequently had now to strip to the skin.

The boys announced the coming of the coach with shrill cries, and
simultaneously the rumble of wheels was heard. Sarah came from the
kitchen drying her hands, and Pin began to cry.

"Now, shut up, res'vor!" said Sarah roughly: her own eyes were moist.
"You don't see Miss Laura be such a silly-billy. Anyone 'ud think you
was goin', not 'er."

The ramshackle old vehicle, one of Cobb's Royal Mail Coaches,
big-bodied, lumbering, scarlet, pulled by two stout horses, drew up
before the door, and the driver climbed down from his seat.

"Now good day to you, ma'am, good day, miss"--this to Sarah who,
picking up the box, handed it to him to be strapped on under the apron.
"Well, well, and so the little girl's goin' to school, is she? My, but
time flies! Well do I remember the day ma'am, when I drove you all
across for the first time. These children wasn't big enough then to git
up and down be thimselves. Now I warrant you they can--just look at
'em, will you?--But my! Ain't you ashamed of yourself"--he spoke to
Pin--"pipin' your eye like that? Why, you'll flood the road if you
don't hould on.--Yes, yes, ma'am, bless you, I'll look after her, and
put her inter the train wid me own han's. Don't you be oneasy. The Lord
he cares for the widder and the orphun, and if He don't, why Patrick
O'Donnell does."

This was O'Donnell's standing joke; he uttered it with a loud chuckle.
While speaking he had let down the steps and helped the three children
up--they were to ride with Laura to the outskirts of the township. The
little boys giggled excitedly at his assertion that the horses would
not be equal to the weight. Only Pin wept on, in undiminished grief.

"Now, Miss Laura."

"Now, Laura. Good-bye, darling. And do try and be good. And be sure you
write once a week. And tell me everything. Whether you are happy--and
if you get enough to eat--and if you have enough blankets on your bed.
And remember always to change your boots if you get your feet wet. And
don't lean out of the window in the train."

For some time past Laura had had need of all her self-control, not to
cry before the children. As the hour drew near it had grown harder and
harder; while dressing, she had resorted to counting the number of
times the profile of a Roman emperor appeared in the flowers on the
wallpaper. Now the worst moment of all was come--the moment of
good-bye. She did not look at Pin, but she heard her tireless, snuffly
weeping, and set her own lips tight.

"Yes, mother ... no, mother," she answered shortly, "I'll be all right.
Good-bye." She could not, however, restrain a kind of dry sob, which
jumped up her throat.

When she was in the coach Sarah, whom she had forgotten climbed up to
kiss her; and there was some joking between O'Donnell and the servant
while the steps were being folded and put away. Laura did not smile;
her thin little face was very pale. Mother's heart went out to her in a
pity which she did not know how to express.

"Don't forget your sandwiches. And when you're alone, feel in the
pocket of your ulster and you'll find something nice. Good-bye,
darling."

"Good-bye ... good-bye."

The driver had mounted to his seat, he unwound the reins cried "Get
up!" to the two burly horses, the vehicle was set in motion and
trundled down the main street. Until it turned the corner by the Shire
Gardens, Laura let her handkerchief fly from the window. Sarah waved
hers; then wiped her eyes and lustily blew her nose. Mother only sighed.

"It was all she could do to keep up," she said as much to herself as to
Sarah. "I do hope she'll be all right. She seems such a child to be
sending off like this. Yet what else could I do? To a State School,
I've always said it, my children shall never go--not if I have to beg
the money to send them elsewhere."

But she sighed again, in spite of the energy of her words, and stood
gazing at the place where the coach had disappeared. She was still a
comparatively young woman, and straight of body; but trouble, poverty
and night-watches had scored many lines on her forehead.

"Don't you worry," said Sarah. "Miss Laura'll be all right. She's just
a bit too clever--brains for two, that's what it is. An' children WILL
grow up an' get big ... an' change their feathers." She spoke absently,
drawing her metaphor from a brood of chickens which had strayed across
the road, and was now trying to mount the wooden verandah--"Shooh! Get
away with you!"

"I know that. But Laura--The other children have never given me a
moment's worry. But Laura's different. I seem to get less and less able
to manage her. If only her father had been alive to help!"

"I'm sure no father livin' could do more than you for those blessed
children," said Sarah with impatience. "You think of nothin' else. It
'ud be a great deal better if you took more care o' yourself. You sit
up nights an' don't get no proper sleep slavin' away at that blessed
embroid'ry an' stuff, so as Miss Laura can get off to school an' to 'er
books. An' then you want to worry over 'er as well.--She'll be all
right. Miss Laura's like peas. You've got to get 'em outer the
pod--they're in there sure enough. An' b'sides I guess school'll knock
all the nonsense out of 'er."

"Oh, I hope they won't be too hard on her," said Mother in quick
alarm.--"Shut the side gate, will you. Those children have left it open
again.--And, Sarah, I think we'll turn out the drawing-room."

Sarah grunted to herself as she went to close the gate. This had not
entered into her scheme of work for the day, and her cooking was still
undone. But she did not gainsay her mistress, as she otherwise would
have made no scruple of doing; for she knew that nothing was more
helpful to the latter in a crisis than hard, manual work. Besides,
Sarah herself had a sneaking weakness for what she called "dra'in'-room
days". For the drawing-room was the storehouse of what treasures had
remained over from a past prosperity. It was crowded with bric-a-brac
and ornament; and as her mistress took these objects up one by one, to
dust and polish them, she would, if she were in a good humour, tell
Sarah where and how they had been bought, or describe the places they
had originally come from: so that Sarah, pausing broom in hand to
listen, had with time gathered some vague ideas of a country like
"Inja", for example, whence came the little silver "pagody", and the
expressionless brass god who squatted vacantly and at ease.




III.


As long as the coach rolled down the main street Laura sat bolt upright
at the window. In fancy she heard people telling one another that this
was little Miss Rambotham going to school. She was particularly glad
that just as they went past the Commercial Hotel, Miss Perrotet, the
landlord's red-haired daughter, should put her fuzzy head out of the
window--for Miss Perrotet had also been to boarding-school, and thought
very highly of herself in consequence, though it had only been for a
year, to finish. At the National Bank the manager's wife waved a
friendly hand to the children, and at the Royal Mail Hotel where they
drew up for passengers or commissions, Mrs. Paget, the stout landlady,
came out, smoothing down her black satin apron.

"Well, I'm sure I wonder your ma likes sendin' you off so alone."

The ride had comforted Pin a little; but when they had passed the chief
stores and the flour-mill, and were come to a part of the road where
the houses were fewer, her tears broke out afresh. The very last house
was left behind, the high machinery of the claims came into view, the
watery flats where Chinamen were for ever rocking washdirt in cradles;
and O'Donnell dismounted and opened the door. He lifted the three out
one by one, shaking his head in humorous dismay at Pin, and as little
Frank showed sighs of beginning, too, by puckering up his face and
[P.22] doubling up his body, the kindly man tried to make them laugh by
asking if he had the stomach-ache. Laura had one more glimpse of the
children standing hand in hand--even in her trouble Pin did not forget
her charges--then a sharp bend in the road hid them from her sight.

She was alone in the capacious body of the coach, alone, and the proud
excitement of parting was over. The staunchly repressed tears welled up
with a gush, and flinging herself down across the seat she cried
bitterly. It was not a childishly irresponsible grief like Pin's: it
was more passionate, and went deeper; and her overloaded feelings were
soon relieved. But as she was not used to crying, she missed the moment
at which she might have checked herself, and went on shedding tears
after they had become a luxury.

"Why, goodness gracious, what's this?" cried a loud, cheerful and
astonished voice, and a fat, rosy face beamed in on Laura. "Why, here's
a little girl in here, cryin' fit to break 'er heart. Come, come, my
dear, what's the matter? Don't cry like that, now don't."

The coach had stopped, the door opened and a stout woman climbed in,
bearing a big basket, and followed by a young man with straw-coloured
whiskers. Laura sat up like a dart and pulled her hat straight, crimson
with mortification at being discovered in such a plight. She had
instantly curbed her tears, but she could not disguise the fact that
she had red eyes and a swollen nose--that she was in short what Sarah
called "all bunged up". She made no reply to the newcomer's
exclamations, but sat clutching her handkerchief and staring out of the
window. The woman's good-natured curiosity, however, was not to be done.

"You poor little thing, you!" she persisted. "Wherever are you goin',
my dear, so alone?"

"I'm going to boarding-school," said Laura, and shot a glance at the
couple opposite.

"To boardin'-school? Peter! D'you hear?--Why, whatever's your ma
thinkin' of to send such a little chick as you to boardin'-school? ...
and so alone, too."

Laura's face took on a curious air of dignity.

"I'm not so very little," she answered; and went on to explain, in
phrases which she had heard so often that she knew them by heart: "Only
small for my age. I was twelve in spring. And I have to go to school,
because I've learnt all I can at home."

This failed to impress the woman.

"Snakes alive!--that's young enough in all conscience. And such a
delicate little creature, too. Just like that one o' Sam MacFarlane's
that popped off last Christmas--isn't she, Peter?"

Peter, who avoided looking at Laura, sheepishly mumbled something about
like enough she was.

"And who IS your ma, my dear? What's your name?" continued her
interrogator.

Laura replied politely; but there was a reserve in her manner which,
together with the name she gave, told enough: the widow, Laura's
mother, had the reputation of being very "stuck-up", and of bringing up
her children in the same way.

The woman did not press Laura further; she whispered something behind
her hand to Peter, then searching in her basket found a large, red
apple, which she held out with an encouraging nod and smile.

"Here, my dear. Here's something for you. Don't cry any more, don't
now. It'll be all right."

Laura, who was well aware that she had not shed a tear since the couple
entered the coach, coloured deeply, and made a movement, half shy, half
unwilling, to put her hands behind her.

"Oh no, thank you," she said in extreme embarrassment, not wishing to
hurt the giver's feelings. "Mother doesn't care for us to take things
from strangers."

"Bless her soul!" cried the stout woman in amaze. "It's only an apple!
Now, my dear, just you take it, and make your mind easy. Your ma
wouldn't have nothin' against it to-day, I'm sure o' that--goin' away
so far and all so alone like this.--It's sweet and juicy."

"It's Melb'm you'll be boun' for I dessay?" said the yellow-haired
Peter so suddenly that Laura started.

She confirmed this, and let her solemn eyes rest on him wondering why
he was so red and fidgety and uncomfortable. The woman said: "Tch, tch,
tch!" at the length of the journey Laura was undertaking, and Peter,
growing still redder, volunteered another remark.

"I was nigh to bein' in Melb'm once meself," he said.

"Aye, and he can't never forget it, the silly loon," threw in the
woman, but so good-naturedly that it was impossible, Laura felt, for
Peter to take offence.

She gazed at the pair, speculating upon the relation they stood in to
each other. She had obediently put out her hand for the apple, and now
sat holding it, without attempting to eat it. It had not been Mother's
precepts alone that had weighed with her in declining it; she was
mortified at the idea of being bribed, as it were, to be good, just as
though she were Pin or one of the little boys. It was a punishment on
her for having been so babyish as to cry; had she not been caught in
the act, the woman would never have ventured to be so familiar.--The
very largeness and rosiness of the fruit made it hateful to her, and
she turned over in her mind how she could get rid of it.

As the coach bumped along, her fellow-passengers sat back and shut
their eyes. The road was shadeless; beneath the horses' feet a thick
red dust rose like smoke. The grass by the wayside, under the scattered
gum trees or round the big black boulders that dotted the hillocks, was
burnt to straw. In time, Laura also grew drowsy, and she was just
falling into a doze when, with a jerk, the coach pulled up at the
"Halfway House." Here her companions alighted, and there were more nods
and smiles from the woman.

"You eat it, my dear. I'm sure your ma won't say nothin'," was her last
remark as she pushed the swing-door and vanished into the house,
followed by Peter.

Then the driver's pleasant face appeared at the window of the coach. In
one hand he held a glass, in the other a bottle of lemonade.

"Here, little woman, have a drink. It's warm work ridin'."

Now this was quite different from the matter of the apple. Laura's
throat was parched with dust and tears. She accepted the offer
gratefully, thinking as she drank how envious Pin would be, could she
see her drinking bottle-lemonade.

Then the jolting and rumbling began anew. No one else got in, and when
they had passed the only two landmarks she knew--the leprous Chinaman's
hut and the market garden of Ah Chow, who twice a week jaunted at a
half-trot to the township with his hanging baskets, to supply people
with vegetables--when they had passed these, Laura fell asleep. She
wakened with a start to find that the coach had halted to apply the
brakes, at the top of the precipitous hill that led down to the railway
township. In a two-wheeled buggy this was an exciting descent; but the
coach jammed on both its brakes, moved like a snail, and seemed hardly
able to crawl.

At the foot of the hill the little town lay sluggish in the sun.
Although it was close on midday, but few people were astir in the
streets; for the place had long since ceased to be an important mining
centre: the chief claims were worked out; and the coming of the railway
had been powerless to give it the impetus to a new life. It was always
like this in these streets of low, verandahed, red-brick houses, always
dull and sleepy, and such animation as there was, was invariably to be
found before the doors of the many public-houses.

At one of these the coach stopped and unloaded its goods, for an
interminable time. People came and looked in at the window at Laura,
and she was beginning to feel alarmed lest O'Donnell, who had gone
inside, had forgotten all about her having to catch the train, when out
he came, wiping his lips.

"Now for the livin' luggage!" he said with a wink, and Laura drew back
in confusion from the laughter of a group of larrikins round the door.

It was indeed high time at the station; no sooner was her box dislodged
and her ticket taken than the train steamed in. O'Donnell recommended
her to the guard's care; she shook hands with him and thanked him, and
had just been locked into a carriage by herself when he came running
down the platform again, holding in his hand, for everyone to see, the
apple, which Laura believed she had safely hidden under the cushions of
the coach. Red to the roots of her hair she had to receive it before a
number of heads put out to see what the matter was, and she was even
forced to thank O'Donnell into the bargain. Then the guard came along
once more, and told her he would let no one get in beside her: she need
not be afraid.

"Yes. And will you please tell me when we come to Melbourne."

Directly the train was clear of the station, she lowered a window and,
taking aim at a telegraph post, threw the apple from her with all her
might. Then she hung out of the window, as far out as she could, till
her hat was nearly carried off. This was the first railway journey she
had made by herself, and there was an intoxicating sense of freedom in
being locked in, alone, within the narrow compass of the compartment.
She was at liberty to do everything that had previously been forbidden
her: she walked up and down the carriage, jumped from one seat to
another, then lay flat on her back singing to herself, and watching the
telegraph poles fly past the windows, and the wires mount and
descend.--But now came a station and, though the train did not stop,
she sat up, in order that people might see she was travelling alone.

She grew hungry and attacked her lunch, and it turned out that Mother
had not provided too much after all. When she had finished, had brushed
herself clean of crumbs and handled, till her finger-tips were sore,
the pompous half-crown she had found in her pocket, she fell to
thinking of them at home, and of what they would now be doing. It was
between two and three o'clock: the sun would be full on the flagstones
of the back verandah; inch by inch Pin and Leppie would be driven away
to find a cooler spot for their afternoon game, while little Frank
slept, and Sarah splashed the dinner-dishes in the brick-floored
kitchen. Mother sat sewing, and she would still be sitting there, still
sewing, when the shadow of the fir tree, which at noon was shrunken
like a dwarf, had stretched to giant size, and the children had opened
the front gate to play in the shade of the public footpath.--At the
thought of these shadows, of all the familiar things she would not see
again for months to come, Laura's eyelids began to smart.

They had flashed through several stations; now they stopped; and her
mind was diverted by the noise and bustle. As the train swung into
motion again, she fell into a pleasanter line of thought. She painted
to herself, for the hundredth time, the new life towards which she was
journeying, and, as always, in the brightest colours.

She had arrived at school, and in a spacious apartment, which was a
kind of glorified Mother's drawing-room, was being introduced to a bevy
of girls. They clustered round, urgent to make the acquaintance of the
newcomer, who gave her hand to each with an easy grace and an
appropriate word. They were too well-bred to cast a glance at her
clothes, which, however she might embellish them in fancy, Laura knew
were not what they ought to be: her ulster was some years old, and so
short that it did not cover the flounce of her dress, and this dress,
and her hat with it, were Mother's taste, and consequently, Laura felt
sure, nobody else's. But her new companions saw that she wore these
clothes with an elegance that made up for their shortcomings; and she
heard them whisper: "Isn't she pretty? What black eyes! What lovely
curls!" But she was not proud, and by her ladylike manners soon made
them feel at home with her, even though they stood agape at her
cleverness: none of THEM could claim to have absorbed the knowledge of
a whole house. With one of her admirers she had soon formed a
friendship that was the wonder of all who saw it: in deep respect the
others drew back, forming a kind of allee, down which, with linked
arms, the two friends sauntered, blind to everything but
themselves.--And having embarked thus upon her sea of dreams, Laura set
sail and was speedily borne away.

"Next station you'll be there, little girl."

She sprang up and looked about her, with vacant eyes. This had been the
last stoppage, and the train was passing through the flats. In less
than two minutes she had collected her belongings, tidied her hair and
put on her gloves.

Some time afterwards they steamed in alongside a gravelled platform,
among the stones of which a few grass-blades grew. This was Melbourne.
At the nearer end of the platform stood two ladies, one stout and
elderly in bonnet and mantle, with glasses mounted on a black stick,
and shortsighted, peering eyes; the other stout and comely, too, but
young, with a fat, laughing face and rosy cheeks. Laura descried them a
long way off; and, as the carriage swept past them, they also saw her,
eager and prominent at her window. Both stared at her, and the younger
lady said something, and laughed. Laura instantly connected the remark,
and the amusement it caused the speaker, with the showy red lining of
her hat, at which she believed their eyes had been directed. She also
realised, when it was too late, that her greeting had been childish,
unnecessarily effusive; for the ladies had responded only by nods. Here
were two thrusts to parry at once, and Laura's cheeks tingled. But she
did not cease to smile, and she was still wearing this weak little
smile, which did its best to seem easy and unconcerned, when she
alighted from the train.




IV.


The elderly lady was Laura's godmother; she lived at Prahran, and it
was at her house that Laura would sometimes spend a monthly holiday.
Godmother was good to them all in a brusque, sharp-tongued fashion; but
Pin was her especial favourite and she made no secret of it. Her
companion on the platform was a cousin of Laura's, of at least twice
Laura's age, who invariably struck awe into the children by her loud
and ironic manner of speech. She was an independent, manly person, in
spite of her plump roundnesses; she lived by herself in lodgings, and
earned her own living as a clerk in an office.

The first greetings over, Godmother's attention was entirely taken up
by Laura's box: after this had been picked out from among the other
luggage, grave doubts were expressed whether it could be got on to the
back seat of the pony-carriage, to which it was conveyed by a porter
and the boy. Laura stood shyly by and waited, while Cousin Grace kept
up the conversation by putting abrupt and embarrassing questions.

"How's your ma?" she demanded rather than asked, in the slangy and
jocular tone she employed. "I guess she'll be thanking her stars she's
got rid of you;" at which Laura smiled uncertainly, not being sure
whether Cousin Grace spoke in jest or earnest.

"I suppose you think no end of yourself going to boarding-school?"
continued the latter.

"Oh no, not at all," protested Laura with due modesty; and as both at
question and answer Cousin Grace laughed boisterously, Laura was glad
to hear Godmother calling: "Come, jump in. The ponies won't stand."

Godmother was driving herself--a low basket-carriage, harnessed to two
buff-coloured ponies. Laura sat with her back to them. Godmother
flapped the reins and said: "Get up!" but she was still fretted about
the box, which was being held on behind by the boy. An inch larger, she
asserted, and it would have had to be left behind. Laura eyed its
battered sides uneasily. Godmother might remember, she thought, that it
contained her whole wardrobe; and she wondered how many of Godmother's
own ample gowns could be compressed into so small a space.

"All my clothes are inside," she explained; "that I shall need for
months."

"Ah, I expect your poor mother has sat up sewing herself to death, that
you may be as well dressed as the rest of them," said Godmother, and
heaved a doleful sigh. But Cousin Grace laughed the wide laugh that
displayed a mouthful of great healthy teeth.

"What? All your clothes in there?" she cried. "I say! You couldn't be a
queen if you hadn't more togs than that."

"Oh, I know," Laura hastened to reply, and grew very red. "Queens need
a lot more clothes than I've got."

"Tut, tut!" said Godmother: she did not understand the allusion, which
referred to a former ambition of Laura's. "Don't talk such nonsense to
the child."

She drove very badly, and they went by quiet by-streets to escape the
main traffic: the pony-chaise wobbled at random from one side of the
road to the other, obstacles looming up only just in time for Godmother
to see them. The ponies shook and tossed their heads at the constant
sawing of the bits, and Laura had to be continually ducking, to keep
out of the way of the reins. She let the unfamiliar streets go past her
in a kind of dream; and there was silence for a time, broken only by
Godmother's expostulations with the ponies, till Cousin Grace, growing
tired of playing her bright eyes first on this, then on that, brought
them back to Laura and studied her up and down.

"I say, who on earth trimmed your hat?" she asked almost at once.

"Mother," answered Laura bravely, while the colour mounted to her
cheeks again.

"Well, I guess she made up her mind you shouldn't get lost as long as
you wore it," went on her cousin with disconcerting candour. "It makes
you look just like a great big red double dahlia."

"Let the child be. She looks well enough," threw in Godmother in her
snappish way. But Laura was sure that she, too disapproved; and felt
more than she heard the muttered remark about "Jane always having had a
taste for something gay."

"Oh, I like the colour very much. I chose it myself," said Laura, and
looked straight at the two faces before her. But her lips twitched. She
would have liked to snatch the hat from her head, to throw it in front
of the ponies and hear them trample it under their hoofs. She had never
wanted the scarlet lining of the big, upturned brim; in a dislike to
being conspicuous which was incomprehensible to Mother, she had
implored the latter to "leave it plain". But Mother had said:
"Nonsense!" and "Hold your tongue!" and "I know better,"--with this
result.

Oh yes, she saw well enough how Godmother signed with her eyes to
Cousin Grace to say no more; but she pretended not to notice, and for
the remainder of the drive nobody spoke. They went past long lines of
grey houses, joined one to another and built exactly alike; past large,
fenced-in public parks where all kinds of odd, unfamiliar trees grew,
with branches that ran right down their trunks, and bushy leaves. The
broad streets were hilly; the wind, coming in puffs, met them with
clouds of gritty white dust. They had just, with bent heads, their
hands at their hats, passed through one of these miniature whirlwinds,
when turning a corner they suddenly drew up, and the boy sprang to the
ponies' heads. Laura, who had not been expecting the end so soon, saw
only a tall wooden fence; but Cousin Grace looked higher, gave a stagey
shudder and cried: "Oh my eye Betty Martin! Aren't I glad it isn't me
that's going to school! It looks just like a prison."

It certainly was an imposing building viewed from within, when the
paling-gate had closed behind them. To Laura, who came from a township
of one-storied brick or weatherboard houses, it seemed vast in its
breadth and height, appalling in its sombre greyness. Between Godmother
and Cousin Grace she walked up an asphalted path, and mounted the steps
that led to a massive stone portico. The bell Godmother rang made no
answering sound, but after a very few seconds the door swung back, and
a slender maidservant in cap and apron stood before them. She smiled at
them pleasantly, as, in Chinaman-fashion, they crossed the threshold;
then, inclining her head at a murmured word from Godmother, she
vanished as lightly as she had come, and they sat and looked about
them. They were in a plainly furnished but very lofty waiting-room.
There were two large windows. The venetian blinds had not been lowered,
and the afternoon sun, beating in, displayed a shabby patch on the
carpet. It showed up, too, a coating of dust that had gathered on the
desk-like, central table. There was the faint, distinctive smell of
strange furniture. But what impressed Laura most was the stillness. No
street noises pierced the massy walls, but neither did the faintest
echo of all that might be taking place in the great building itself
reach their ears: they sat aloof, shut off, as it were, from the living
world. And this feeling soon grew downright oppressive: it must be like
this to be dead, thought Laura to herself; and inconsequently
remembered a quarter of an hour she had once spent in a dentist's
ante-room: there as here the same soundless vacancy, the same anguished
expectancy. Now, as then, her heart began to thump so furiously that
she was afraid the others would hear it. But they, too, were subdued;
though Cousin Grace tittered continually you heard only a gentle
wheezing, and even Godmother expressed the hope that they would not be
kept waiting long, under her breath. But minute after minute went by;
there they sat and nothing happened. It began to seem as if they might
sit on for ever.

All of a sudden, from out the spacious halls of which they had caught a
glimpse on arriving, brisk steps began to come towards them over the
oilcloth--at first as a mere tapping in the distance, then rapidly
gaining in weight and decision. Laura's palpitations reached their
extreme limit--another second and they might have burst her chest.
Cousin Grace ceased to giggle; the door opened with a peculiar
flourish; and all three rose to their feet.

The person who entered was a very stately lady; she wore a cap with
black ribbons. With the door-handle still in her hand she made a slight
obeisance, in which her whole body joined, afterwards to become more
erect than before. Having introduced herself to Godmother as Mrs.
Gurley, the Lady Superintendent of the institution, she drew up a
chair, let herself down upon it, and began to converse with an air of
ineffable condescension.

While she talked Laura examined her, with a child's thirst for detail.
Mrs. Gurley was large and generous of form, and she carried her head in
such a haughty fashion that it made her look taller than she really
was. She had a high colour, her black hair was touched with grey, her
upper teeth were prominent. She wore gold eyeglasses, many rings, a
long gold chain, which hung from an immense cameo brooch at her throat,
and a black apron with white flowers on it, one point of which was
pinned to her ample bosom. The fact that Laura had just such an apron
in her box went only a very little way towards reviving her spirits;
for altogether Mrs. Gurley was the most impressive person she had ever
set eyes on. Beside her, God mother was nothing but a plump,
shortsighted fidgety lady.

Particularly awe-inspiring was Mrs. Gurley when she listened to another
speaking. She held her head a little to one side, her teeth met her
underlip and her be-ringed hands toyed incessantly with the long gold
chain, in a manner which seemed to denote that she set little value on
what was being said. Awful, too, was the habit she had of suddenly
lowering her head and looking at you over the tops of her glasses: when
she did this, and when her teeth came down on her lip, you would have
liked to shrink to the size of a mouse. Godmother, it was true, was not
afraid of her; but Cousin Grace was hushed at last and as for Laura
herself, she consciously wore a fixed little simper, which was meant to
put it beyond doubt that butter would not melt in her mouth.

Godmother now asked if she might say a few words in private, and the
two ladies left the room. As the door closed behind them Cousin Grace
began to be audible again.

"Oh, snakes!" she giggled, and her double chin spread itself "There's a
Tartar for you! Don't I thank my stars it's not me that's being shunted
off here! She'll give you what-for."

"I don't think so. I think she's very nice," said Laura staunchly, out
of an instinct that made her chary of showing fear, or pain, or grief.
But her heart began to bound again, for the moment in which she would
be left alone.

"You see!" said Cousin Grace. "It'll be bread and water for a week, if
you can't do AMARE first go-off--not to mention the deponents."

"What's AMARE?" asked Laura anxiously, and her eyes grew so big that
they seemed to fill her face.

But Cousin Grace only laughed till it seemed probable that she would
burst her bodice; and Laura blushed, aware that she had compromised
herself anew.

There followed a long and nervous pause.

"I bet Godmother's asking her not to wallop you too often," the tease
had just begun afresh, when the opening of the door forced her to
swallow her sentence in the middle.

Godmother would not sit down; so the dreaded moment had come.

"Now, Laura. Be a good girl and learn well, and be a comfort to your
mother.--Not that there's much need to urge her to her books,"
Godmother interrupted herself, turning to Mrs. Gurley. "The trouble her
dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them."

Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know
that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the
chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word.

She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to
pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away:
turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her
own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have
used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to
obey, when a painful thought struck her.

"Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope
they haven't forgotten and taken it away again."

But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had
sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before
Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her
box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows
as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend
another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The
banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the
stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast:
what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the
other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could
have seen out of them.

These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her,
as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman
and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the
world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way,
for Godmother had found it without difficulty.

She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front
of her.

"What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice.

She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of
surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it
was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have
gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at
her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue.

On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long
passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest
of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only
for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds.

"Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up."

It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went
down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the
contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed
by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and
unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to
keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern
face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through
and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep
them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark.

"I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said
cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore.

The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the
sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses,
looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now
beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the
breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke.

"Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion
Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word.
"Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come
here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic
head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if
your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and
also to remark, on what people wear."

Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them
prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled
into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her.

She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something
happened which held a ray of hope.

"Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to
view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black
Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was
nonconformist.

"Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here,
at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go
to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change.
And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the
sermon," she added truthfully.

Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her
could not have been more annihilating.

"There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the
kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those
gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me."

The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and
was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's
she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At
this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a
turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding
to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon
to her "DI-rectly!"!

There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she
even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and
tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child.
And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened
and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one
glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern
of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew
hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with
sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a
figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's
figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith
Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes
were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone
very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all.
And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl
actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone
Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now
then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?"

Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest
sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to
have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general
unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late
afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were
strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a
big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small,
snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among
strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without
meaning it, offended two of them.

Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out.
But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the
distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing
on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was
followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of
voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage,
and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her.

They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs.
Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then
turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura
had that day once before observed.




V.


Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of
eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly
followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura
crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention
on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of
feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of
her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards,
behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and
even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing.
On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura
covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace
had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with
the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again
immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the
table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in
the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes
being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round.

There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each
to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high,
church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of
pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45]
pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it
was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun.

Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her
neighbour offering her a plate of bread.

"No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks,
and did not look inviting.

But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she
whispered.

Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the
smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no.

Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to
her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She
felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which
took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance
she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment,
however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had
as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great
surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with
the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at
once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take
another peep. The wink was repeated.

It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a
pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura,
though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as
solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it,
came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand
and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But
at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the
temptation to cry.

When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had
pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same
racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed,
and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took
any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed
the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing
the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several
people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the
younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She
saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of
companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her
own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in
thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the
friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs.

"DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said.
Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help
smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had
stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a
comrade's neck.

Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was
reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But
at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom
was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had
driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced
squint, turned to Laura.

"Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?"

Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment
that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be
thumped on the back by her friend.

"Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me,
some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ...
Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off
again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?"

She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and
forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make
further inquiries.

"Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a
business-like way.

Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?"

"He's dead," answered the child.

"Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he
before he was dead?"

"A barrister."

"What did he die of?"

"Consumption."

"How many servants do you keep?"

"One."

"How much have you got a year?"

"I don't know."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve and a quarter."

"Who made your dress?"

"Mother."

"Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria
Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away.
But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal
of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and
sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer
began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances
of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the
squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one
inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know
where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question:
"What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the
courage of despair.

"What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure
how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst
out laughing at their friend's bafflement.

"That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad
for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?"

"Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she
was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any
other of the fifty-five.

She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even
in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat
girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it
amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew,
at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged
jokes about them with the other couple, when they met.

But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast
disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said,
she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the
verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left
alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the
very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a
junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were
forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the
governess if she would please tell her what to do.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for
responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her
where the study is."

Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor.
At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura
found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders
sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was
raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to
the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and
proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff,
black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her
profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a
bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation,
you'd better ask Miss Chapman."

The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a
bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura,
feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss
Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so
brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile
toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady
Superintendent.

"Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think
it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better
bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give
you a shelf."

Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh,
very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and
went on reading.

"Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura.

"Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without
looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again.

Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted,
and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found
her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying
[P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on
her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for
fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her
cheeks.

"I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself.
"Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through
her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big
cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and
into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died
like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the
dark, her penknife open in her hand...

But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps
came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her
feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door.

"You're to come down at once."

"Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss
Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply:
"What was she doing, Jessie?"

"I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all
the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders.

Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that
were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the
study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on
the table.

"Let's see what the kid's got."

Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for
a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her
equipment had been handed down to Laura.

"Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia
already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black
and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?"

In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had
never learnt Latin at all.

The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I
say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings
the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First."

Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the
norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it
was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf,
pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the
mist that gathered in her eyes.

Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say,
stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it.
Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper."

For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as
ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in
their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a
little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice
little girl should get in with that vulgar set?"

Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a
weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could
afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her
book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no
opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with
foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does."

So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room,
close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of
eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their
figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground.

Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of
all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her
downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked
among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at
her, to see if she were listening.

Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big
bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book,
one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The
door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his
wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady,
who wore a rose in her velvet dress.

"Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the
gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache;
and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the
governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with
halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's
accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand
dragging lamely along after the right.

"Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the
Thessalonians."

Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to
Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous
movement of the left leg.

"Let us pray."

Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their
chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not
hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout
a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was
startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens!
There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even
Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard,
and turned her head to frown rebuke.

The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several
directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This
was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles.

"Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's
pleasant neighbour.

Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since
it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly
learned.

I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS.

Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing
stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or
eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she
exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste.

Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still
empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own
prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be
asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face
burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to
her tears.




VI.


MY DEAR MOTHER

I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT
AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO
TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK
TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY
PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING
AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE
MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY
MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND
BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS
OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE.
I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND
NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS
CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN
THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY
VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT
AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO
TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH
GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS
ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR
STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR
ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM
IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY
GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK
PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY
CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS
ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF
WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY
JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT
DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL
YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

I REMAIN

YOUR LOVING DAUGHTER

LAURA.



DEAR PIN

I AM VERY BUSY I WILL WRITE YOU A LETTER. YOU WOULD NOT LIKE BEING HERE
I THINK YOU SHOULD ALWAYS STOP AT HOME YOU WILL NEVER GET AS FAR AS
LONG DIVISION. MRS. GURLEY IS AN AWFUL OLD BEAST ALL THE GIRLS CALL HER
THAT. YOU WOULD BE FRIGHTENED OF HER. IN THE AFTERNOON AFTER SCHOOL WE
WALK TWO AND TWO AND YOU ASK A GIRL TO WALK WITH YOU AND IF YOU DON'T
YOU HAVE TO WALK WITH MISS CHAPMAN. MISS CHAPMAN AND MISS DAY WALKS
BEHIND AND THEY WATCH TO SEE YOU DON'T LAUGH AT BOYS. SOME GIRLS WRITE
LETTERS TO THEM AND SAY THEY WILL MEET THEM UP BEHIND A TREE IN THE
CORNER OF THE GARDEN A PALING IS LOSE AND THE BOYS PUT LETTERS IN. I
THINK BOYS ARE SILLY BUT MARIA MORELL SAYS THEY ARE TIP TOP THAT MEANS
AWFULLY JOLLY. SHE WRITES A LETTER TO BOYS EVERY WEEK SHE TAKES IT TO
CHURCH AND DROPS IT COMING OUT AND HE PICKS IT UP AND PUTS AN ANSWER
THROUGH THE FENCE. WE PUT OUR LETTERS ON THE MANTLEPIECE IN THE
DINING-HALL AND MRS. GURLEY OR MISS CHAPMAN READ THE ADRESS TO SEE WE
DON'T WRITE TO BOYS. THEY ARE SHUT UP SHE CANT READ THE INSIDE. I HOPE
YOU DON'T CRY SO MUCH AT SCHOOL NO ONE CRIES. NOW MISS CHAPMAN SAYS IT
IS TIME TO STOP

I REMAIN

YOUR AFECTIONATE SISTER

LAURA.

P.S. I TOOK THE RED LINEING OUT OF MY HAT.



WARRENEGA

SUNDAY.

MY DEAR LAURA

WE WERE VERY GLAD TO GET YOUR LETTERS WHICH CAME THIS MORNING. YOUR
POSTCARD WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER YOU ARRIVED AT THE COLLEGE TOLD US
LITTLE OR NOTHING. HOWEVER GODMOTHER WAS GOOD ENOUGH TO WRITE US AN
ACCOUNT OF YOUR ARRIVAL SO THAT WE WERE NOT QUITE WITHOUT NEWS OF YOU.
I HOPE YOU REMEMBERED TO THANK HER FOR DRIVING IN ALL THAT WAY TO MEET
YOU AND TAKE YOU TO SCHOOL WHICH WAS VERY GOOD OF HER. I AM GLAD TO
HEAR YOU ARE SETTLING DOWN AND FEELING HAPPY AND I HOPE YOU WILL WORK
HARD AND DISTINGUISH YOURSELF SO THAT I MAY BE PROUD OF YOU. BUT THERE
ARE SEVERAL THINGS IN YOUR LETTERS I DO NOT LIKE. DID YOU REALLY THINK
I SHOULDN'T READ WHAT YOU WROTE TO PIN. YOU ARE A VERY FOOLISH GIRL IF
YOU DID. PIN THE SILLY CHILD TRIED TO HIDE IT AWAY BECAUSE SHE KNEW IT
WOULD MAKE ME CROSS BUT I INSISTED ON HER SHOWING IT TO ME AND I AM
ASHAMED OF YOU FOR WRITING SUCH NONSENSE TO HER. MARIA MORELL MUST BE A
VERY VULGAR MINDED GIRL TO USE THE EXPRESSIONS SHE DOES. I HOPE MY
LITTLE GIRL WILL TRY TO ONLY ASSOCIATE WITH NICE MINDED GIRLS. I DIDN'T
SEND YOU TO SCHOOL TO GET NASTY IDEAS PUT INTO YOUR HEAD BUT TO LEARN
YOUR LESSONS WELL AND GET ON. IF YOU WRITE SUCH VULGAR SILLY THINGS
AGAIN I SHALL COMPLAIN TO MRS. GURLEY OR MR. STRACHEY ABOUT THE TONE OF
THE COLLEGE AND WHAT GOES ON BEHIND THEIR BACKS. I THINK IT IS VERY
RUDE OF YOU TOO TO CALL MRS. GURLEY NAMES. ALSO ABOUT THE POOR
GOVERNESS WHO HAS TO WEAR FALSE TEETH. WAIT TILL ALL YOUR OWN TEETH ARE
GONE AND THEN SEE HOW YOU WILL LIKE IT. I DO WANT YOU TO HAVE NICE
FEELINGS AND NOT GROW ROUGH AND RUDE. THERE IS EVIDENTLY A VERY BAD
TONE AMONG SOME OF THE GIRLS AND YOU MUST BE CAREFUL IN CHOOSING YOUR
FRIENDS. I AM SORRY TO HEAR YOU ARE ONLY IN THE LOWEST CLASS. IT WOULD
HAVE PLEASED ME BETTER IF YOU HAD GOT INTO THE SECOND BUT I ALWAYS TOLD
YOU YOU WERE LAZY ABOUT YOUR SUMS--YOU CAN DO THEM WELL ENOUGH IF YOU
LIKE. YOU DON'T NEED STAYS. I HAVE NEVER WORN THEM MYSELF AND I DON'T
INTEND YOU TO EITHER. YOUR OWN MUSCLES ARE QUITE STRONG ENOUGH TO BEAR
THE WEIGHT OF YOUR BACK. BREAD AND WATER IS NOT MUCH OF A SUPPER FOR
YOU TO GO TO BED ON. I WILL SEND YOU ANOTHER CAKE SOON AND SOME JAM AND
I HOPE YOU WILL SHARE IT WITH THE OTHER GIRLS. NOW TRY AND BE SENSIBLE
AND INDUSTRIOUS AND MAKE NICE FRIENDS AND THEN I SHANT HAVE TO SCOLD YOU

YOUR LOVING MOTHER

J.T.R.

P.S. ANOTHER THING IN YOUR LETTER I DON'T LIKE. YOU SAY YOU TELL YOUR
GOVERNESS YOU HAVE FINISHED YOUR LESSONS WHEN YOU HAVE NOT DONE SO.
THAT IS TELLING AN UNTRUTH AND I HOPE YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BE LED AWAY
BY THE EXAMPLES OF BAD GIRLS. I HAVE ALWAYS BROUGHT YOU CHILDREN UP TO
BE STRAIGHTFORWARD AND I AM ASTONISHED AT YOU BEGINNING FIBBING AS SOON
AS YOU GET AWAY FROM HOME. FIBBING SOON LEADS TO SOMETHING WORSE.

P.P.S. YOU MUST HAVE WRITTEN YOUR LETTER IN A GREAT HURRY FOR YOUR
SPELLING IS ANYTHING BUT PERFECT. YOU ARE A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL TO MEDDLE
WITH YOUR HAT. PIN HAS WRITTEN A LETTER WHICH I ENCLOSE THOUGH HER
SPELLING IS WORSE THAN EVER.



DEAR LAURA

MOTHER SAYS YOU ARE A VERY SILY GIRL TO RITE SUCH SILY LETTERS I THINK
YOU ARE SILY TO I SHOOD BE FRITENED OF MRS. GIRLY I DON'T WANT TO GO TO
SKOOL I WOOD RATHER STOP WITH MOTHER AND BE A CUMFERT TO HER I THINK IT
IS NAUTY TO DROP LETTERS IN CHERCH AND VERRY SILY TO RITE TO BOYS BOYS
ARE SO SILY SARAH SENDS HER LUV SHE SAYS SHE WOOD NOT WARE A CAP ON HER
HED NOT FOR ANNYTHING SHE SAYS SHE WOOD JUST AS SOON WARE A RING THRUGH
HER NOSE.

I REMAIN

YOUR LUVING SISTER PIN.



DEAR MOTHER

PLEASE PLEASE DON'T WRITE TO MRS. GURLEY ABOUT THE TONE IN THE COLLEGE
OR NOT TO MR. STRACHEY EITHER. I WILL NEVER BE SO SILLY AGAIN. I AM
SORRY MY LETTERS WERE SO SILLY I WONT DO IT AGAIN. PLEASE DON'T WRITE
TO THEM ABOUT IT. I DON'T GO MUCH WITH MARIA MORELL NOW I THINK SHE SHE
IS VULGER TO. I KNOW TWO NICE GIRLS NOW IN MY OWN CLASS THEIR NAMES ARE
INEZ AND BERTHA THEY ARE VERY NICE AND NOT AT ALL VULGER. MARIA MORELL
IS FAT AND HAS A RED FACE SHE IS MUCH OLDER THAN ME AND I DON'T CARE
FOR HER NOW. PLEASE DON'T WRITE TO MRS. GURLEY I WILL NEVER CALL HER
NAMES AGAIN. I HAD TO WRITE MY LETTER QUICKLY BECAUSE WHEN I HAVE DONE
MY LESSONS IT IS NEARLY TIME FOR SUPPER. I AM SORRY MY SPELLING WAS
WRONG I WILL TAKE MORE PAINS NEXT TIME I WILL LEARN HARD AND GET ON AND
SOON I WILL BE IN THE SECOND CLASS. I DID NOT MEAN I SAID I HAD DONE MY
LESSONS WHEN I HAD NOT DONE THEM THE OTHER GIRLS SAY IT AND I THINK IT
IS VERY WRONG OF THEM. PLEASE DON'T WRITE TO MRS. GURLEY I WILL TRY AND
BE GOOD AND SENSIBLE AND NOT DO IT AGAIN IF YOU ONLY WONT WRITE.

I REMAIN

YOUR AFECTIONATE DAUGHTER

LAURA.

P.S. I CAN DO MY SUMS BETTER NOW.



WARRENEGA

MY DEAR LAURA

MY LETTER EVIDENTLY GAVE YOU A GOOD FRIGHT AND I AM NOT SORRY TO HEAR
IT FOR I THINK YOU DESERVED IT FOR BEING SUCH A FOOLISH GIRL. I HOPE
YOU WILL KEEP YOUR PROMISE AND NOT DO IT AGAIN. OF COURSE I DON'T MEAN
THAT YOU ARE NOT TO TELL ME EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS AT SCHOOL BUT I
WANT YOU TO ONLY HAVE NICE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS AND GROW INTO A WISE
AND SENSIBLE GIRL. I AM NOT GOING TO WRITE A LONG LETTER TODAY. THIS
[P.62] IS ONLY A LINE TO COMFORT YOU AND LET YOU KNOW THAT I SHALL NOT
WRITE TO MRS. GURLEY OR MR. STRACHEY AS LONG AS I SEE THAT YOU ARE
BEING A GOOD GIRL AND GETTING ON WELL WITH YOUR LESSONS. I DO WANT YOU
TO REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE A LADY THOUGH YOU ARE POOR AND MUST BEHAVE IN
A LADYLIKE WAY. YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT THE FOOD AT THE COLLEGE IS LIKE
AND WHETHER YOU HAVE BLANKETS ENOUGH ON YOUR BED AT NIGHT. DO TRY AND
REMEMBER TO ANSWER THE QUESTIONS I ASK YOU. SARAH IS BUSY WASHING TODAY
AND THE CHILDREN ARE HELPING HER BY SITTING WITH THEIR ARMS IN THE
TUBS. I AM TO TELL YOU FROM PIN THAT MAGGY IS MOULTING BADLY AND HAS
NOT EATEN MUCH SINCE YOU LEFT WHICH IS JUST THREE WEEKS TODAY

YOUR LOVING

MOTHER.



FRIDAY

MY DEAR MOTHER

I WAS SO GLAD TO GET YOUR LETTER I AM SO GLAD YOU WILL NOT WRITE TO
MRS. GURLEY THIS TIME AND I WILL PROMISE TO BE VERY GOOD AND TRY TO
REMEMBER EVERYTHING YOU TELL ME. I AM SORRY I FORGOT TO ANSWER THE
QUESTIONS I HAVE TWO BLANKETS ON MY BED AND IT IS ENOUGH. THE FOOD IS
VERY NICE FOR DINNER FOR TEA WE HAVE TO EAT A LOT OF BREAD AND BUTTER I
DON'T CARE FOR BREAD MUCH. SOMETIMES WE HAVE JAM BUT WE ARE NOT ALOWED
TO EAT BUTTER AND JAM TOGETHER. A LOT OF GIRLS GET UP AT SIX AND GO
DOWN TO PRACTICE THEY DON'T DRESS AND HAVE THEIR BATH THEY JUST PUT ON
THEIR DRESSING GOWNS ON TOP OF THEIR NIGHT GOWNS. I DON'T GO DOWN NOW
TILL SEVEN I MAKE MY OWN BED. WE HAVE PRAYERS IN THE MORNING AND THE
EVENING AND PRAYERS AGAIN WHEN THE DAY SCHOLERS COME. I DO MY SUMS
BETTER NOW I THINK I SHALL SOON BE IN THE SECOND CLASS. PINS SPELLING
WAS DREADFULL AND SHE IS NEARLY NINE NOW AND IS SUCH A BABY THE GIRLS
WOULD LAUGH AT HER.

I REMAIN

YOUR AFECTIONATE DAUGHTER LAURA.

P.S. I PARSSED A LONG SENTENCE WITHOUT ANY MISTAKES.




VII.


The mornings were beginning to grow dark and chilly: fires were laid
overnight in the outer classrooms--and the junior governess who was on
early duty, having pealed the six-o'clock bell, flitted like a grey
wraith from room to room and from one gas-jet to another, among
stretched, sleeping forms. And the few minutes' grace at an end, it was
a cold, unwilling pack that threw off coverlets and jumped out of bed,
to tie on petticoats and snuggle into dressing-gowns and shawls; for
the first approach of cooler weather was keenly felt, after the summer
heat. The governess blew on speedily chilblained fingers, in making her
rounds of the verandahs to see that each of the twenty pianos was
rightly occupied; and, as winter crept on, its chief outward sign an
occasional thin white spread of frost which vanished before the mighty
sun of ten o'clock, she sometimes took the occupancy for granted, and
skipped an exposed room.

At eight, the boarders assembled in the dining-hall for prayers and
breakfast. After this meal it was Mrs. Gurley's custom to drink a glass
of hot water. While she sipped, she gave audience, meting out rebukes
and crushing complaints--were any bold enough to offer them--standing
erect behind her chair at the head of the table, supported by one or
more of the staff. To suit the season she was draped in a shawl of
crimson wool, which reached to the flounce of her skirt, and was borne
by her portly shoulders with the grace of a past day. Beneath the
shawl, her dresses were built, year in, year out, on the same plan: cut
in one piece, buttoning right down the front, they fitted her like an
eelskin, rigidly outlining her majestic proportions, and always short
enough to show a pair of surprisingly small, well-shod feet. Thus she
stood, sipping her water, and boring with her hard, unflagging eye
every girl that presented herself to it. Most shrank noiselessly away
as soon as breakfast was over; for, unless one was very firm indeed in
the conviction of one's own innocence, to be beneath this eye was apt
to induce a disagreeable sense of guilt. In the case of Mrs. Gurley,
familiarity had never been known to breed contempt. She was possessed
of what was little short of genius, for ruling through fear; and no
more fitting overseer could have been set at the head of these
half-hundred girls, of all ages and degrees: gentle and common; ruly
and unruly, children hardly out of the nursery, and girls well over the
brink of womanhood, whose ripe, bursting forms told their own tale; the
daughters of poor ministers at reduced fees; and the spoilt heiresses
of wealthy wool-brokers and squatters, whose dowries would mount to
many thousands of pounds.--Mrs. Gurley was equal to them all.

In a very short time, there was no more persistent shrinker from the
ice of this gaze than little Laura. In the presence of Mrs. Gurley the
child had a difficulty in getting her breath. Her first week of school
life had been one unbroken succession of snubs and reprimands. For
this, the undue familiarity of her manner was to blame: she was all too
slow to grasp--being of an impulsive disposition and not naturally
shy--that it was indecorous to accost Mrs. Gurley off-hand, to treat
her, indeed, in any way as if she were an ordinary mortal. The climax
had come one morning--it still made Laura's cheeks burn to remember it.
She had not been able to master her French lesson for that day, and
seeing Mrs. Gurley chatting to a governess had gone thoughtlessly up to
her and tapped her on the arm.

"Mrs. Gurley, please, do you think it would matter very much if I only
took half this verb today? It's COUDRE, and means to sew, you know, and
it's SO hard. I don't seem to be able to get it into my head."

Before the words were out of her mouth, she saw that she had made a
terrible mistake. Mrs. Gurley's face, which had been smiling, froze to
stone. She looked at her arm as though the hand had bitten her, and
Laura's sudden shrinking did not move her, to whom seldom anyone
addressed a word unbidden.

"How DARE you interrupt me--when I am speaking!"--she hissed,
punctuating her words with the ominous head-shakes and pauses. "The
first thing, miss, for you to do, will be, to take a course of lessons,
in manners. Your present ones, may have done well enough, in the
outhouse, to which you have evidently belonged. They will not do, here,
in the company of your betters."

Above the child's head the two ladies smiled significantly at each
other, assured that, after this, there would be no further want of
respect; but Laura did not see them. The iron of the thrust went deep
down into her soul: no one had ever yet cast a slur upon her home.
Retreating to a lavatory she cried herself nearly sick, making her eyes
so red that she was late for prayers in trying to wash them white.
Since that day, she had never of her own free will approached Mrs.
Gurley again, and even avoided those places where she was likely to be
found. This was why one morning, some three weeks later, on discovering
that she had forgotten one of her lesson-books, she hesitated long
before re-entering the dining-hall. The governesses still clustered
round their chief, and the pupils were not expected to return. But it
was past nine o'clock; in a minute the public prayer-bell would ring,
which united boarders, several hundred day-scholars, resident and
visiting teachers in the largest class-room; and Laura did not know her
English lesson. So she stole in, cautiously dodging behind the group,
in a twitter lest the dreaded eyes should turn her way.

It was Miss Day who spied her and demanded an explanation.

"Such carelessness! You girls would forget your heads if they weren't
screwed on," retorted the governess, in the dry, violent manner that
made her universally disliked.

Thankful to escape with this, Laura picked out her book and hurried
from the room.

But the thoughts of the group had been drawn to her.

"The greatest little oddity we've had here for some time," pronounced
Miss Day, pouting her full bust in decisive fashion.

"She is, indeed," agreed Miss Zielinski.

"I don't know what sort of a place she comes from, I'm sure," continued
the former: "but it must be the end of creation. She's utterly no idea
of what's what, and as for her clothes they're fit for a Punch and Judy
show."

"She's had no training either--stupid, I call her," chimed in one of
the younger governesses, whose name was Miss Snodgrass. "She doesn't
know the simplest things, and her spelling is awful. And yet, do you
know, at history the other day, she wanted to hold forth about how
London looked in Elizabeth's reign--when she didn't know a single one
of the dates!"

"She can say some poetry," said Miss Zielinski. "And she's read Scott."

One and all shook their heads at this, and Mrs. Gurley went on shaking
hers and smiling grimly. "Ah! the way gels are brought up nowadays,"
she said. "There was no such thing in my time. We were made to learn
what would be of some use and help to us afterwards."

Elderly Miss Chapman twiddled her chain. "I hope I did right Mrs.
Gurley. She had one week's early practice, but she looked so white all
day after it that I haven't put her down for it again. I hope I did
right?"

"Oh, well, we don't want to have them ill, you know," replied Mrs.
Gurley, in the rather irresponsive tone she adopted towards Miss
Chapman. "As long as it isn't mere laziness."

"I don't think she's lazy," said Miss Chapman. "At least she takes
great pains with her lessons at night."

This was true. Laura tried her utmost, with an industry born of
despair. For the comforting assurance of speedy promotion, which she
had given Mother, had no root in fact. These early weeks only served to
reduce, bit by bit, her belief in her own knowledge. How slender this
was, and of how little use to her in her new state, she did not dare to
confess even to herself. Her disillusionment had begun the day after
her arrival, when Dr Pughson, the Headmaster, to whom she had gone to
be examined in arithmetic, flung up hands of comical dismay at her
befogged attempts to solve the mysteries of long division. An upper
class was taking a lesson in Euclid, and in the intervals between her
mazy reckonings she had stolen glances at the master. A tiny little
nose was as if squashed flat on his face, above a grotesquely
expressive mouth, which displayed every one of a splendid set of teeth.
He had small, short-sighted, red-rimmed eyes, and curly hair which did
not stop growing at his ears, but went on curling, closely cropped,
down the sides of his face. He taught at the top of his voice, thumped
the blackboard with a pointer, was biting at the expense of a pupil who
confused the angle BFC with the angle BFG, a moment later to volley
forth a broad Irish joke which convulsed the class. He bewitched Laura;
she forgot her sums in the delight of watching him; and this made her
learning seem a little scantier than it actually was; for she had to
wind up in a great hurry. He pounced down upon her; the class laughed
anew at his playful horror; and yet again at the remark that it was
evident she had never had many pennies to spend, or she would know
better what to do with the figures that represented them.--In these
words Laura scented a reference to Mother's small income, and grew as
red as fire.

In the lowest class in the College she sat bottom, for a week or more:
what she did know, she knew in such an awkward form that she might as
well have known nothing. And after a few efforts to better her
condition she grew cautious, and hesitated discreetly before returning
one of those ingenuous answers which, in the beginning, had made her
the merry-andrew of the class. She could for instance, read a French
story-book without skipping very many words; but she had never heard a
syllable of the language spoken, and her first attempts at
pronunciation caused even Miss Zielinski to sit back in her chair and
laugh till the tears ran down her face. History Laura knew in a vague,
pictorial way: she and Pin had enacted many a striking scene in the
garden--such as "Not Angles but Angels," or, did the pump-drain
overflow, Canute and his silly courtiers--and she also had
out-of-the-way scraps of information about the characters of some of
the monarchs, or, as the governess had complained, about the state of
London at a certain period; but she had never troubled her head with
dates. Now they rose before her, a hard, dry, black line from 1066 on,
accompanied, not only by the kings who were the cause of them, but by
dull laws, and their duller repeals. Her lessons in English alone gave
her a mild pleasure; she enjoyed taking a sentence to pieces to see how
it was made. She was fond of words, too, for their own sake, and once,
when Miss Snodgrass had occasion to use the term "eleemosynary", Laura
was so enchanted by it that she sought to share her enthusiasm with her
neighbour. This girl, a fat little Jewess, went crimson, from trying to
stifle her laughter.

"What IS the matter with you girls down there?" cried Miss Snodgrass.
"Carrie Isaacs, what are you laughing like that for?"

"It's Laura Rambotham, Miss Snodgrass. She's so funny," spluttered the
girl.

"What are you doing, Laura?"

Laura did not answer. The girl spoke for her.

"She said--hee, hee!--she said it was blue."

"Blue? What's blue?" snapped Miss Snodgrass.

"That word. She said it was so beautiful ... and that it was blue."

"I didn't. Grey-blue, I said," murmured Laura her cheeks aflame.

The class rocked; even Miss Snodgrass herself had to join in the laugh
while she hushed and reproved. And sometimes after this, when a
particularly long or odd word occurred in the lesson, she would turn to
Laura and say jocosely: "Now, Laura, come on, tell us what colour that
is. Red and yellow, don't you think?"

But these were "Tom Fool's colours"; and Laura kept a wise silence.

One day at geography, the pupils were required to copy the outline of
the map of England. Laura, about to begin, found to her dismay that she
had lost her pencil. To confess the loss meant one of the hard, public
rebukes from which she shrank. And so, while the others drew, heads and
backs bent low over their desks, she fidgeted and sought--on her [P.72]
lap, the bench, the floor.

"What on earth's the matter?" asked her neighbour crossly; it was the
black-haired boarder who had winked at Laura the first evening at tea;
her name was Bertha Ramsey. "I can't draw a stroke if you shake like
that."

"I've lost my pencil."

The girl considered Laura for a moment, then pushed the lid from a box
of long, beautifully sharpened drawing-pencils. "Here, you can have one
of these."

Laura eyed the well-filled box admiringly, and modestly selected the
shortest pencil. Bertha Ramsay, having finished her map, leaned back in
her seat.

"And next time you feel inclined to boo-hoo at the tea-table, hold on
to your eyebrows and sing Rule Britannia.--DID it want its mummy, poor
ickle sing?"

Here Bertha's chum, a girl called Inez, chimed in from the other side.

"It's all very well for you," she said to Bertha, in a deep, slow
voice. "You're a weekly boarder."

Laura had the wish to be very pleasant, in return for the pencil. So
she drew a sigh, and said, with over-emphasis: "How nice for your
mother to have you home every week!"

Bertha only laughed at this, in a teasing way: "Yes, isn't it?" But
Inez leaned across behind her and gave Laura a poke.

"Shut up!" she telegraphed.

"Who's talking down there?" came the governess's cry. "Here you, the
new girl, Laura what's--your-name, come up to the map."

A huge map of England had been slung over an easel; Laura was required
to take the pointer and show where Stafford lay. With the long stick in
her hand, she stood stupid and confused. In this exigency, it did not
help her that she knew, from hear-say, just how England looked; that
she could see, in fancy, its ever-green grass, thick hedges, and
spreading trees; its never-dry rivers; its hoary old cathedrals; its
fogs, and sea-mists, and over-populous cities. She stood face to face
with the most puzzling map in the world--a map seared and scored with
boundary-lines, black and bristling with names. She could not have laid
her finger on London at this moment, and as for Stafford, it might have
been in the moon.

While the class straggled along the verandah at the end of the hour,
Inez came up to Laura's side.

"I say, you shouldn't have said that about her mother." She nodded
mysteriously.

"Why not?" asked Laura, and coloured at the thought that she had again,
without knowing it, been guilty of a FAUX PAS.

Inez looked round to see that Bertha was not within hearing, then put
her lips to Laura's ear.

"She drinks."

Laura gaped incredulous at the girl, her young eyes full of horror.
From actual experience, she hardly knew what drunkenness meant; she had
hitherto associated it only with the lowest class of Irish agricultural
labourer, or with those dreadful white women who lived, by choice, in
Chinese Camps. That there could exist a mother who drank was
unthinkable ... outside the bounds of nature.

"Oh, how awful!" she gasped, and turned pale with excitement. Inez
could not help giggling at the effect produced by her words--the new
girl was a 'rum stick' and no mistake--but as Laura's consternation
persisted, she veered about.

"Oh, well, I don't know for certain if that's it. But there's something
awfully queer about her."

"Oh, HOW do you know?" asked her breathless listener, mastered by a
morbid curiosity.

"I've been there--at Vaucluse--from a Saturday till Monday. She came in
to lunch, and she only talked to herself, not to us. She tried to eat
mustard with her pudding too, and her meat was cut up in little pieces
for her. I guess if she'd had a knife she'd have cut our throats."

"Oh!" was all Laura could get out.

"I was so frightened my mother said I shouldn't go again."

"Oh, I hope she won't ask me. What shall I do if she does?"

"Look out, here she comes! Don't say a word. Bertha's awfully ashamed
of it," said Inez, and Laura had just time to give a hasty promise.

"Hullo, you two, what are you gassing about?" cried Bertha, and dealt
out a couple of her rough and friendly punches.--"I say, who's on for a
race up the garden?"

They raced, all three, with flying plaits and curls, much kicking-up of
long black legs, and a frank display of frills and tuckers. Laura won;
for Inez's wind gave out half way, and Bertha was heavy of foot.
Leaning against the palings Laura watched the latter come puffing up to
join her--Bertha with the shameful secret in the background, of a
mother who was not like other mothers.




VIII.


Laura had been, for some six weeks or more, a listless and unsuccessful
pupil, when one morning she received an invitation from Godmother to
spend the coming monthly holiday--from Saturday till Monday--at
Prahran. The month before, she had been one of the few girls who had
nowhere to go; she had been forced to pretend that she liked staying
in, did it in fact by preference.--Now her spirits rose.

Marina, Godmother's younger daughter, from whom Laura inherited her
school-books, was to call for her. By a little after nine o'clock on
Saturday morning, Laura had finished her weekly mending, tidied her
bedroom, and was ready dressed even to her gloves. It was a cool, crisp
day; and her heart beat high with expectation.

From the dining-hall, it was not possible to hear the ringing of the
front-door bell; but each time either of the maids entered with a
summons, Laura half rose from her chair, sure that her turn had come at
last. But it was half-past nine, then ten, then half-past; it struck
eleven, the best of the day was passing, and still Marina did not come.
Only two girls besides herself remained. Then respectively an aunt and
a mother were announced, and these two departed. Laura alone was left:
she had to bear the disgrace of Miss Day observing: "Well, it looks as
if YOUR friends had forgotten all about you, Laura."

Humiliated beyond measure, Laura had thoughts of tearing off her hat
and jacket and declaring that she felt too ill to go out. But at last,
when she was almost sick with suspense, Mary put her tidy head in once
more.

"Miss Rambotham has been called for."

Laura was on her feet before the words were spoken. She sped to the
reception-room.

Marina, a short, sleek-haired, soberly dressed girl of about twenty,
had Godmother's brisk, matter-of-fact manner.

She offered Laura her cheek to kiss. "Well, I suppose you're ready now?"

Laura forgave her the past two hours. "Yes, quite, thank you," she
answered.

They went down the asphalted path and through the garden-gate, and
turned to walk townwards. For the first time since her arrival Laura
was free again--a prisoner at large. Round them stretched the broad
white streets of East Melbourne; at their side was the thick, exotic
greenery of the Fitzroy Gardens; on the brow of the hill rose the
massive proportions of the Roman Catholic Cathedral.--Laura could have
danced, as she walked at Marina's side.

After a few queries, however, as to how she liked school and how she
was getting on with her lessons, Marina fell to contemplating a strip
of paper that she held in her hand. Laura gathered that her companion
had combined the task of calling for her with a morning's shopping, and
that she had only worked half through her list of commissions before
arriving at the College. At the next corner they got on to the outside
car of a cable-tramway, and were carried into town. Here Marina entered
a co-operative grocery store, where she was going to give an order for
a quarter's supplies. She was her mother's housekeeper, and had an
incredible knowledge of groceries, as well as a severely practical
mind: she stuck her finger-nail into butter, tasted cheeses off the
blade of a knife, ran her hands through currants, nibbled biscuits,
discussed brands of burgundy and desiccated soups--Laura meanwhile
looking on, from a high, uncomfortable chair, with a somewhat hungry
envy. When everything, down to pepper and salt, had been remembered,
Marina filled in a cheque, and was just about to turn away when she
recollected an affair of some empty cases, which she wished to send
back. Another ten minutes' parley ensued; she had to see the manager,
and was closeted with him in his office, so that by the time they
emerged into the street again a full hour had gone by.

"Getting hungry?" she inquired of Laura.

"A little. But I can wait," answered Laura politely.

"That's right," said Marina, off whose own appetite the edge had no
doubt been taken by her various nibblings. "Now there's only the
chemist."

They rode to another street, entered a druggist's, and the same thing
on a smaller scale was repeated, except that here Marina did no
tasting, but for a stray gelatine or jujube. By the time the shop door
closed behind them, Laura could almost have eaten liquorice powder. It
was two o'clock, and she was faint with hunger.

"We'll be home in plenty of time," said Marina, consulting a neat
watch. "Dinner's not till three today, because of father."

Again a tramway jerked them forward. Some half mile from their
destination, Marina rose.

"We'll get out here. I have to call at the butcher's."

At a quarter to three, it was a very white-faced, exhausted little girl
that followed her companion into the house.

"Well, I guess you'll have a fine healthy appetite for dinner," said
Marina, as she showed her where to hang up her hat and wash her hands.

Godmother was equally optimistic. From the sofa of the morning-room,
where she sat knitting, she said: "Well, YOU'VE had a fine morning's
gadding about I must say! How are you? And how's your dear mother?"

"Quite well, thank you."

Godmother scratched her head with a spare needle, and the attention she
had had for Laura evaporated. "I hope, Marina, you told Graves about
those empty jam-jars he didn't take back last time?"

Marina, without lifting her eyes from a letter she was reading,
returned: "Indeed I didn't. He made such a rumpus about the sugar-boxes
that I thought I'd try to sell them to Petersen instead."

Godmother grunted, but did not question Marina's decision. "And what
news have you from your dear mother?" she asked again, without looking
at Laura--just as she never looked at the stocking she held, but always
over the top of it.

Here, however, the dinner-bell rang, and Laura, spared the task of
giving more superfluous information, followed the two ladies to the
dining-room. The other members of the family were waiting at the table.
Godmother's husband--he was a lawyer--was a morose, black-bearded man
who, for the most part, kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Laura had
heard it said that he and Godmother did not get on well together; she
supposed this meant that they did not care to talk to each other, for
they never exchanged a direct word: if they had to communicate, it was
done by means of a third person. There was the elder daughter,
Georgina, dumpier and still brusquer than Marina, the eldest son, a
bank-clerk who was something of a dandy and did not waste civility on
little girls; and lastly there were two boys, slightly younger than
Laura, black-haired, pug-nosed, pugnacious little creatures, who stood
in awe of their father, and were all the wilder when not under his eye.

Godmother mumbled a blessing; and the soup was eaten in silence.

During the meat course, the bank-clerk complained in extreme
displeasure of the way the laundress had of late dressed his
collars--these were so high that, as Laura was not slow to notice, he
had to look straight down the two sides of his nose to see his
plate--and announced that he would not be home for tea, as he had an
appointment to meet some 'chappies' at five, and in the evening was
going to take a lady friend to Brock's Fireworks. These particulars
were received without comment. As the family plied its pudding-spoons,
Georgina in her turn made a statement.

"Joey's coming to take me driving at four."

It looked as if this remark, too, would founder on the general
indifference. Then Marina said warningly, as if recalling her parent's
thoughts: "Mother!"

Awakened, Godmother jerked out: "Indeed and I hope if you go you'll
take the boys with you!"

"Indeed and I don't see why we should!"

"Very well, then, you'll stop at home. If Joey doesn't choose to come
to the point-----"

"Now hold your tongue, mother!"

"I'll do nothing of the sort."

"Crikey!" said the younger boy, Erwin, in a low voice. "Joey's got to
take us riding."

"If you and Joey can't get yourselves properly engaged," snapped
Godmother, "then you shan't go driving without the boys, and that's the
end of it."

Like dogs barking at one another, thought Laura, listening to the
loveless bandying of words--she was unused to the snappishness of the
Irish manner, which sounds so much worse than it is meant to be: and
she was chilled anew by it when, over the telephone, she heard Georgy
holding a heated conversation with Joey.

He was a fat young man, with hanging cheeks, small eyes, and a lazy,
lopsided walk.

"Hello--here's a little girl! What's HER name?--Say, this kiddy can
come along too."

As it had leaked out that Marina's afternoon would be spent between the
shelves of her storeroom, preparing for the incoming goods, Laura
gratefully accepted the offer.

They drove to Marlborough Tower. With their backs to the horse sat the
two boys, mercilessly alert for any display of fondness on the part of
the lovers; sat Laura, with her straight, inquisitive black eyes. Hence
Joey and Georgy were silent, since, except to declare their feelings,
they had nothing to say to each other.

The Tower reached, the mare was hitched up and the ascent of the light
wooden erection began. It was a blowy day.

"Boys first!" commanded Joey. "Cos o' the petticuts."--His speech was
as lazy as his walk.

He himself led the way, followed by Erwin and Marmaduke, and Laura, at
Georgy's bidding, went next. She clasped her bits of skirts anxiously
to her knees, for she was just as averse to the frills and flounces
that lay beneath being seen by Georgy, as by any of the male members of
the party. Georgy came last, and, though no one was below her, so
tightly wound about was she that she could hardly advance her legs from
one step to another. Joey looked approval; but the boys sniggered, and
kept it up till Georgy, having gained the platform, threatened them
with a "clout on the head".

On the return journey a dispute arose between the lovers: it related to
the shortest road home, waxed hot, and was rapidly taking on the
dimensions of a quarrel, when the piebald mare shied at a
traction-engine and tried to bolt. Joey gripped the reins, and passed
his free arm round Georgy's waist.

"Don't be frightened, darling."

Though the low chaise rocked from side to side and there seemed a
likelihood of it capsizing, the two boys squirmed with laughter, and
dealt out sundry nudges, kicks and pokes, all of which were received by
Laura, sitting between them. She herself turned red--with
embarrassment. At the same time she wondered why Joey should believe
George was afraid; there was no sign of it in Georgy's manner; she sat
stolid and unmoved. Besides she, Laura, was only a little girl, and
felt no fear.--She also asked herself why Joey should suddenly grow
concerned about Georgy, when, a moment before, they had been so rude to
each other.--These were interesting speculations, and, the chaise
having ceased to sway, Laura grew meditative.

In the evening Godmother had a visitor, and Laura sat in a low chair,
listening to the ladies' talk. It was dull work: for, much as she liked
to consider herself "almost grown up", she yet detested the
conversation of "real grown-ups" with a child's heartiness. She was
glad when nine o'clock struck and Marina, lighting a candle, told her
to go to bed.

The next day was Sunday. Between breakfast and church-time yawned two
long hours. Georgy went to a Bible-class; Marina was busy with orders
for the dinner.

It was a bookless house--like most Australian houses of its kind: in
Marina's bedroom alone stood a small bookcase containing school and
Sunday school prizes. Laura was very fond of reading, and as she
dressed that morning had cast longing looks at these volumes, had
evenly shyly fingered the glass doors. But they were locked. Breakfast
over, she approached Marina on the subject. The latter produced the
key, but only after some haggling, for her idea of books was to keep
the gilt on their covers untarnished.

"Well, at any rate it must be a Sunday book," she said ungraciously.

She drew out THE GIANT CITIES OF BASHAN AND SYRIA'S HOLY PLACES, and
with this Laura retired to the drawing-room, where Godmother was
already settled for the day, with a suitable magazine. When the bells
began to clang the young people, primly hatted, their prayer-books in
their hands, walked to the neighbouring church. There Laura sat once
more between the boys, Marina and Georgy stationed like sentinels at
the ends of the pew, ready to pounce down on their brothers if
necessary, to confiscate animals and eatables, or to rap impish
knuckles with a Bible. It was a spacious church; the pew was in a side
aisle; one could see neither reading-desk nor pulpit; and the words of
the sermon seemed to come from a great way off.

After dinner, Laura and the boys were dispatched to the garden, to
stroll about in Sunday fashion. Here no elder person being present, the
natural feelings of the trio came out: the distaste of a quiet little
girl for rough boys and their pranks; the resentful indignation of the
boys at having their steps dogged by a sneak and a tell-tale. As soon
as they had rounded the tennis-court and were out of sight of the
house, Erwin and Marmaduke clambered over the palings and dropped into
the street, vowing a mysterious vengeance on Laura if she went indoors
without them. The child sat down on the edge of the lawn under a
mulberry tree and propped her chin on her hands. She was too timid to
return to the house and brave things out; she was also afraid of some
one coming into the garden and finding her alone, and of her then being
forced to "tell"; for most of all she feared the boys, and their vague,
rude threats. So she sat and waited ... and waited. The shadows on the
grass changed their shapes before her eyes; distant chapel-bells
tinkled their quarter of an hour and were still again; the blighting
torpor of a Sunday afternoon lay over the world. Would to-morrow ever
come? She counted on her fingers the hours that had still to crawl by
before she could get back to school--counted twice over to be sure of
them--and all but yawned her head off, with ennui. But time passed, and
passed, and nothing happened. She was on the verge of tears, when two
black heads bobbed up above the fence, the boys scrambled over, red and
breathless, and hurried her into tea.

She wakened next morning at daybreak, so eager was she to set out. But
Marina had a hundred and one odd jobs to do before she was ready to
start, and it struck half-past nine as the two of them neared the
College. Child-like, Laura felt no special gratitude for the heavy pot
of mulberry jam Marina bore on her arm; but at sight of the stern,
grey, stone building she could have danced with joy; and on the front
door swinging to behind her, she drew a deep sigh of relief.




IX.


From this moment on--the moment when Mary the maid's pleasant smile
saluted her--Laura's opinion of life at school suffered a change. She
was glad to be back--that was the first point: just as an adventurous
sheep is glad to regain the cover of the flock. Learning might be hard;
the governesses mercilessly secure in their own wisdom; but here she
was at least a person of some consequence, instead of as at Godmother's
a mere negligible null.

Of her unlucky essay at holiday-making she wrote home guardedly: the
most tell-tale sentence in her letter was that in which she said she
would rather not go to Godmother's again in the meantime. But there was
such a lack of warmth in her account of the visit that mother made
this, together with the above remark, the text for a scolding.

"YOU'RE A VERY UNGRATEFUL GIRL," she wrote, "TO FORGET ALL GODMOTHER
HAS DONE FOR YOU. IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR HER SUPPLYING YOU WITH BOOKS
AND THINGS I COULDN'T HAVE SENT YOU TO SCHOOL AT ALL. AND I HOPE WHEN
YOU GROW UP YOU'LL BE AS MUCH OF A HELP TO ME AS MARINA IS TO HER
MOTHER. I'D MUCH RATHER HAVE YOU GOOD AND USEFUL THAN CLEVER AND I
THINK FOR A CHILD OF YOUR AGE YOU SEE THINGS WITH VERY SHARP UNKIND
EYES. TRY AND ONLY THINK NICE THINGS ABOUT PEOPLE AND NOT BE ALWAYS
SPYING OUT THEIR FAULTS. THEN YOU'LL HAVE PLENTY OF FRIENDS AND BE
LIKED WHEREVER YOU GO."

Laura took the statement about the goodness and cleverness with a grain
of salt: she knew better. Mother thought it the proper thing to say,
and she would certainly have preferred the two qualities combined; but,
had she been forced to choose between them, there was small doubt how
her choice would have fallen out. And if, for instance, Laura confessed
that her teachers did not regard her as even passably intelligent,
there would be a nice to-do. Mother's ambitions knew no bounds; and,
wounded in these, she was quite capable of writing post-haste to Mrs.
Gurley or Mr. Strachey, complaining of their want of insight, and
bringing forward a string of embarrassing proofs. So, leaving Mother to
her pleasing illusions, Laura settled down again to her role of dunce,
now, though, with more equanimity than before. School was really not a
bad place after all--this had for some time been her growing
conviction, and the visit to Godmother seemed to bring it to a head.

About this time, too, a couple of pieces of good fortune came her way.

The first: she was privileged to be third in the friendship between
Inez and Bertha--a favour of which she availed herself eagerly, though
the three were as different from one another as three little girls
could be. Bertha was a good-natured romp, hard-fisted, thick of leg,
and of a plodding but ineffectual industry. Inez, on the other hand,
was so pretty that Laura never tired of looking at her: she had a pale
skin, hazel eyes, brown hair with a yellow light in it, and a Greek
nose. Her mouth was very small; her nostrils were mere tiny slits; and
so lazy was she that she seldom more than half opened her eyes. Both
girls were well over fourteen, and very fully developed: compared with
them, Laura was like nothing so much as a skinny young colt.

She was so grateful to them for tolerating her that she never took up a
stand of real equality with them: proud and sensitive, she was always
ready to draw back and admit their prior rights to each other; hence
the friendship did not advance to intimacy. But such as it was, it was
very comforting; she no longer needed to sit alone in recess; she could
link arms and walk the garden with complacency; and many were the
supercilious glances she now threw at Maria Morell and that clique; for
her new friends belonged socially to the best set in the school.

In another way, too, their company made things easier for her: neither
of them aimed high; and both were well content with the lowly places
they occupied in the class. And so Laura, who was still, in her young
confusion, unequal to discovering what was wanted of her, grew
comforted by the presence and support of her friends, and unmindful of
higher opinion; and Miss Chapman, in supervising evening lessons,
remarked with genuine regret that little Laura was growing perky and
lazy.

Her second piece of good luck was of quite a different nature.

Miss Hicks, the visiting governess for geography, had a gift for saying
biting things that really bit. She bore Inez a peculiar grudge; for she
believed that certain faculties slumbered behind the Grecian profile,
and that only the girl's ingrained sloth prevented them.

One day she lost patience with this sluggish pupil.

"I'll tell you what it is, Inez," she said; "you're blessed with a real
woman's brain: vague, slippery, inexact, interested only in the
personal aspect of a thing. You can't concentrate your thoughts, and,
worst of all, you've no curiosity--about anything that really matters.
You take all the great facts of existence on trust--just as a hen
does--and I've no doubt you'll go on contentedly till the end of your
days, without ever knowing why the ocean has tides, and what causes the
seasons.--It makes me ashamed to belong to the same sex."

Inez's classmates tittered furiously, let the sarcasm glide over them,
unhit by its truth. Inez herself, indeed, was inclined to consider the
governess's taunt a compliment, as proving that she was incapable of a
vulgar inquisitiveness. But Laura, though she laughed docilely with the
rest, could not forget the incident--words in any case had a way of
sticking to her memory--and what Miss Hicks had said often came back to
her, in the days that followed. And then, all of a sudden, just as if
an invisible hand had opened the door to an inner chamber, a light
broke on her. Vague, slippery, inexact, interested only in the
personal--every word struck home. Had Miss Hicks set out to describe
HER, in particular, she could not have done it more accurately. It was
but too true: until now, she, Laura, had been satisfied to know things
in a slipslop, razzle-dazzle way, to know them anyhow, as it best
suited herself. She had never set to work to master a subject, to make
it her own in every detail. Bits of it, picturesque scraps, striking
features--what Miss Hicks no doubt meant by the personal--were all that
had attracted her.--Oh, and she, too, had no intelligent curiosity. She
could not say that she had ever teased her brains with wondering why
the earth went round the sun and not the sun round the earth. Honestly
speaking, it made no difference to her that the globe was indented like
an orange, and not the perfect round you began by believing it to
be.--But if this were so, if she were forced to make these galling
admissions, then it was clear that her vaunted cleverness had never
existed, except in Mother's imagination. Or, at any rate, it had
crumbled to pieces like a lump of earth, under the hard, heavy hand of
Miss Hicks. Laura felt humiliated, and could not understand her
companions treating the matter so airily. She did not want to have a
woman's brain, thank you; not one of that sort; and she smarted for the
whole class.

Straightway she set to work to sharpen her wits, to follow the strait
road. At first with some stumbling, of course, and frequent
backslidings. Intellectual curiosity could not, she discovered, be
awakened to order; and she often caught herself napping. Thus though
she speedily became one of the most troublesome askers-why, her desire
for information was apt to exhaust itself in putting the question, and
she would forget to listen to the answer. Besides, for the life of her
she could not drum up more interest in, say, the course of the Gulf
Stream, or the formation of a plateau, than in the fact that, when
Nelly Bristow spoke, little bubbles came out of her mouth, and that she
needed to swallow twice as often as other people; or that when Miss
Hicks grew angry her voice had a way of failing, at the crucial moment,
and flattening out to nothing--just as if one struck tin after brass.
No, it was indeed difficult for Laura to invert the value of these
things.--In another direction she did better. By dint of close
attention, of pondering both the questions asked by Miss Hicks, and the
replies made by the cleverest pupils, she began to see more clearly
where true knowledge lay. It was facts that were wanted of her; facts
that were the real test of learning; facts she was expected to know.
Stories, pictures of things, would not help her an inch along the road.
Thus, it was not the least use in the world to her to have seen the
snowy top of Mount Kosciusko stand out against a dark blue evening sky,
and to know its shape to a tittlekin. On the other hand, it mattered
tremendously that this mountain was 7308 and not 7309 feet high: that
piece of information was valuable, was of genuine use to you; for it
was worth your place in the class.

Thus did Laura apply herself to reach the school ideal, thus force
herself to drive hard nails of fact into her vagrant thoughts. And with
success. For she had, it turned out, a retentive memory, and to her joy
learning by heart came easy to her--as easy as to the most brilliant
scholars in the form. From now on she gave this talent full play,
memorising even pages of the history book in her zeal; and before many
weeks had passed, in all lessons except those in arithmetic--you could
not, alas! get sums by rote--she was separated from Inez and Bertha by
the width of the class.

But neither her taste of friendship and its comforts, nor the abrupt
change for the better in her class-fortunes, could counterbalance
Laura's luckless knack of putting her foot in it. This she continued to
do, in season and out of season. And not with the authorities alone.

There was, for instance, that unfortunate evening when she was one of
the batch of girls invited to Mrs. Strachey's drawingroom. Laura,
ignorant of what it meant to be blasee, had received her note of
invitation with a thrill, had even enjoyed writing, in her best hand,
the prescribed formula of acceptance. But she was alone in this; by the
majority of her companions these weekly parties were frankly hated, the
chief reason being that every guest was expected to take a piece of
music with her. Even the totally unfit had to show what they could do.
And the fact that cream-tarts were served for supper was not held to
square accounts.

"It's all very well for you," grumbled Laura's room-mate, Lilith
Gordon, as she lathered her thick white arms and neck before dressing.
"You're a new girl; you probably won't be asked."

Laura did not give the matter a second thought: hastily selecting a
volume of music, she followed the rest of the white dresses into the
passage. The senior girl tapped at the drawingroom door. It was opened
by no other than the Principal himself.

In the girls' eyes, Mr. Strachey stood over six feet in his
stocking-soles. He had also a most arrogant way of looking down his
nose, and of tugging, intolerantly, at his long, drooping moustache.
There was little need for him to assume the frigid contemptuousness of
Mrs. Gurley's manner: his mere presence, the very unseeingness of his
gaze, inspired awe. Tales ran of his wrath, were it roused; but few had
experienced it. He quelled the high spirits of these young [P.93]
colonials by his dignified air of detachment.

Now, however, he stood there affable and smiling, endeavouring to put a
handful of awkward girls at their ease. But neither his nor Mrs.
Strachey's efforts availed. It was impossible for the pupils to throw
off, at will, the crippling fear that governed their relations with the
Principal. To them, his amiability resembled the antics of an
uncertain-tempered elephant, with which you could never feel safe.--
Besides on this occasion it was a young batch, and of particularly
mixed stations. And so a dozen girls, from twelve to fifteen years old,
sat on the extreme edges of their chairs, and replied to what was said
to them, with dry throats.

Though the youngest of the party, Laura was the least embarrassed: she
had never known a nursery, but had mixed with her elders since her
babyhood. And she was not of a shy disposition; indeed, she still had
to be reminded daily that shyness was expected of her. So she sat and
looked about her. It was an interesting room in which she found
herself. Low bookshelves, three shelves high, ran round the walls, and
on the top shelf were many outlandish objects. What an evening it would
have been had Mr. Strachey invited them to examine these ornaments, or
to handle the books, instead of having to pick up a title here and
there by chance.--From the shelves, her eyes strayed to the pictures on
the walls; one, in particular struck her fancy. It hung over the
mantelpiece, and was a man's head seen in profile, with a long hooked
nose, and wearing a kind of peaked cap. But that was not all: behind
this head were other profiles of the same face, and seeming to come out
of clouds. Laura stared hard, but could make nothing of it.--And
meanwhile her companions were rising with sickly smiles, to seat
themselves, red as turkey-cocks' combs, on the piano stool, where with
cold, stiff fingers they stumbled through the movement of a sonata or
sonatina.

It was Lilith Gordon who broke the chain by offering to sing. The
diversion was welcomed by Mrs. Strachey, and Lilith went to the piano.
But her nervousness was such that she broke down half-way in the little
prelude to the ballad.

Mrs. Strachey came to the rescue. "It's so difficult, is it not, to
accompany oneself?" she said kindly. "Perhaps one of the others would
play for you?"

No one moved.

"Do any of you know the song?"

Two or three ungraciously admitted the knowledge, but none volunteered.

It was here Laura chimed in. "I could play it," she said; and coloured
at the sound of her own voice.

Mrs. Strachey looked doubtfully at the thin little girl. "Do you know
it, dear? You're too young for singing, I think."

"No, I don't know it. But I could play it from sight. It's quite easy."

Everyone looked disbelieving, especially the unhappy singer.

"I've played much harder things than that," continued Laura.

"Well, perhaps you might try," said Mrs. Strachey, with the ingrained
distrust of the unmusical.

Laura rose and went to the piano, where she conducted the song to a
successful ending.

Mrs. Strachey looked relieved. "Very nice indeed." And to Laura: "Did
you say you didn't know it, dear?"

"No, I never saw it before."

Again the lady looked doubtful. "Well, perhaps you would play us
something yourself now?"

Laura had no objection; she had played to people before her fingers
were long enough to cover the octave. She took the volume of Thalberg
she had brought with her, selected "Home, Sweet Home", and pranced in.

Her audience kept utter silence; but, had she been a little sharper,
she would have grasped that it was the silence of amazement. After the
prim sonatinas that had gone before, Thalberg's florid ornaments had a
shameless sound. Her performance, moreover, was a startling one; the
forte pedal was held down throughout; the big chords were crashed and
banged with all the strength a pair of twelve-year-old arms could put
into them; and wrong notes were freely scattered. Still, rhythm and
melody were well marked, and there was no mistaking the agility of the
small fingers.

Dead silence, too, greeted the conclusion of the piece Several girls
were very red, from trying not to laugh. The Principal tugged at his
moustache, in abstracted fashion.

Laura had reached her seat again before Mrs. Strachey said undecidedly:
"Thank you, dear. Did you ... hm ... learn that piece here?"

Laura saw nothing wrong. "Oh, no, at home," she answered. "I wouldn't
care to play the things I learn here, to people. They're so dull."

A girl emitted a faint squeak. But a half turn of Mrs. Strachey's head
subdued her. "Oh, I hope you will soon get to like classical music
also," said the lady gravely, and in all good faith. "We prefer it, you
know, to any other."

"Do you mean things like the AIR IN G WITH VARIATIONS? I'm afraid I
never shall. There's no tune in them."

Music was as fatal to Laura's equilibrium as wine would have been.
Finding herself next Mr. Strachey, she now turned to him and said, with
what she believed to be ease of manner: "Mr. Strachey, will you please
tell me what that picture is hanging over the mantelpiece? I've been
looking at it ever since I came in, but I can't make it out. Are those
ghosts, those things behind the man, or what?"

It took Mr. Strachey a minute to recover from his astonishment. He
stroked hard, and the look he bent on Laura was not encouraging.

"It seems to be all the same face," continued the child, her eyes on
the picture.

"That," said Mr. Strachey, with extreme deliberation: "that is the
portrait, by a great painter, of a great poet--Dante Alighieri."

"Oh, Dante, is it?" said Laura showily--she had once heard the name.
"Oh, yes, of course, I know now. He wrote a book, didn't he, called
FAUST? I saw it over there by the door.--What lovely books!"

But here Mr. Strachey abruptly changed his seat, and Laura's thirst for
information was left unquenched.

The evening passed, and she was in blessed ignorance of anything being
amiss, till the next morning after breakfast she was bidden to Mrs.
Gurley.

A quarter of an hour later, on her emerging from that lady's private
sitting-room, her eyes were mere swollen slits in her face. Instead,
however, of sponging them in cold water and bravely joining her
friends, Laura was still foolish enough to hide and have her cry out.
So that when the bell rang, she was obliged to go in to public prayers
looking a prodigious fright, and thereby advertising to the curious
what had taken place.

Mrs. Gurley had crushed and humiliated her. Laura learnt that she had
been guilty of a gross impertinence, in profaning the ears of the
Principal and Mrs. Strachey with Thalberg's music, and that all the
pieces she had brought with her from home would now be taken from her.
Secondly, Mr. Strachey had been so unpleasantly impressed by the
boldness of her behaviour, that she would not be invited to the
drawing-room again for some time to come.

The matter of the music touched Laura little: if they preferred their
dull old exercises to what she had offered them, so much the worse for
them. But the reproach cast on her manners stung her even more deeply
than it had done when she was still the raw little newcomer: for she
had been pluming herself of late that she was now "quite the thing".

And yet, painful as was this fresh overthrow of her pride, it was
neither the worst nor the most lasting result of the incident. That
concerned her schoolfellows. By the following morning the tale of her
doings was known to everyone. It was circulated in the first place, no
doubt, by Lilith Gordon, who bore her a grudge for her offer to
accompany the song: had Laura not put herself forward in this
objectionable way, Lilith might have escaped singing altogether. Lilith
also resented her having shown that she could do it--and this feeling
was generally shared. It evidenced a want of good-fellowship, and made
you very glad the little prig had afterwards come to grief: if you had
abilities that others had not you concealed them, instead of parading
them under people's noses.

In short, Laura had committed a twofold breach of school etiquette. No
one of course vouchsafed to explain this to her; these things one did
not put into words, things you were expected to know without telling.
Hence, she never more than half understood what she had done. She only
saw disapproval painted on faces that had hitherto been neutral, and
from one or two quarters got what was unmistakably the cold shoulder.--
Her little beginnings at popularity had somehow received a setback, and
through her own foolish behaviour.




X.


The lesson went home; Laura began to model herself more and more on
those around her; to grasp that the unpardonable sin is to vary from
the common mould.

In August, after the midwinter holidays, she was promoted to the second
class; she began Latin; and as a reward was allowed by Mother to wear
her dresses an inch below her knees. She became a quick, adaptable
pupil, with a parrot-like memory, and at the end of the school year
delighted Mother's heart with a couple of highly gilt volumes, of
negligible contents.

At home, during those first holidays, she gave her sister and brothers
cold creeps down their spines, with her stories of the great doings
that took place at school; and none of her class-mates would have
recognised in this arrant drawer-of-the-long-bow, the unlucky little
blunderbuss of the early days.

On her return, Laura's circle of friends was enlarged. The morning
after her arrival, on entering the dining-hall, she found a new girl
standing shy and awkward before the fireplace. This was the daughter of
a millionaire squatter named Macnamara; and the report of her father's
wealth had preceded her. Yet here she now had to hang about, alone,
unhappy, the target of all eyes. It might be supposed that Laura would
feel some sympathy for her, having so recently undergone the same
experience herself. But that was not her way. She rejoiced, in
barbarian fashion, that this girl, older than she by about a year, and
of a higher social standing, should have to endure a like ordeal.
Staring heartlessly, she accentuated her part of old girl knowing all
the ropes, and was so inclined to show off that she let herself in for
a snub from Miss Snodgrass.

Tilly Macnamara joined Laura's class, and the two were soon good
friends.

Tilly was a short, plump girl, with white teeth, rather boyish hands,
and the blue-grey eyes predominant in Australia. She was usually
dressed in silk, and she never wore an apron to protect the front of
her frock. Naturally, too, she had a bottomless supply of pocket-money:
if a subscription were raised, she gave ten shillings where others gave
one; and on the Saturday holidays she flung about with half-crowns as
Laura would have been afraid to do with pennies.

For the latter with her tiny dole, which had to last so and so long,
since no more was forthcoming, it was a difficult task to move
gracefully among companions none of whom knew what it meant to be
really poor. Many trivial mortifications were the result; and countless
small subterfuges had to be resorted to, to prevent it leaking out just
how paltry her allowance was.

But the question of money was, after all, trifling, compared with the
infinitely more important one of dress.

With regard to dress, Laura's troubles were manifold. It was not only
that here, too, by reason of Mother's straitened means, she was forced
to remain an outsider: that, in itself, she would have borne [P.101]
lightly; for, as little girls go, she was indifferent to finery. Had
she had a couple of new frocks a year, in which she could have been
neat and unremarkable, she would have been more than content. But, from
her babyhood on, Laura--and Pin with her--had lamented the fact that
children could not go about clad in sacks, mercifully indistinguishable
one from another. For they were the daughters of an imaginative mother,
and, balked in other outlets, this imagination had wreaked itself on
their clothing. All her short life long, Laura had suffered under a
home-made, picturesque style of dress; and she had resented, with a
violence even Mother did not gauge, this use of her young body as a peg
on which to hang fantastic garments. After her tenth birthday she was,
she thanked goodness, considered too old for the quaint shapes beneath
which Pin still groaned; but there remained the matter of colour for
Mother to sin against, and in this she seemed to grow more intemperate
year by year. Herself dressed always in the soberest browns and blacks,
she liked to see her young flock gay as Paradise birds, lighting up a
drab world; and when Mother liked a thing, she was not given to
consulting the wishes of little people. Those were awful times when she
went, say, to Melbourne, and bought as a bargain a whole roll of cloth
of an impossible colour, which had to be utilised to the last inch; or
when she unearthed, from an old trunk, some antiquated garment to be
cut up and reshaped--a Paisley shawl, a puce ball-dress, even an old
pair of green rep curtains.

It was thus a heavy blow to Laura to find, on going home, that Mother
had already bought her new spring dress. In one respect all was well:
it had been made by the local dressmaker, and consequently had not the
home-made cut that Laura abhorred. But the colour! Her heart fell to
the pit of her stomach the moment she set eyes on it, and only with
difficulty did she restrain her tears.--Mother had chosen a vivid
purple, of a crude, old-fashioned shade.

Now, quite apart from her personal feelings, Laura had come to know
very exactly, during the few months she had been at school, the views
held by her companions on the subject of colour. No matter how
sumptuous or how simple the material of which the dress was made, it
must be dark, or of a delicate tint. Brilliancy was a sign of
vulgarity, and put the wearer outside the better circles. Hence, at
this critical juncture, when Laura was striving to ape her fellows in
all vital matters, the unpropitious advent of the purple threatened to
undo her.

After her first dismayed inspection, she retreated to the bottom of the
garden to give vent to her feelings.

"I shall never be able to wear it," she moaned. "Oh, how COULD she buy
such a thing? And I needed a new dress so awfully, awfully much."

"It isn't really so bad, Laura," pleaded Pin. "It'll look darker, I'm
sure, if you've got it on--and if you don't go out in the sun."

"You haven't got to wear it. It was piggish of you, Pin, perfectly
piggish! You MIGHT have watched what she was buying."

"I did, Laura!" asseverated Pin, on the brink of tears. "There was a
nice dark brown and I said take that, you would like it better, and she
said hold your tongue, and did I think she was going to dress you as if
you were your own grandmother."

This dress hung for weeks in the most private corner of Laura's school
wardrobe. Her companions had all returned with new outfits, and on the
first assemblage for church there was a great mustering of one another,
both by girls and teachers. Laura was the only one to descend in the
dress she had worn throughout the winter. Her heart was sore with
bitterness, and when the handful of Episcopalians were marching to St
Stephen's-on-the-Hill, she strove to soothe her own wound.

"I can't think why my dress hasn't come," she said gratuitously, out of
this hurt, with an oblique glance to see how her partner took the
remark: it was the good-natured Maria Morell, who was resplendent in
velvet and feathers. "I expect that stupid dressmaker couldn't get it
done in time. I've waited for it all the week."

"What a sell!" said Maria, but with mediocre interest; for she had
cocked her eye at a harmless-looking youth, who was doing his best not
to blush on passing the line of girls.--"I say, do look at that toff
making eyes. Isn't he a nanny-goat."

On several subsequent Sundays, Laura fingered, in an agony of
indecision, the pleasing stuff of the dress, and ruefully considered
its modish cut. Once, no one being present, she even took it out of the
wardrobe. But the merciless spring sunshine seemed to make the purple
shoot fire, to let loose a host of other colours it in as well, and,
with a shudder, she re-hung it on its peg.

But the evil day came. After a holiday at Godmother's, she received a
hot letter from Mother. Godmother had complained of her looking
"dowdy", and Mother was exceedingly cross. Laura was ordered to spend
the coming Saturday as well at Prahran, and in her new dress, under
penalty of a correspondence with Mrs. Gurley. There was no going
against an order of this kind, and with death at her heart Laura
prepared to obey. On the fatal morning she dawdled as long as possible
over her mending, thus postponing dressing to go out till the others
had vacated the bedroom; where, in order not to be forced to see
herself, she kept her eyes half shut, and turned the looking-glass
hind-before. Although it was a warm day, she hung a cloak over her
shoulders. But her arms peeped out of the loose sleeves, and at least a
foot of skirt was visible. As she walked along the corridor and down
the stairs, she seemed to smudge the place with colour, and, directly
she entered the dining-hall, comet-like she drew all eyes upon her.
Astonished titterings followed in her wake; even the teachers goggled
her, afterwards to put their heads together. In the reception-room
Marina remarked at once: "Hullo!--is THIS the new dress your mother
wrote us about?"

Outside, things were no better; the very tram-conductors were
fascinated by it; and every passer-by was a fresh object of dread:
Laura waited, her heart a-thump, for the moment when he should raise
his eyes and, with a start of attention, become aware of the screaming
colour. At Godmother's all the faces disapproved: Georgina said, "What
a guy!" when she thought Laura was out of earshot; but the boys stated
their opinion openly as soon as they had her to themselves.

"Oh, golly! Like a parrot--ain't she?"

"This way to the purple parrot--this way! Step up, ladies and
gentlemen! A penny the whole show!"

That evening, she tore the dress from her back and, hanging it up
inside the cloak, vowed that, come what might, she would never put it
on again. A day or two later, on unexpectedly entering her bedroom, she
found Lilith Gordon and another girl at her wardrobe. They grew very
red, and hurried giggling from the room, but Laura had seen what they
were looking at. After this, she tied the dress up with string and
brown paper and hid it in a drawer, under her nightgowns. When she went
home at Christmas it went with her, still in the parcel, and then there
was a stormy scene. But Laura was stubborn: rather than wear the dress,
she would not go back to the College at all. Mother's heart had been
softened by the prizes; Laura seized the occasion, and extracted a
promise that she should be allowed in future to choose her own
frocks.-- And so the purple dress was passed on to Pin, who detested it
with equal heartiness, but, living under Mother's eye, had not the
spirit to fight against it.

"Got anything new in the way of clothes?" asked Lilith Gordon as she
and Laura undressed for bed a night or two after their return.

"Yes, one," said Laura shortly.--For she thought Lilith winked at the
third girl, a publican's daughter from Clunes.

"Another like the last? Or have you gone in for yellow ochre this time?"

Laura flamed in silence.

"Great Scott, what a colour that was! Fit for an Easter Fair--Miss Day
said so."

"It wasn't mine," retorted Laura passionately. "It ... it belonged to a
girl I knew who died--and her mother gave it to me as a remembrance of
her--but I didn't care for it."

"I shouldn't think you did.--But I say, does your mother let you wear
other people's clothes? What a rummy thing to do!"

She went out of the room--no doubt to spread this piece of gossip
further. Laura looked daggers after her. She was angry enough with
Lilith for having goaded her to the lie, but much angrier with herself
for its blundering ineffectualness. It was not likely she had been
believed, and if she were, well, it made matters worse instead of
better: people would conclude that she lived on charity. Always when
unexpectedly required to stand on the defensive, she said or did
something foolish. That morning, for instance, a similar thing had
happened--it had rankled all day in her mind. On looking through the
washing, Miss Day had exclaimed in horror at the way in which her
stockings were mended.

"Whoever did it? They've been done since you left here. I would never
have passed such dams."

Laura crimsoned. "Those? Oh, an old nurse we've got at home. We've had
her for years and years--but her eyesight's going now."

Miss Day sniffed audibly. "So I should think. To cobble like that!"

They were Mother's dams, hastily made, late at night, and with all
Mother's genial impatience at useful sewing as opposed to beautiful.
Laura's intention had been to shield Mother from criticism, as well as
to spare Miss Day's feelings. But to have done it so clumsily as this!
To have had to wince under Miss Day's scepticism! It was only a wonder
the governess had not there and then taxed her with the fib. For who
believed in old nurses nowadays? They were a stock property, borrowed
on the spur of the moment from readings in THE FAMILY HERALD, from
Tennyson's LADY CLARE. Why on earth had such a far-fetched excuse leapt
to her tongue? Why could she not have said Sarah, the servant, the
maid-of-all-work? Then Miss Day would have had no chance to sniff, and
she, Laura, could have believed herself believed, instead of having to
fret over her own stupidity.--But what she would like more than
anything to know was, why the mending of the stockings at home should
NOT be Sarah's work? Why must it just be Mother--her mother alone--who
made herself so disagreeably conspicuous, and not merely by darning the
stockings, but, what was a still greater grievance, by not even darning
them well?




XI.


It was an odd thing, all the same, how easy it was to be friends with
Lilith Gordon: though she did not belong to Laura's set though Laura
did not even like her, and though she had had ample proof that Lilith
was double-faced, not to be trusted. Yet, in the months that followed
the affair of the purple dress, Laura grew more intimate with the
plump, sandy-haired girl than with either Bertha, or Inez, or Tilly.
Or, to put it more exactly, she was continually having lapses into
intimacy, and repenting them when it was too late. In one way Lilith
was responsible for this: she could make herself very pleasant when she
chose, seem to be your friend through thick and thin, thus luring you
on to unbosom yourself; and afterwards she would go away and laugh over
what you had told her, with other girls. And Laura was peculiarly
helpless under such circumstances: if it was done with tact, and with a
certain assumed warmth of manner, anyone could make a cat's-paw of her.

That Lilith and she undressed for bed together had also something to do
with their intimacy: this half-hour when one's hair was unbound and
replaited, and fat and thin arms wielded the brush, was the time of all
others for confidences. The governess who occupied the fourth bed did
not come upstairs till ten o'clock; the publican's daughter, a lazy
girl, was usually half asleep before the other two had their clothes
off.

It was in the course of one of these confidential chats that Laura did
a very foolish thing. In a moment of weakness, she gratuitously gave
away the secret that Mother supported her family by the work of her
hands.

The two girls were sitting on the side of Lilith's bed. Laura had a day
of mishaps behind her--that partly, no doubt, accounted for her
self-indulgence. But, in addition, her companion had just told her,
unasked, that she thought her "very pretty". It was not in Laura's
nature to let this pass: she was never at ease under an obligation; she
had to pay the coin back in kind.

"Embroidery? What sort? However does she do it?"--Lilith's interest was
on tiptoe at once--a false and slimy interest, the victim afterwards
told herself.

"Oh, my mother's awfully clever. It's just lovely, too, what she
does--all in silk--and ever so many different colours. She made a
piano-cover once, and got fifty pounds for it."

"How perfectly splendid!"

"But that was only a lucky chance ... that she got that to do. She
mostly does children's dresses and cloaks and things like that."

"But she's not a dressmaker, is she?"

"A dressmaker? I should think not indeed! They're sent up, all ready to
work, from the biggest shops in town."

"I say!--she must be clever."

"She is; she can do anything. She makes the patterns up all out of her
own head. "--And filled with pride in Mother's accomplishments and
Lilith's appreciation of them, Laura fell asleep that night without a
qualm.

It was the next evening. Several of the boarders who had finished
preparing their lessons were loitering in the dining-hall, Laura and
Lilith among them. In the group was a girl called Lucy, young but very
saucy; for she lived at Toorak, and came of one of the best families in
Melbourne. She was not as old as Laura by two years, but was already
feared and respected for the fine scorn of her opinions.

Lilith Gordon had bragged: "My uncle's promised me a gold watch and
chain when I pass matric."

Lucy of Toorak laughed: her nose came down, and her mouth went up at
the corners. "Do you think you ever will?"

"G. o. k. and He won't tell. But I'll probably get the watch all the
same."

"Where does your uncle hang out?"

"Brisbane."

"Sure he can afford to buy it?"

"Of course he can."

"What is he?"

Lilith was unlucky enough to hesitate, ever so slightly. "Oh, he's got
plenty of money," she asserted.

"She doesn't like to say what he is!"

"I don't care whether I say it or not."

"A butcher, p'raps, or an undertaker?"

"A butcher! He's got the biggest newspaper in Brisbane!"

"A newspaper! Great Scott! Her uncle keeps a newspaper!"

There was a burst of laughter from those standing round.

Lilith was scarlet now. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said
angrily.

But Lucy of Toorak could not recover from her amusement. "An uncle who
keeps a newspaper! A newspaper! Well, I'm glad none of MY uncles are so
rummy.--I say, does he leave it at front doors himself in the morning?"

Laura had at first looked passively on, well pleased to see another
than herself the butt of young Lucy's wit. But at this stage of her
existence she was too intent on currying favour, to side with any but
the stronger party. And so she joined in the boisterous mirth Lilith's
admission and Lucy's reception of it excited, and flung her gibes with
the rest.

She was pulled up short by a hissing in her ear. "If you say one word
more, I'll tell about the embroidery!"

Laura went pale with fright: she had been in good spirits that day, and
had quite forgotten her silly confidence of the night before. Now, the
jeer that was on the tip of her tongue hung fire. She could not all at
once obliterate her smile--that would have been noticeable; but it grew
weaker, stiffer and more unnatural, then gradually faded away, leaving
her with a very solemn little face.

From this night on, Lilith Gordon represented a powder-mine, which
might explode at any minute.--And she herself had laid the train!

From the outset, Laura had been accepted, socially, by even the most
exclusive, as one of themselves; and this, in spite of her niggardly
allowance, her ridiculous clothes. For the child had race in her: in a
well-set head, in good hands and feet and ears. Her nose, too, had a
very pronounced droop, which could stand only for blue blood, or a
Hebraic ancestor--and Jews were not received as boarders in the school.
Now, loud as money made itself in this young community, effectual as it
was in cloaking shortcomings, it did not go all the way: inherited
instincts and traditions were not so easily subdued. Just some of the
wealthiest, too, were aware that their antecedents would not stand a
close scrutiny; and thus a mighty respect was engendered in them for
those who had nothing to fear. Moreover, directly you got away from the
vastly rich, class distinctions were observed with an exactitude such
as can only obtain in an exceedingly mixed society. The three
professions alone were sacrosanct. The calling of architect, for
example, or of civil engineer, was, if a fortune had not been
accumulated, utterly without prestige; trade, any connection with
trade--the merest bowing acquaintance with buying and selling--was a
taint that nothing could remove; and those girls who were related to
shopkeepers, or, more awful still, to publicans, would rather have
bitten their tongues off than have owned to the disgrace.

Yet Laura knew very well that good birth and an aristocratic appearance
would not avail her, did the damaging fact leak out that Mother worked
for her living. Work in itself was bad enough--how greatly to be envied
were those whose fathers did nothing more active than live on their
money! But the additional circumstance of Mother being a woman made
things ten times worse: ladies did not work; some one always left them
enough to live on, and if he didn't, well, then he, too, shared the
ignominy. So Laura went in fear and trembling lest the truth should
come to light--in that case, she would be a pariah indeed--went in
hourly dread of Lilith betraying her. Nothing, however, happened--at
least as far as she could discover--and she sought to propitiate Lilith
in every possible way. For the time being, though, anxiety turned her
into a porcupine, ready to erect her quills at a touch. She was ever on
the look-out for an allusion to her mother's position, and for the
slight that was bound to accompany it.

Even the governesses noticed the change in her.

Three of them sat one evening round the fire in Mrs. Gurley's
sitting-room, with their feet on the fender. The girls had gone to bed;
it was Mrs. Gurley's night off, and as Miss Day was also on leave, the
three who were left could draw in more closely than usual. Miss
Snodgrass had made the bread into toast--in spite of Miss Chapman's
quakings lest Mrs. Gurley should notice the smell when she came
in--and, as they munched, Miss Snodgrass related how she had just
confiscated a book Laura Rambotham was trying to smuggle upstairs, and
how it had turned out that it belonged, not to Laura herself, but to
Lilith Gordon.

"She was like a little spitfire about it all the same. A most
objectionable child, I call her. It was only yesterday I wanted to look
at some embroidery on her apron--a rather pretty new stitch--and do you
think she'd let me see it? She jerked it away and glared at me as if
she would have liked to eat me. I could have boxed her ears."

"I never have any trouble with Laura. I don't think you know how to
manage her," said Miss Chapman, and executed a little manoeuvre. She
had poor teeth; and, having awaited a moment when Miss Snodgrass's
sharp eyes were elsewhere engaged, she surreptitiously dropped the
crusts of the toast into her handkerchief.

"I'd be sorry to treat her as you do," said Miss Snodgrass, and yawned.
"Girls need to be made to sit up nowadays."

She yawned again, and gazing round the room for fresh food for talk,
caught Miss Zielinski with her eye. "Hullo, Ziely, what are you deep
in?" She put her arm round the other's neck, and unceremoniously laid
hold of her book. "You naughty girl, you're at Ouida again! Always got
your nose stuck in some trashy novel."

"DO let me alone," said Miss Zielinski pettishly, holding fast to the
book; but she did not raise her eyes, for they were wet.

"You know you'll count the washing all wrong again to-morrow, your
head'll be so full of that stuff."

"Yes, it's time to go, girls; to-morrow's Saturday." And Miss Chapman
sighed; for, on a Saturday morning between six and eight o'clock,
fifty-five lots of washing had to be sorted out and arranged in piles.

"Holy Moses, what a life!" ejaculated Miss Snodgrass, and yawned again,
in a kind of furious desperation. "I swear I'll marry the first man
that asks me, to get away from it.--As long as he has money enough to
keep me decently."

"You would soon wish yourself back, if you had no more feeling for him
that that," reproved Miss Chapman.

"Catch me! Not even if he had a hump, or kept a mistress, or was over
eighty. Oh dear, oh dear!"--she stretched herself so violently that her
bones cracked; to resume, in a tone of ordinary conversation: "I do
wish I knew whether to put a brown wing or a green one in that blessed
hat of mine."

Miss Chapman's face straightened out from its shocked expression. "Your
hat? Why do you want to change it? It's very nice as it is."

"My dear Miss Chapman, it's at least six months out of date.--Ziely,
you're crying!"

"I'm not," said Miss Zielinski weakly, caught in the act of blowing her
nose.

"How on earth can you cry over a book? As if it were true!"

"I thank God I haven't such a cold heart as you."

"And I thank God I'm not a romantic idiot. But your name's not Thekla
for nothing I suppose."

"My name's as good as yours. And I won't be looked down on because my
father was once a German."

"'Mr. Kayser, do you vant to buy a dawg?'" hummed Miss Snodgrass.

"Girls, girls!" admonished Miss Chapman. "How you two do bicker.--
There, that's Mrs. Gurley now! And it's long past ten."

At the creaking of the front door both juniors rose, gathered their
belongings together, and hurried from the room. But it was a false
alarm; and having picked up some crumbs and set the chairs in order,
Miss Chapman resumed her seat. As she waited, she looked about her and
wondered, with a sigh, whether it would ever be her good fortune to
call this cheery little room her own. It was only at moments like the
present that she could indulge such a dream. Did Mrs. Gurley stand
before her, majestic in bonnet and mantle, as in a minute or two she
would, or draped in her great shawl, thoughts of this kind sank to
their proper level, and Miss Chapman knew them for what they were
worth. But sitting alone by night, her chin in her hand, her eyes on
the dying fire, around her the eerie stillness of the great house, her
ambition did not seem wholly out of reach; and, giving rein to her
fancy, she could picture herself sweeping through halls and rooms,
issuing orders that it was the business of others to fulfil, could even
think out a few changes that should be made, were she head of the staff.

But the insertion of Mrs. Gurley's key in the lock, the sound of her
foot on the oilcloth, was enough to waken a sense of guilt in Miss
Chapman, and make her start to her feet--the drab, elderly, apologetic
governess once more.




XII.


DA REGIERT DER NACHBAR, DA WIRD MAN NACHBAR.

NIETZSCHE


You might regulate your outward habit to the last button of what you
were expected to wear; you might conceal the tiny flaws and shuffle
over the big improprieties in your home life, which were likely to
damage your value in the eyes of your companions; you might, in brief,
march in the strictest order along the narrow road laid down for you by
these young lawgivers, keeping perfect step and time with them: yet of
what use were all your pains, if you could not marshal your thoughts
and feelings--the very realest part of you--in rank and file as well?
... if these persisted in escaping control?--Such was the question
which, about this time, began to present itself to Laura's mind.

It first took form on the day Miss Blount, the secretary, popped her
head in at the door and announced: "At half-past three, Class Two to
Number One."

Class Two was taking a lesson in elocution: that is to say Mr. Repton,
the visiting-master for this branch of study, was reading aloud, in a
sonorous voice, a chapter of HANDY ANDY. He underlined his points
heavily, and his hearers, like the self-conscious, emotionally shy
young colonials they were, felt half amused by, half-superior to the
histrionic display. They lounged in easy, ungraceful postures while he
read, reclining one against another, or sprawling forward over the
desks, their heads on their arms. It was the first hour after dinner,
when one's thoughts were sleepy and stupid, and Mr. Repton was not a
pattern disciplinarian; but the general abandonment of attitude had
another ground as well. It had to do with the shape of the master's
legs. These were the object of an enthusiastic admiration. They were
generally admitted to be the handsomest in the school, and those girls
were thought lucky who could get the best view of them beneath the
desk. Moreover, the rumour ran that Mr. Repton had once been an
actor--his very curly hair no doubt lent weight to the report--and
Class Two was fond of picturing the comely limbs in the tights of a
Hamlet or Othello. It also, of course, invented for him a lurid life
outside the College walls--notwithstanding the fact that he and his
sonsy wife sat opposite the boarders in church every Sunday morning,
the embodiment of the virtuous commonplace; and whenever he looked at a
pupil, every time he singled one of them out for special notice, he was
believed to have an ulterior motive, his words were construed into
meaning something they should not mean: so that the poor man was often
genuinely puzzled by the reception of his friendly overtures.--Such was
Class Two's youthful contribution to the romance of school life.

On this particular day, however, the sudden, short snap of the
secretary's announcement that, instead of dispersing at half-past
three, the entire school was to reassemble, galvanised the class.
Glances of mingled apprehension and excitement flew round; eyes
telegraphed [P.119] vigorous messages; and there was little attention
left for well-shaped members, or for the antics of Handy Andy under his
mother's bed.

But when the hour came, and all classes were moving in the same
direction, verandahs and corridors one seething mass of girls, it was
the excitement that prevailed. For any break was welcome in the
uniformity of the days; and the nervous tension now felt was no more
disagreeable, at bottom, than was the pleasant trepidation experienced
of old by those who went to be present at a hanging.

In the course of the past weeks a number of petty thefts had been
committed. Day-scholars who left small sums of money in their jacket
pockets would find, on returning to the cloakrooms, that these had been
pilfered. For a time, the losses were borne in silence, because of the
reluctance inherent in young girls to making a fuss. But when shillings
began to vanish in the same fashion, and once even half-a-crown was
missing, it was recognised that the thing must be put a stop to; and
one bolder than the rest, and with a stronger sense of public morality,
lodged a complaint. Investigations were made, a trap was set, and the
thief discovered.--The school was now assembled to see justice done.

The great room was fuller even than at morning prayers; for then there
was always an unpunctual minority. A crowd of girls who had not been
able to find seats was massed together at the further end. As at
prayers, visiting and resident teachers stood in a line, with their
backs to the high windows; they were ranged in order of precedence,
topped by Dr Pughson, who stood next Mr. Strachey's desk. All [P.120]
alike wore blank, stern faces.

In one of the rows of desks for two--blackened, ink-scored, dusty
desks, with eternally dry ink-wells--sat Laura and Tilly, behind them
Inez and Bertha. The cheeks of the four were flushed. But, while the
others only whispered and wondered, Laura was on the tiptoe of
expectation. She could not get her breath properly, and her hands and
feet were cold. Twisting her fingers, in and out, she moistened her
lips with her tongue.--When, oh, when would it begin?

These few foregoing minutes were the most trying of any. For when, in
an ominous hush, Mr. Strachey entered and strode to his desk, Laura
suddenly grew calm, and could take note of everything that passed.

The Principal raised his hand, to enjoin a silence that was already
absolute.

"Will Miss Johns stand up!"

At these words, spoken in a low, impressive tone, Bertha burst into
tears and hid her face in her handkerchief. Hundreds of eyes sought the
unhappy culprit as she rose, then to be cast down and remain glued to
the floor.

The girl stood, pale and silly-looking, and stared at Mr. Strachey much
as a rabbit stares at the snake that is about to eat it. She was a very
ugly girl of fourteen, with a pasty face, and lank hair that dangled to
her shoulders. Her mouth had fallen half open through fear, and she did
not shut it all the time she was on view.

Laura could not take her eyes off the scene: they travelled, burning
with curiosity, from Annie Johns to Mr. Strachey, and back again to the
miserable thief. When, after a few introductory remarks on crime in
general, the Principal passed on to the present case, and described it
in detail, Laura was fascinated by his oratory, and gazed full at him.
He made it all live vividly before her; she hung on his lips,
appreciating his points, the skilful way in which he worked up his
climaxes. But then, she herself knew what it was to be poor--as Annie
Johns had been. She understood what it would mean to lack your
tram-fare on a rainy morning--according to Mr. Strachey this was the
motor impulse of the thefts--because a lolly shop had stretched out its
octopus arms after you. She could imagine, too, with a shiver, how easy
it would be, the loss of the first pennies having remained
undiscovered, to go on to threepenny-bits, and from these to sixpences.
More particularly since the money had been taken, without exception,
from pockets in which there was plenty. Not, Laura felt sure, in order
to avoid detection, as Mr. Strachey supposed, but because to those who
had so much a few odd coins could not matter. She wondered if everyone
else agreed with him on this point. How did the teachers feel about
it?--and she ran her eyes over the row, to learn their opinions from
their faces. But these were as stolid as ever. Only good old Chapman,
she thought, looked a little sorry, and Miss Zielinski--yes, Miss
Zielinski was crying! This discovery thrilled Laura--just as, at the
play, the fact of one spectator being moved to tears intensifies his
neighbour's enjoyment.--But when Mr. Strachey left the field of
personal narration and went on to the moral aspects of the affair,
Laura ceased to be gripped by him, and turned anew to study the pale,
dogged face [P.122] of the accused, though she had to crane her neck to
do it. Before such a stony mask as this, she was driven to imagine what
must be going on behind it; and, while thus engrossed, she felt her arm
angrily tweaked. It was Tilly.

"You ARE a beast to stare like that!"

"I'm not staring."

She turned her eyes away at once, more than half believing her own
words; and then, for some seconds, she tried to do what was expected of
her: to feel a decent unconcern. At her back, Bertha's purry crying
went steadily on. What on earth did she cry for? She had certainly not
heard a word Mr. Strachey said. Laura fidgeted in her seat, and stole a
sideglance at Tilly's profile. She could not, really could not miss the
last scene of all, when, in masterly fashion, the Principal was
gathering the threads together. And so, feeling rather like "Peeping
Tom", she cautiously raised her eyes again, and this time managed to
use them without turning her head.

All other eyes were still charitably lowered. Several girls were crying
now, but without a sound. And, as the last, awful moments drew near,
even Bertha was hushed, and of all the odd hundreds of throats not one
dared to cough. Laura's heart began to palpitate, for she felt the
approach of the final climax, Mr. Strachey's periods growing ever
slower and more massive.

When, after a burst of eloquence which, the child felt, would not have
shamed a Bishop, the Principal drew himself up to his full height, and,
with uplifted arm, thundered forth: "Herewith, Miss Annie Johns, I
publicly expel you from the school! Leave it, now, this moment, and
never darken its doors again!"--when this happened, Laura was shot
through by an ecstatic quiver, such as she had felt once only in her
life before; and that was when a beautiful, golden-haired Hamlet, who
had held a Ballarat theatre entranced for a whole evening, fell dead by
Laertes' sword, to the rousing plaudits of the house. Breathing
unevenly, she watched, lynx-eyed, every inch of Annie Johns' progress:
watched her pick up her books, edge out of her seat and sidle through
the rows of desks; watched her walk to the door with short jerky
movements, mount the two steps that led to it, fumble with the handle,
turn it, and vanish from sight; and when it was all over, and there was
nothing more to see, she fell back in her seat with an audible sigh.

It was too late after this for the winding of the snaky line about the
streets and parks of East Melbourne, which constituted the boarders'
daily exercise. They were despatched to stretch their legs in the
garden. Here, as they walked round lawns and tennis-courts, they
discussed the main event of the afternoon, and were a little more
vociferous than usual, in an attempt to shake off the remembrance of a
very unpleasant half-hour.

"I bet you Sandy rather enjoyed kicking up that shindy."

"DID you see Puggy's boots again? Girls, he MUST take twelves!"

"And that old blubber of a Ziely's handkerchief! It was filthy. I told
you yesterday I was sure she never washed her neck."

Bertha, whose tears had dried as rapidly as sea-spray, gave Laura a dig
in the ribs. "What's up with you, old Tweedledum? You're as glum as a
lubra."

"No, I'm not."

"It's my belief that Laura was sorry for that pig," threw in Tilly.

"Indeed I wasn't!" said Laura indignantly.

"Sorry for a thief?"

"I tell you I WASN'T!"--and this was true. Among the divers feelings
Laura had experienced that afternoon, pity had not been included.

"If you want to be chums with such a mangy beast, you'd better go to
school in a lock-up."

"I don't know what my father'd say, if he knew I'd been in the same
class as a pickpocket," said the daughter of a minister from Brisbane.
"I guess he wouldn't have let me stop here a week."

Laura went one better. "My mother wouldn't have let me stop a day."

Those standing by laughed, and a girl from the Riverina said: "Oh, no,
of course not!" in a tone that made Laura wince and regret her
readiness.

Before tea, she had to practise. The piano stood in an outside
classroom, where no one could hear whether she was diligent or idle,
and she soon gave up playing and went to the window. Here, having
dusted the gritty sill with her petticoat, she leaned her chin on her
two palms and stared out into the sunbaked garden. It was empty now,
and very still. The streets that lay behind the high palings were
deserted in the drowsy heat; the only sound to be heard was a gentle
tinkling to vespers in the neighbouring Catholic Seminary. Leaning thus
on her elbows, and balancing herself first on her heels, then on her
toes, Laura went on, in desultory fashion, with the thoughts that had
been set in motion during the afternoon. She wondered where Annie Johns
was now, and what she was doing; wondered how she had faced her mother,
and what her father had said to her. All the rest of them had gone back
at once to their everyday life; Annie Johns alone was cut adrift. What
would happen to her? Would she perhaps be turned out of the house? ...
into the streets?--and Laura had a lively vision of the guilty
creature, in rags and tatters, slinking along walls and sleeping under
bridges, eternally moved on by a ruthless London policeman (her only
knowledge of extreme destitution being derived from the woeful tale of
"Little Jo").--And to think that the beginning of it all had been the
want of a trumpery tram-fare. How safe the other girls were! No wonder
they could allow themselves to feel shocked and outraged; none of THEM
knew what it was not to have threepence in your pocket. While she,
Laura ... Yes, and it must be this same incriminating acquaintance with
poverty that made her feel differently about Annie Johns and what she
had done. For her feelings HAD been different--there was no denying
that. Did she now think back over the half-hour spent in Number One,
and act honest Injun with herself, she had to admit that her
companions' indignant and horrified aversion to the crime had not been
hers, let alone their decent indifference towards the criminal. No, to
be candid, she had been deeply interested in the whole affair, had even
managed to extract an unseemly amount of entertainment from it. And
that, of course, should not have been. It was partly Mr. Strachey's
fault, for making it so dramatic; but none the less she genuinely
despised herself, for having such a queer inside.

"Pig--pig--pig!" she muttered under her breath, and wrinkled her nose
in a grimace.

The real reason of her pleasurable absorption was, she supposed, that
she had understood Annie Johns' motive better than anyone else. Well,
she had had no business to understand--that was the long and the short
of it: nice-minded girls found such a thing impossible, and turned
incuriously away. And her companions had been quick to recognise her
difference of attitude, or they would never have dared to accuse her of
sympathy with the thief, or to doubt her chorusing assertion with a
sneer. For them, the gap was not very wide between understanding and
doing likewise. And they were certainly right.--Oh! the last wish in
the world she had was to range herself on the side of the sinner; she
longed to see eye to eye with her comrades--if she had only known how
to do it. For there was no saying where it might lead you, if you
persisted in having odd and peculiar notions; you might even end by
being wicked yourself. Let her take a lesson in time from Annie's fate.
For, beginning perhaps with ideas that were no more unlike those of her
schoolfellows than were Laura's own, Annie was now a branded thief and
an outcast.--And the child's feelings, as she stood at the window, were
not very far removed from prayer. Had they found words, they would have
taken the form of an entreaty that she might be preserved from having
thoughts that were different from other people's; that she might be
made to feel as she ought to feel, in a proper, ladylike way--and
especially did she see a companion convicted of crime.

Below all this, in subconscious depths, a chord of fear seemed to have
been struck in her as well--the fear of stony faces, drooped lids, and
stretched, pointing fingers. For that night she started up, with a cry,
from dreaming that not Annie Johns but she was being expelled; that an
army of spear-like first fingers was marching towards her, and that,
try as she would, she could not get her limp, heavy legs to bear her to
the schoolroom door.

And this dream often returned.




XIII.


ON her honourable promotion the following Christmas--she mounted two
forms this time--Laura was a thin, middle-sized girl of thirteen, who
still did not look her age. The curls had vanished. In their place hung
a long, dark plait, which she bound by choice with a red ribbon.

Tilly was the only one of her intimates who skipped a class with her;
hence she was thrown more exclusively than before on Tilly's
companionship; for it was a melancholy fact: if you were not in the
same class as the girl who was your friend, your interests and hers
were soon fatally sundered. On their former companions, Tilly and
Laura, from their new perch, could not but look down: the two had
masters now for all subjects; Euclid loomed large; Latin was no longer
bounded by the First Principia; and they fussed considerably, in the
others' hearing, over the difficulties of the little blue books that
began: GALLIA EST OMNIS DIVISA IN PARTES TRES.

In the beginning, they held very close together; for their new fellows
were inclined to stand on their dignity with the pair of interlopers
from Class Two. They were all older than Tilly and Laura, and thought
themselves wiser: here were girls of sixteen and seventeen years of
age, some of whom would progress no farther along the high-road of
education. As for the boarders who sat in this form, they made up a
jealous little clique, and it was some time before the younger couple
could discover the secret bond.

Then, one morning, the two were sitting with a few others on the
verandah bench, looking over their lessons for the day. Mrs. Gurley had
snatched a moment's rest there, on her way to the secretary's office,
and as long as she allowed her withering eye to play upon things and
people, the girls conned their pages with a great show of industry. But
no sooner had she sailed away than Kate Horner leant forward and called
to Maria Morell, who was at the other end of the seat: "I say, Maria,
Genesis LI, 32."--She held an open Bible in her hand.

Maria Morell frowned caution. "Dash it, Kate, mind those kids!"

"Oh, they won't savvy."

But Laura's eyes were saucers of curiosity, for Tilly, who kept her
long lashes lowered, had given her a furious nudge. With a wink and a
beck to each other, the bigger girls got up and went away.

"I say, what did you poke me so hard for?" inquired Laura as she and
Tilly followed in their wake, at the clanging of the public prayer-bell.

"You soft, didn't you hear what she said?"

"Of course I did"--and Laura repeated the reference.

"Let's look it up then." Under cover of the prayer Tilly sought it out,
and together they bent their heads over it.

On this occasion, Tilly was more knowing than Laura; but on this alone;
for when Laura once grasped what they were driving at, she was as
nimble-witted as any.

Only a day or two later it was she who, in face of Kate and Maria,
invited Tilly to turn up chapter and verse.

Both the elder girls burst out laughing.

"By dad!" cried Kate Horner, and smacked her thigh. "This kid knows a
thing or two."

"You bet! I told you she wasn't born yesterday."--And Maria laid her
arm round Laura's shoulders.

Thus was Laura encouraged, put on her mettle; and soon there was no
more audacious Bible-reader in the class than she.

The girls were thrown thus upon the Book of Books for their contraband
knowledge, since it was the only frankly outspoken piece of literature
allowed within the College walls: the classics studied were rigidly
expurgated; the school library was kept so dull that no one over the
age of ten much cared to borrow a volume from it. And, by fair means or
unfair, it was necessary to obtain information on matters of sex; for
girls most of whom were well across the threshold of womanhood the
subject had an invincible fascination.

Such knowledge as they possessed was a strange jumble, picked up at
random: in one direction they were well primed; in another, supremely
ignorant. Thus, though they received lectures on what was called
"Physiology", and for these were required to commit to memory the name
of every bone and artery in the body, yet all that related to a woman's
special organs and chief natural function was studiously ignored. The
subject being thus chastely shrouded in mystery, they were thrown back
on guesswork and speculation--with the quaintest results. The fancies
woven by quite big girls, for instance, round the physical feat of
bringing a child into the world, would have supplied material for a
volume of fairytales. On many a summer evening at this time, in a nook
of the garden, heads of all shades might have been seen pressed as
close together as a cluster of settled bees; and like the humming of
bees, too, were the busy whisperings and subdued buzzes of laughter
that accompanied this hot discussion of the "how"--as a living answer
to which, each of them would probably some day walk the world.
Innumerable theories were afloat, one more fantastic than another; and
the wilder the conjecture, the greater was the respect and applause it
gained.

On the other hand, of less profitable information they had amassed a
goodly store. Girls who came from up-country could tell a lively tale
of the artless habits of the blacks; others, who were at home in mining
towns, described the doings in Chinese camps--those unavoidable
concomitants of gold-grubbing settlements; rhymes circulated that would
have staggered a back-blocker; while the governesses were without
exception, young and old, kindly and unkindly, laid under such
flamboyant suspicions as the poor ladies had, for certain, never heard
breathed--since their own impudent schooldays.

This dabbling in the illicit--it had little in common with the opener
grime of the ordinary schoolboy--did not even widen the outlook of
these girls. For it was something to hush up and keep hidden away, to
have qualms, even among themselves, about knowing; and, like all
knowledge that fungus-like shrinks from the sun, it was stunted and
unlovely. Their minds were warped by it, their vision was distorted:
viewed through its lens, the most natural human relations appeared
unnatural. Thus, not the primmest patterns of family life could hope
for mercy in their eyes; over the family, too, man, as read by these
young rigorists, was held to leave his serpent's trail of desire.

For out of it all rose the vague, crude picture of woman as the prey of
man. Man was animal, a composite of lust and cruelty, with no aim but
that of brutally taking his pleasure: something monstrous, yet to be
adored; annihilating, yet to be sought after; something to flee and, at
the same time, to entice, with every art at one's disposal.

As long as it was solely a question of clandestine knowledge and
ingenious surmisings, Laura went merrily with the rest: here no barrier
shut her off from her companions. Always a very inquisitive little
girl, she was now agog to learn new lore. Her mind, in this direction,
was like a clean but highly sensitised plate. And partly because of her
previous entire ignorance, partly because of her extreme receptiveness,
she soon outstripped her comrades, and before long, was one of the most
skilful improvisers of the group: a dexterous theorist: a wicked little
adept at innuendo.

But that was all; a step farther, and she ran her head against a stone
wall. For the invisible yeast that brought this ferment of natural
curiosity to pass, was the girls' intense interest in the opposite sex:
a penned-up interest that clamoured for an outlet; an interest which,
in the life of these prospective mothers, had already usurped the main
place. Laura, on the other hand, had so far had scant experience of
boys of a desirable age, nor any liking for such as she had known;
indeed she still held to her childish opinion that they were
"silly"--feckless creatures, in spite of their greater strength and
size--or downright disagreeable and antagonistic, like Godmother's
Erwin and Marmaduke. No breath of their possible dangerous fascination
had hitherto reached her. Hence, an experience that came her way, at
the beginning of the autumn was of the nature of an awakening.




XIV.


"My cousin Bob's awfully gone on you."

Laura gaped at Tilly, in crimson disbelief. "But I've never spoken to
him!"

"Doesn't count. He's seen you in church."

"Go on!--you're stuffing."

"Word of honour!--And I've promised him to ask aunt if I can bring you
with me to lunch next Saturday."

Laura looked forward to this day with mixed feelings. She was flattered
at being invited to the big house in town where Tilly's relatives
lived; but she felt embarrassed at the prospect, and she had not the
least idea what a boy who was "gone" on you would expect you to be or
to do. Bob was a beautiful youth of seventeen, tall, and dark, and
slender, with milk-white teeth and Spanish eyes; and Laura's mouth
dried up when she thought of perhaps having to be sprightly or
coquettish with him.

On the eventful morning Tilly came to her room while she was dressing,
and eyed her critically.

"Oh, I say, don't put on that brown hat ... for mercy's sake! Bob can't
stand brown."

But the brown was Laura's best, and she demurred.

"Oh well, if you don't care to look nice, you know ..."

Of course she did; she was burning to. She even accepted the loan of a
sash from her friend, because "Bob loves blue"; and went out feeling
odd and unlike herself, in her everyday hat and borrowed plumes.

The Aunt, a pleasant, youthful-looking lady, called for them in a
white-hooded wagonette, and set them down at the house with a playful
warning.

"Now don't get up to any mischief, you two!"

"No fear!" was Tilly's genial response, as Aunt and cab drove off.

They were going to "do the block", Tilly explained, and would meet Bob
there; but they must first make sure that the drive had not disarranged
their hair or the position of their hats; and she led the way to her
aunt's bedroom.

Laura, though she had her share of natural vanity, was too impatient to
do more than cast a perfunctory glance at her reflected self. At this
period of her life when a drive in a hired cab was enough of a novelty
to give her pleasure, a day such as the one that lay before her filled
her with unbounded anticipation.

She fidgeted from one leg to another while she waited. For Tilly was in
no hurry to be gone: she prinked and finicked, making lavish use, after
the little swing-glass at school, of the big mirror with its movable
wings; she examined her teeth, pulled down her under-lids, combed her
eyebrows, twisted her neck this way and that, in an endeavour to view
her person from every angle; she took liberties with perfumes and
brushes: was, in short, blind and deaf to all but the perfecting of
herself--this rather mannish little self, which, despite a most womanly
plumpness, affected a boyish bonhomie, and emphasised the role by
wearing a stiff white collar and cuffs.

Laura was glad when she at last decided that she would "do", and when
they stepped out into the radiant autumn morning.

"What a perfectly scrumptious day!"

"Yes, bully.--I say, IS my waist all right?"

"Quite right. And ever so small."

"I know. I gave it an extra pull-in.--Now if only we're lucky enough to
get hold of a man or two we know!"

The air, Australian air, met them like a prickling champagne: it was
incredibly crisp, pure, buoyant. From the top of the eastern hill the
spacious white street sloped speedily down, to run awhile in a hollow,
then mount again at the other end. Where the two girls turned into it,
it was quiet; but the farther they descended, the fuller it
grew--fuller of idlers like themselves, out to see and to be seen.

Laura cocked her chin; she had not had a like sense of freedom since
being at school. And besides, was not a boy, a handsome boy, waiting
for her, and expecting her? This was the CLOU of the day, the end for
which everything was making; yet of such stuff was Laura that she would
have felt relieved, could the present moment have been spun out
indefinitely. The state of suspense was very pleasant to her.

As for Tilly, that young lady was swinging the shoulders atop of the
little waist in a somewhat provocative fashion, only too conscious of
the grey-blueness of her fine eyes, and the modish cut of her clothes.
She had a knack which seemed to Laura both desirable and unattainable:
that of appearing to be engrossed in glib chat with her companion,
while in reality she did not hear a word Laura said, and ogled everyone
who passed, out of the tail of her eye.

They reached the "block", that strip of Collins Street which forms the
fashionable promenade. Here the road was full of cabs and carriages,
and there was a great crowd on the pavement. The girls progressed but
slowly. People were meeting their friends, shopping, changing books at
the library, eating ices at the confectioner's, fruit at the big
fruit-shop round the corner. There were a large number of high-collared
young dudes, some Trinity and Ormond men with coloured hatbands, ladies
with little parcels dangling from their wrists, and countless
schoolgirls like themselves. Tilly grew momentarily livelier; her big
eyes pounced, hawk-like, on every face she met, and her words to Laura
became more disjointed than before. Finally, her efforts were crowned
with success: she managed, by dint of glance and smile combined, to
unhook a youth of her acquaintance from a group at a doorway, and to
attach him to herself.

In high good humour now that her aim was accomplished, she set about
the real business of the morning--that of promenading up and down. She
had no longer even a feigned interest left for Laura, and the latter
walked beside the couple a lame and unnecessary third. Though she kept
a keen watch for Bob, she could not discover him, and her time was
spent for the most part in dodging people, and in catching up with her
companions for it was difficult to walk three abreast in the crowd.

Then she saw him--and with what an unpleasant shock. If only Tilly did
not see him, too!

But no such luck was hers. "Look out, there's Bob," nudged Tilly almost
at once.

Alas! there was no question of his waiting longingly for her to appear.
He was walking with two ladies, and laughing and talking. He raised his
hat to his cousin and her friend, but did not disengage himself, and
passing them by disappeared in the throng.

Behind her hand Tilly buzzed: "One of those Woodwards is awfully sweet
on him. I bet he can't get loose."

This was a drop of comfort. But as, at the next encounter, he still did
not offer to join them--could it, indeed, be expected that he would
prefer her company to that of the pretty, grown-up girls he was
with?--as he again sidled past, Tilly, who had given him one of her
most vivacious sparkles, turned and shot a glance at Laura's face.

"For pity's sake, look a little more amiable, or he won't come at all."

Laura felt more like crying; her sunshine was intercepted, her good
spirits were quenched; had she had her will, she would have turned tail
and gone straight back to school. She had not wanted Bob, had never
asked him to be 'gone' on her, and if she had now to fish for him, into
the bargain...However there was no help for it; the thing had to be
gone through with; and, since Tilly seemed disposed to lay the blame of
his lukewarmness at her door, Laura glued her mouth, the next time Bob
hove in sight, into a feeble smile.

Soon afterwards he came up to them. His cousin had an arch greeting in
readiness.

"Well, you've been doing a pretty mash, you have!" she cried, and
jogged him with her elbow. "No wonder you'd no eyes for poor us. What
price Miss Woodward's gloves this morning!"--at which Bob laughed,
looked sly, and tapped his breast pocket.

It was time to be moving homewards. Tilly and her beau led the way.
"For we know you two would rather be alone. Now, Bob, not too many
sheep's-eyes, please!"

Bob smiled, and let fly a wicked glance at Laura from under his dark
lashes. Dropping behind, they began to mount the hill. Now was the
moment, felt Laura, to say something very witty, or pert, or clever;
and a little pulse in her throat beat hard, as she furiously racked her
brains. Oh, for just a morsel of Tilly's loose-tonguedness! One after
the other she considered and dismissed: the pleasant coolness of the
morning, the crowded condition of the street, even the fact of the next
day being Sunday--ears and cheeks on fire, meanwhile, at her own
slow-wittedness. And Bob smiled. She almost hated him for that smile.
It was so assured, and withal so disturbing. Seen close at hand his
teeth were whiter, his eyes browner than she had believed. His upper
lip, too, was quite dark; and he fingered it incessantly, as he waited
for her to make the onslaught.

But he waited in vain; and when they had walked a whole street-block in
this mute fashion, it was he who broke the silence.

"Ripping girls, those Woodwards," he said, and seemed to be remembering
their charms.

"Yes, they looked very nice," said Laura in a small voice, and was
extremely conscious of her own thirteen years.

"Simply stunning! Though May's so slender--May's the pretty one--and
has such a jolly figure ... I believe I could span her waist with my
two hands ... her service is just A1--at tennis I mean."

"Is it really?" said Laura wanly, and felt unutterably depressed at the
turn the conversation was taking.--Her own waist was coarse, her
knowledge of tennis of the slightest.

"Ra-THER! Overhand, with a cut on it--she plays with a 14-oz. racquet.
And she has a back drive, too, by Jove, that--you play, of course?"

"Oh, yes." Laura spoke up manfully; but prayed that he would not press
his inquiries further. At this juncture his attention was diverted by
the passing of a fine tandem; and as soon as he brought it back to her
again, she said: 'You're at Trinity, aren't you?'--which was finesse;
for she knew he wasn't.

"Well, yes ... all but," answered Bob well pleased. "I start in this
winter."

"How nice!"

There was another pause; then she blurted out: "We church girls always
wear Trinity colours at the boat-race."

She hoped from her heart, this might lead him to say that he would look
out for her there; but he did nothing of the kind. His answer was to
the effect that this year they jolly well expected to knock Ormond into
a cocked hat.

Lunch threatened to be formidable. To begin with, Laura, whose natural,
easy frankness had by this time all but been successfully educated out
of her, Laura was never shyer with strangers than at a meal, where
every word you said could be listened to by a tableful of people. Then,
too, her vis-a-vis was a small sharp child of five or six, called
Thumbby, or Thumbkin, who only removed her bead-like eyes from Laura's
face to be saucy to her father. And, what was worse, the Uncle turned
out to be a type that struck instant terror into Laura: a full-fledged
male tease.--He was, besides, very hairy of face, and preternaturally
solemn.

No sooner had he drawn in his chair to the table than he began. Lifting
his head and thrusting out his chin, he sniffed the air in all
directions with a moving nose--just as a cat does. Everyone looked at
him in surprise. Tilly, who sat next him, went pink.

"What is it, dear?" his wife at last inquired in a gentle voice; for it
was evident that he was not going to stop till asked why he did it.

"Mos' extraor'nary smell!" he replied. "Mother, d'you know, I could
take my appledavy some one has been using my scent."

"Nonsense, Tom."

"Silly pa!" said the little girl.

Ramming his knuckles into his eyes, he pretended to cry at his
daughter's rebuke; then bore down on Laura.

"D'you know, Miss Ra ... Ra ... Rambotham"--he made as if he could not
get her name out--"d'you know that I'm a great man for scent? Fact. I
take a bath in it every morning."

Laura smiled uncertainly, fixed always by the child.

"Fact, I assure you. Over the tummy, up to the chin.--Now, who's been
at it? For it's my opinion I shan't have enough left to shampoo my
eyebrows.--Bob, is it you?"

"Don't be an ass, pater."

"Cut me some bread, Bob, please," said Tilly hastily.

"Mos' extraor'nary thing!" persisted the Uncle. "Or--good Lord, mother,
can it be my monthly attack of D.T.'s beginning already? They're not
due, you know, till next week, Monday, five o'clock."

"Dear, DON'T be so silly. Besides it's my scent, not yours. And anyone
is welcome to it."

"Well, well, let's call in the cats!--By the way, Miss Ra ... Ra ...
Rambotham, are you aware that this son of mine is a professed
lady-killer?"

Laura and Bob went different shades of crimson.

"Why has she got so red?" the child asked her mother, in an audible
whisper.

"Oh, CHUCK it, pater!" murmured Bob in disgust.

"Fact, I assure you. Put not your trust in Robert! He's always on with
the new love before he's off with the old. You ask him whose glove he's
still cherishing in the pocket next his heart."

Bob pushed his plate from him and, for a moment, seemed about to leave
the table. Laura could not lift her eyes. Tilly chewed in angry silence.

Here, however, the child made a diversion.

"You're a lady-kilda yourself, pa."

"Me, Thumbkin?--Mother, d'you hear that?--Then it's the whiskers,
Thumbby. Ladies love whiskers--or a fine drooping moustache, like my
son Bob's." He sang: "'Oh, oh, the ladies loved him so!'"

"Tom, dear, DO be quiet."

"Tom, Tom, the piper's son!" chirped Thumbby.

"Well, well, let's call in the cats!"--which appeared to be his way of
changing the subject.

It seemed, after this, as though the remainder of lunch might pass off
without further hitch. Then however and all of a sudden, while he was
peeling an apple, this dreadful man said, as though to himself: "Ra ...
Ra ... Rambotham. Now where have I heard that name?"

"Wa ... Wa ... Wamboffam!" mocked Thumbkin.

"Monkey, if you're so sharp you'll cut yourself!--Young lady, do you
happen to come from Warrenega?" he asked Laura, when Thumbkin's excited
chirrup of: "I'll cut YOU, pa, into little bits!" had died away.

Ready to sink through the floor, Laura replied that she did.

"Then I've the pleasure of knowing your mother.--Tall dark woman, isn't
she?"

Under the table, Laura locked the palms of her hands and stemmed her
feet against the floor. Was here, now, before them all, and Bob in
particular, the shameful secret of the embroidery to come to light? She
could hardly force her lips to frame an answer.

Her confusion was too patent to be overlooked. Above her lowered head,
signs passed between husband and wife, and soon afterwards the family
rose from the table.

But Tilly was so obviously sulky that the tense could not let her
escape him thus.

He cried: "For God's sake, Tilly, stand still! What on earth have you
got on your back?"

Tilly came from up-country and her thoughts leapt fearfully to
scorpions and tarantulas. Affrighted, she tried to peer over her
shoulder, and gave a preliminary shriek. "Gracious!--whatever is it?"

"Hold on!" He approached her with the tongs; the next moment to
ejaculate: "Begad, it's not a growth, it's a bustle!" and as he spoke
he tweaked the place where a bustle used to be worn.

Even Bob had to join in the ensuing boohoo, which went on and on till
Laura thought the Uncle would fall down in a fit. Then for the third
time he invited those present to join him in summoning the cats,
murmured something about "humping his bluey", and went out into the
hall, where they heard him swinging Thumbby "round the world".

It was all the Aunt could do to mollify Tilly, who was enraged to the
point of tears. "I've never worn a bustle in my life! Uncle's a perfect
FOOL! I've never met such a fool as he is!"

Still boiling, she disappeared to nurse her ruffled temper in private;
and she remained absent from the room for over half an hour. During
this time Laura and Bob were alone together. But even less than before
came of their intercourse: Bob, still smarting from his father's
banter, was inclined to be stand-offish, as though afraid Laura might
take liberties with him after having been made to look so small; Laura,
rendered thoroughly unsure to begin with, by the jocular tone of the
luncheon-table, had not recovered from the shock of hearing her
parentage so bluffly disclosed. And since, at this time, her idea of
the art of conversation was to make jerky little remarks which led
nowhere, or to put still more jerky questions, Bob was soon stifling
yawns, and not with the best success. He infected Laura; and there the
two of them sat, doing their best to appear unconscious of the terrible
spasms which, every few seconds, distorted their faces. At last Bob
could stand it no longer and bolted from the room.

Laura was alone, and seemed to be forgotten The minutes ticked by, and
no one came--or no one but a little grey kitten, which arrived as if
from nowhere, with a hop and a skip. She coaxed the creature to her
lap, where it joined head to tail and went to sleep. And there she sat,
in the gloomy, overfilled drawing-room, and stroked the kitten, which
neither cracked stupid jokes nor required her to strain her wits to
make conversation.

When at length Tilly came back, she expressed a rather acid surprise at
Bob's absence, and went to look for him; Laura heard them whispering
and laughing in the passage. On their return to the drawing-room it had
been decided that the three of them should go for a walk. As the sky
was overcast and the girls had no umbrellas, Bob carried a big one
belonging to the Uncle. Tilly called this a "family umbrella"; and the
jokes that were extracted from the pair of words lasted the walkers on
the whole of their outward way; lasted so long that Laura, who was
speedily finished with her contribution, grew quite stupefied with
listening to the other two.

Collins Street was now as empty as a bush road. The young people went
into Bourke Street, where, for want of something better to do, they
entered the Eastern Market and strolled about inside. The noise that
rose from the livestock, on ground floor and upper storey, was
ear-splitting: pigs grunted; cocks crowed, turkeys gobbled, parrots
shrieked; while rough human voices echoed and re-echoed under the lofty
roof. There was a smell, too, an extraordinary smell, composed of all
the individual smells of all these living things: of fruit and
vegetables, fresh and decayed; of flowers, and butter, and grain; of
meat, and fish, and strong cheeses; of sawdust sprinkled with water,
and freshly wet pavements--one great complicated smell, the piquancy of
which made Laura sniff like a spaniel. But after a very few minutes
Tilly, whose temper was still short, called it a "vile stink" and
clapped her handkerchief to her nose, and so they hurried out, past
many enticing little side booths hidden in dark corners on the ground
floor, such as a woman without legs, a double-headed calf, and the like.

Outside it had begun to rain; they turned into a Waxworks Exhibition.
This was a poor show, and they were merely killing time when the
announcement caught their eye that a certain room was open to "Married
People Only". The quips and jokes this gave rise to again were as
unending as those about the umbrella; and Laura grew so tired of them,
and of pretending to find them funny, that her temper also began to
give way; and she eased her feelings by making the nippy mental note on
her companions, that jokes were evidently "in the blood".

When they emerged, it was time for the girls to return to school. They
took a hansom, Bob accompanying them. As they drove, Laura sitting
sandwiched between the other two, it came over her with a rush what a
miserable failure the day had been. A minute before, her spirits had
given a faint flicker, for Bob had laid his arm along the back of the
seat. Then she saw that he had done this just to pull at the little
curls that grew on Tilly's neck. She was glad when the cab drew up,
when Tilly ostentatiously took the fat half-crown from her purse, and
Bob left them at the gate with a: "Well, so long, ladies!"

The boarders spent the evening in sewing garments for charity. Laura
had been at work for weeks on a coarse, red flannel petticoat, and as a
rule was under constant reprimand for her idleness. On this night,
having separated herself from Tilly, she sat down beside a girl with a
very long plait of hair and small, narrow eyes, who went by the name of
"Chinky". Chinky was always making up to her, and could be relied on to
cover her silence. Laura sewed away, with bent head and pursed lips,
and was so engrossed that the sole rebuke she incurred had to do with
her diligence.

Miss Chapman exclaimed in horror at her stiffly outstretched arm.

"How CAN you be so vulgar, Laura? To sew with a thread as long as that!"




XV.


For days Laura avoided even thinking of this unlucky visit. Privately,
she informed herself that Tilly's wealthy relations were a "rude,
stupid lot"; and, stuffing her fingers in her ears, memorised pages
with a dispatch that deadened thought.

When, however, the first smart had passed and she was able to go back
on what had happened, a soreness at her own failure was the abiding
result: and this, though Tilly mercifully spared her the "dull as
ditchwater", that was Bob's final verdict.--But the fact that the
invitation was not repeated told Laura enough.

Her hurt was not relieved by the knowledge that she had done nothing to
deserve it. For she had never asked for Bob's notice or admiration, had
never thought of him but as a handsome cousin of Tilly's who sat in a
distant pew at St Stephen's-on-the-Hill; and the circumstance that,
because he had singled her out approvingly, she was expected to worm
herself into his favour, seemed to her of a monstrous injustice. But,
all the same, had she possessed the power to captivate him, she would
cheerfully have put her pride in her pocket. For, having once seen him
close at hand, she knew how desirable he was. Having been the object of
glances from those liquid eyes, of smiles from those blanched-almond
teeth, she found it hard to dismiss them from her mind. How the other
girls would have boasted of it, had they been chosen by such a one as
Bob!--they who, for the most part, were satisfied with blotchy-faced,
red-handed youths, whose lean wrists dangled from their retreating
sleeves. But then, too, they would have known how to keep him. Oh,
those lucky other girls!

"I say, Chinky, what do you do when a boy's gone on you?"

She would have shrunk from putting an open question of this kind to her
intimates; but Chinky, could be trusted. For she garnered the few words
Laura vouchsafed her, as gratefully as Lazarus his crumbs; and a mark
of confidence, such as this, would sustain her for days.

But she had no information to give.

"Me? ... why, nothing. Boys are dirty, horrid, conceited creatures."

In her heart Laura was at one with this judgment; but it was not to the
point.

"Yes, but s'pose one was awfully sweet on you and you rather liked him?"

"Catch me! If one came bothering round me, I'd do this" and she set her
ten outstretched fingers to her nose and waggled them.

And yet Chinky was rather pretty, in her way.

Maria Morell, cautiously tapped, threw back her head and roared with
laughter.

"Bless its little heart! Does it want to know?--say, Laura, who's your
mash?"

"No one," answered Laura stoutly. "I only asked. For I guess you KNOW,
Maria."

"By gosh, you bet I do!" cried Maria, italicising the words in her
vehemence. "Well, look here, Kiddy, if a chap's sweet on me I let him
be sweet, my dear, and that's all--till he's run to barley-sugar. What
I don't let him savvy is, whether I care a twopenny damn for him. Soon
as you do that, it's all up. Just let him hang round, and throw
sheep's-eyes, till he's as soft as a jellyfish, and when he's right
down ripe, roaring mad, go off and pretend to do a mash with some one
else. That's the way to glue him, chicken."

"But you don't have anything of him that way," objected Laura.

Maria laughed herself red in the face. "What'n earth more d'you want?
Why, he'll pester you with letters, world without end, and look as
black as your shoe if you so much as wink at another boy. As for a
kiss, if he gets a chance of one he'll take it you can bet your bottom
dollar on that."

"But you never get to know him!"

"Oh, hang it, Laura, but you ARE rich! What d'you think one has a boy
for, I'd like to know. To parlezvous about old Shepherd's sermons? You
loony, it's only for getting lollies, and letters, and the whole dashed
fun of the thing. If you go about too much with one, you soon have to
fake an interest in his rotten old affairs. Or else just hold your
tongue and let him blow. And that's dull work. D'you think it ever
comes up a fellow's back to talk to you about your new Sunday hat! If
it does, you can teach your grandmother to suck eggs."

But, despite this wisdom, Laura could not determine how Maria would
have acted had she stood in her shoes.

And then, too, the elder girl had said nothing about another side of
the question, had not touched on the sighs and simpers, the winged
glances, and drooped, provocative lids--all the thousand and one
fooleries, in short, which Laura saw her and others employ. There was a
regular machinery of invitation and encouragement to be set in motion:
for, before it was safe to ignore a wooer and let him dangle, as Maria
advised, you had first to make quite sure he wished to nibble your
bait.--And it was just in this elementary science that Laura broke down.

Looking round her, she saw mainly experts. To take the example nearest
at hand: there was Monsieur Legros, the French master; well, Maria
could twist him round her little finger. She only needed to pout her
thick, red lips, or to give a coquettish twist to her plump figure, or
to ogle him with her fine, bold, blue eyes, and the difficult questions
in the lesson were sure to pass her by.--Once she had even got ten
extra marks added to an examination paper, in this easy fashion.
Whereas, did she, Laura, try to imitate Maria, venture to pout or to
smirk, it was ten to one she would be rebuked for impertinence. No, she
got on best with the women-teachers, to whom red lips and a full bust
meant nothing; while the most elderly masters could not be relied on to
be wholly impartial, where a pair of magnificent eyes was concerned.
Even Mr. Strachey, the unapproachable, had been known, on running full
tilt into a pretty girl's arms in an unlit passage, to be laughingly
confused.

Laura was not, of course, the sole outsider in these things; sprinkled
through the College were various others, older, too, than she, who by
reason of demureness of temperament, or immersion in their work, stood
aloof. But they were lost in the majority, and, as it chanced, none of
them belonged to Laura's circle. Except Chinky--and Chinky did not
count. So, half-fascinated, half-repelled, Laura set to studying her
friends with renewed zeal. She could not help admiring their
proficiency in the art of pleasing, even though she felt a little
abashed by the open pride they took in their growing charms. There was
Bertha, for instance, Bertha who had one of the nicest minds of them
all; and yet how frankly gratified she was, by the visible rounding of
her arms and the curving of her bust. She spoke of it to Laura with a
kind of awe; and her voice seemed to give hints of a coming mystery.
Tilly, on the other hand, lived to reduce her waist-measure: she was
always sucking at lemons, and she put up with the pains of indigestion
as well as a red tip to her nose; for no success in school meant as
much to Tilly as the fact that she had managed to compress herself a
further quarter of an inch, no praise on the part of her teachers
equalled the compliments this earned her from dressmaker and tailor. As
for Inez, who had not only a pretty face but was graceful and
slender-limbed as a greyhound, Inez no longer needed to worry over
artificial charms, or to dwell self-consciously on her development;
serious admirers were not lacking, and with one of these, a young man
some eight years older than herself, she had had for the past three
months a sort of understanding. For her, as for so many others, the
time she had still to spend at school was as purgatory before paradise.
To top all, one of the day-scholars in Laura's class was actually
engaged to be married; and in no boy-and-girl fashion, but to a doctor
who lived and practised in Emerald Hill: he might sometimes be seen,
from a peephole under the stairs, waiting to escort her home from
school. This fiancee was looked up to by the class with tremendous
reverence, as one set apart, oiled and anointed. You really could not
treat her as a comrade her, who had reached the goal. For this WAS the
goal; and the thoughts of all were fixed, with an intentness that
varied only in degree, on the great consummation which, as planned in
these young minds, should come to pass without fail directly the
college-doors closed behind them.--And here again Laura was a heretic.
For she could not contemplate the future that was to be hers when she
had finished her education, but with a feeling of awe: it was still so
distant as to be one dense blue haze; it was so vast, that thinking of
it took your breath away: there was room in it for the most wonderful
miracles that had ever happened; it might contain anything--from golden
slippers to a Jacob's ladder, by means of which you would scale the
skies; and with these marvellous perhapses awaiting you, it was
impossible to limit your hopes to one single event, which, though it
saved you from derision, would put an end, for ever, to all possible,
exciting contingencies.

These thoughts came and went. In the meantime, despite her ape-like
study of her companions, she remained where the other sex was concerned
a disheartening failure. A further incident drove this home anew.

One Saturday afternoon, those boarders who had not been invited out
were taken to see a cricket-match. They were a mere handful, eight or
nine at most, and Miss Snodgrass alone was in charge. All her friends
[P.154] being away that day, Laura had to bring up the rear with the
governess and one of the little girls. Though their walk led them
through pleasant parks, she was glad when it was over; for she did not
enjoy Miss Snodgrass's company. She was no match for this crisply
sarcastic governess, and had to be the whole time on her guard. For
Miss Snodgrass was not only a great talker, but had also a very
inquiring mind, and seemed always trying to ferret out just those
things you did not care to tell--such as the size of your home, or the
social position you occupied in the township where you lived.

Arrived at the cricket ground, they climbed the Grand Stand and sat
down in one of the back rows, to the rear of the other spectators.
Before them sloped a steep bank of hats gaily-flowered and
ribbon-banded hats--of light and dark shoulders, of alert, boyish
profiles and pale, pretty faces--a representative gathering of young
Australia, bathed in the brilliant March light.

Laura's seat was between her two companions, and it was here the
malheur occurred. During an interval in the game, one of the girls
asked the governess's leave to speak to her cousin; and thereupon a shy
lad was the target for twenty eyes. He was accompanied by a friend,
who, in waiting, sat down just behind Laura. This boy was addressed by
Miss Snodgrass; but he answered awkwardly, and after a pause, Laura
felt herself nudged.

"You can speak to him, Laura," whispered Miss Snodgrass.--She evidently
thought Laura waited only for permission, to burst in.

Laura had already fancied that the boy looked at her with interest.
This was not improbable; for she had her best hat on, which made her
eyes seem very dark--"like sloes," Chinky said, though neither of them
had any clear idea what a sloe was.

Still, a prompting to speech invariably tied her tongue. She half
turned, and stole an uneasy peep at the lad. He might be a year older
than herself; he had a frank, sunburnt face, blue eyes, and almost
white flaxen hair. She took heart of grace.

"I s'pose you often come here?" she ventured at last.

"You bet!" said the boy; but kept his eyes where they were on the pitch.

"Cricket's a lovely game ... don't you think so?"

Now he looked at her; but doubtfully, from the height of his fourteen
male years; and did not reply.

"Do you play?"

This was a false move, she felt it at once. Her question seemed to
offend him. "Should rather think I did!" he answered with a haughty air.

Weakly she hastened to retract her words. "Oh, I meant much--if you
played much?"

"Comes to the same thing I guess," said the boy--he had not yet reached
the age of obligatory politeness.

"It must be splendid"--here she faltered--"fun."

But the boy's thoughts had wandered: he was making signs to a friend
down in the front of the Stand.--Miss Snodgrass seemed to repress a
smile.

Here, however, the little girl at Laura's side chimed in. "I think
cricket's awful rot," she announced, in a cheepy voice.

Now what was it, Laura asked herself, in these words, or in the tone in
which they were said, that at once riveted the boy's attention. For he
laughed quite briskly as he asked; "What's a kid like you know about
it?"

"Jus' as much as I want to. An' my sister says so 's well."

"Get along with you! Who's your sister?"

"Ooh!--wouldn't you like to know? You've never seen her in Scots'
Church on Sundays I s'pose--oh, no!"

"By jingo!--I should say I have. An' you, too. You're the little sister
of that daisy with the simply ripping hair."

The little girl actually made a grimace at him, screwing up her nose.
"Yes, you can be civil now, can't you?"

"My aunt, but she's a tip-topper--your sister!"

"You go to Scots' Church then, do you?" hazarded Laura, in an attempt
to re-enter the conversation.

"Think I could have seen her if I didn't?" retorted the boy, in the
tone of: "What a fool question!" He also seemed to have been on the
point of adding: "Goose," or "Sillybones."

The little girl giggled. "She's church"--by which she meant
episcopalian.

"Yes, but I don't care a bit which I go to," Laura hastened to explain,
fearful lest she should be accounted a snob by this dissenter. The boy,
however, was so faintly interested in her theological wobblings that,
even as she spoke, he had risen from his seat; and the next moment
without another word he went away.--This time Miss Snodgrass laughed
outright.

Laura stared, with blurred eyes, at the white-clad forms that began to
dot the green again. Her lids smarted. She did not dare to put up her
fingers to squeeze the gathering tears away, and just as she was
wondering what she should do if one was inconsiderate enough to roll
down her cheek, she heard a voice behind her.

"I say, Laura ... Laura!"--and there was Chinky, in her best white hat.

"I'm sitting with my aunt just a few rows down; but I couldn't make you
look. Can I come in next to you for a minute?"

"If you like," said Laura and, because she had to sniff a little, very
coldly: Chinky had no doubt also been a witness of her failure.

The girl squeezed past and shared her seat. "I don't take up much room."

Laura feigned to be engrossed in the game. But presently she felt her
bare wrist touched, and Chinky said in her ear: "What pretty hands
you've got, Laura!"

She buried them in her dress, at this. She found it in the worst
possible taste of Chinky to try to console her.

"Wouldn't you like to wear a ring on one of them?"

"No, thanks," said Laura, in the same repellent way.

"Truly? I'd love to give you one."

"You? Where would YOU get it?"

"Would you wear it, if I did?"

"Let me see it first," was Laura's graceless reply, as she returned to
her stony contemplation of the great sunlit expanse.

She was sure Miss Snodgrass, on getting home, would laugh with the
other governesses over what had occurred--if not with some of the
girls. The story would leak out and come to Tilly's ears; and Tilly
would despise her more than she did already. So would all the rest. She
was branded, as it was, for not having a single string to her bow. Now,
it had become plain to her that she could never hope for one; for, when
it came to holding a boy's attention for five brief minutes, she could
be put in the shade by a child of eight years old.




XVI.


Since, however, it seemed that some one had to be loved if you were to
be able to hold up your head with the rest, then it was easier,
infinitely easier, to love the curate. With the curate, no personal
contact was necessary--and that was more than could be said even of the
music-masters. In regard to them, pressures of the hand, as well as
countless nothings, were expected and enacted, in the bi-weekly reports
you rendered to those of your friends who followed the case. Whereas
for the curate it was possible to simulate immense ardour, without
needing either to humble your pride or call invention to your aid: the
worship took place from afar. The curate was, moreover, no unworthy
object; indeed he was quite attractive, in a lean, ascetic fashion,
with his spiritual blue eyes, and the plain gold cross that dangled
from his black watch-ribbon--though, it must be admitted, when he
preached, and grew greatly in earnest, his mouth had a way of opening
as if it meant to swallow the church--and Laura was by no means his
sole admirer. Several of her friends had a fancy for him, especially as
his wife, who was much older than he, was a thin, elderly lady with a
tired face.

And now, by her own experience, Laura was led to the following
discovery: that, if you imagine a thing with sufficient force, you can
induce your imagining to become reality. By dint of pretending that it
was so, she gradually worked herself up into an attack of love, which
was genuine enough to make her redden when Mr. Shepherd was spoken of,
and to enjoy being teased about him. And since, at any rate when in
church, she was a sincerely religious little girl, and one to
whom--notwithstanding her protested indifference to forms of
worship--such emotional accessories as flowers, and music, and highly
coloured vestments made a strong appeal, her feelings for Mr. Shepherd
were soon mystically jumbled up with her piety: the eastward slant for
the Creed, and the Salutation at the Sacred Name, seemed not alone
homage due to the Deity, but also a kind of minor homage offered to and
accepted by Mr. Shepherd; the school-pew being so near the chancel that
it was not difficult to believe yourself the recipient of personal
notice.

At home during the winter holidays, his name chanced to cross her lips.
Straightway it occurred to Mother that he was the nephew of an old
friend whom she had long lost sight of letters passed between Warrenega
and Melbourne, and shortly after her return to the College Laura learnt
that she was to spend the coming monthly holiday at Mr. Shepherd's
house.

In the agitated frame of mind this threw her into, she did not know
whether to be glad or sorry. Her feelings had, of late, got into such a
rapt and pious muddle that it seemed a little like being asked out to
meet God. On the other hand, she could not but see that the
circumstance would raise her standing at school, immeasurably. And this
it did. As soon as the first shock had passed she communicated the fact
freely, and was shrewd enough not to relate how the invitation had come
about, allowing it to be put down, as her friends were but too ready to
do, to the effect produced on the minister by her silent adoration.

The Church girls were wild with envy. Laura was dragged up the garden
with an arm thrust through each of hers. Mr. Shepherd's holy calling
and spiritual appearance stood him in small stead here; and the
blackest interpretation was put on the matter of the visit.

"Nice things you'll be up to, the pair of you--oh, my aunt!" ejaculated
Maria.

"I think it's beastly risky her going at all," filled in Kate Horner,
gobbling a little; for her upper lip overhung the lower. "These saints
are oftenest bad 'uns."

"Yes, and with an Aunt Sally like that for a wife.--Now look here,
Kiddy, just you watch you're not left alone with him in the dark."

"And mind, you've got to tell us everything--every blessed thing!"

Laura was called for, on Saturday morning, by the maiden sister of her
divinity. Miss Isabella Shepherd was a fair, short, pleasant young
woman, with a nervous, kindly smile, and a congenital inability to look
you in the face when speaking to you; so that the impression she made
was that of a perpetual friendliness, directed, however, not at you,
but at the inanimate objects around you. Laura was so tickled by this
peculiarity, which she spied the moment she entered the waiting-room,
that at first she could take in nothing else. Afterwards, when the
novelty had worn off, she subjected her companion to a closer scrutiny,
and from the height of thirteen years had soon taxed her with being a
frumpish old maid; the valiant but feeble efforts Miss Isabella made to
entertain her, as they walked along, only strengthening her in this
opinion.

Not very far from the College they entered a small, two-storied stone
house, which but for an iron railing and a shrub or two gave right on
the street.

"Will you come up to the study?" said Miss Isabella, smiling warmly,
and ogling the door-mat. "I'm sure Robby would like to see you at once."

Robby? Her saint called Robby?--Laura blushed.

But at the head of the stairs they were brought up short by Mrs.
Shepherd, who, policeman-like, raised a warning hand.

"Hssh ... ssh ... sh!" she breathed, and simultaneously half-closed her
eyes, as if imitating slumber. "Robby has just lain down for a few
minutes. How are you, dear?"--in a whisper. "I'm so pleased to see you."

She looked even more faded than in church. But she was very kind, and
in the bedroom insisted on getting out a clean towel for Laura.

"Now we'll go down.--It's only lunch to-day, for Robby has a
confirmation-class immediately afterwards, and doesn't care to eat
much."

They descended to the dining-room, but though the meal was served, did
not take their seats: they stood about, in a kind of anxious silence.
This lasted for several minutes; then, heavy footsteps were heard
trampling overhead: these persisted, but did not seem to advance, and
at length there was a loud, impatient shout of: "Maisie!"

Both ladies were perceptibly flurried. "He can't find something," said
Miss Isabella in a stage-whisper; while Mrs. Shepherd, taking the front
of her dress in both hands, set out for the stairs with the short,
clumsy jerks which, in a woman, pass for running.

A minute or two later the origin of the fluster came in, looking, it
must be confessed, not much more amiable than his voice had been: he
was extremely pale, too, his blue eyes had hollow rings round them, and
there were tired wrinkles on his forehead. However he offered Laura a
friendly hand which she took with her soul in her eyes.

"Well, and so this is the young lady fresh from the halls of learning,
is it?" he asked, after a mumbled grace, as he carved a rather naked
mutton-bone: the knife caught in the bone; he wrenched it free with an
ill-natured tweak. "And what do they teach you at college, miss, eh?"
he went on. "French? ... Greek? ... Latin? How goes it? INFANDUM,
REGINA, JUBES RENOVARE DOLOREM--isn't that the way of it? And then ...
let me see! It's so long since I went to school, you know."

"TROJANAS UT OPES ET LAMENTABILE REGNUM ERUERINT DANAI," said Laura,
almost blind with pride and pleasure.

"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed, in what seemed tremendous surprise;
but, even as she spoke, his thoughts were swept away; for he had taken
up a mustard-pot and found it empty. "Yes, yes, here we are again! Not
a scrap of mustard on the table. "--His voice was angrily resigned.

"With MUTTON, Robby dear?" ventured Mrs. Shepherd, with the utmost
humbleness.

"With mutton if I choose!" he retorted violently. "WILL you, Maisie, be
kind enough to allow me to know my own tastes best, and not dictate to
me what I shall eat?"

But Mrs. Shepherd, murmuring: "Oh dear! it's that dreadful girl," had
already made a timid spring at the bell.

"Poor Robby ... so rushed again!" said Isabella in a reproachful tone.

"And while she's here she may bring the water and the glasses as well,"
snarled the master of the house, who had run a flaming eye over the
table.

"Tch, tch, tch!" said Mrs. Shepherd, with so little spirit that Laura
felt quite sorry for her.

"REALLY, Maisie!" said Miss Isabella. "And when the poor boy's so
rushed, too."

This guerilla warfare continued throughout luncheon, and left Laura
wondering why, considering the dearth of time, and the distress of the
ladies at each fresh contretemps, they did not jump up and fetch the
missing articles themselves--as Mother would have done--instead of each
time ringing the bell and waiting for the appearance of the saucy,
unwilling servant. As it turned out, however, their behaviour had a
pedagogic basis. It seemed that they hoped, by constantly summoning the
maid, to sharpen her memory. But Mrs. Shepherd was also implicated in
the method; and this was the reason why Isabella--as she afterwards
explained to Laura--never offered her a thimbleful of help.

"My sister-in-law is nothing of a manager," she said. "But we still
trust she will improve in time, if she always has her attention drawn
to her forgetfulness--at least Robby does; I'm afraid I have rather
[P.165] given her up. But Robby's patience is angelic." And Laura was
of the same opinion, since the couple had been married for more than
seven years.

The moment the meal, which lasted a quarter of an hour, was over, Mr.
Shepherd clapped on his shovel-hat and started, with long strides, for
his class, Mrs. Shepherd, who had not been quite ready, scuttling along
a hundred yards behind him, with quick, fussy steps, and bonnet an awry.

Laura and Isabella stood at the gate.

"I ought really to have gone, too," said Isabella, and smiled at the
gutter. "But as you are here, Robby said I had better stay at home
to-day.--Now what would you like to do?"

This opened up a dazzling prospect, with the whole of Melbourne before
one. But Laura was too polite to pretend anything but indifference.

"Well, perhaps you wouldn't mind staying in then? I want so much to
copy out Robby's sermon. I always do it, you know, for he can't read
his own writing. But he won't expect it to-day and he'll be so pleased."

It was a cool, quiet little house, with the slightly unused smell in
the rooms that betokens a lack of children. Laura did not dislike the
quiet, and sat contentedly in the front parlour till evening fell. Not,
however, that she was really within hundreds of miles of Melbourne; for
the wonderful book that she held on her knee was called KING SOLOMON'S
MINES, and her eyes never rose from the pages.

Supper, when it came, was as scrappy and as hurried as lunch had been:
a class of working-men was momently expected, and Robby had just time
to gulp down a cup of tea. Nor could he converse; for he was obliged to
spare his throat.

Afterwards the three of them sat listening to the loud talking
overhead. This came down distinctly through the thin ceiling, and Mr.
Shepherd's voice--it went on and on--sounded, at such close quarters,
both harsh and rasping. Mrs. Shepherd was mending a stole; Isabella
stooped over the sermon, which she was writing like copperplate. Laura
sat in a corner with her hands before her: she had finished her book,
but her eyes were still visionary. When any of the three spoke, it was
in a low tone.

Towards nine o'clock Mrs. Shepherd fetched a little saucepan, filled it
with milk, and set it on the hob; and after this she hovered
undecidedly between door and fireplace, like a distracted moth.

"Now do try to get it right to-night, Maisie," admonished Isabella;
and, turning her face, if not her glance, to Laura, she explained: "It
must boil, but not have a scrap of skin on it, or Robby won't look at
it."

Presently the working-men were heard pounding down the stairs, and
thereupon Maisie vanished from the room.

The next day Laura attended morning and evening service at St
Stephen's-on-the-Hill, and in the afternoon made one of Isabella's
class at Sunday school.

That morning she had wakened, in what seemed to be the middle of the
night, to find Isabella dressing by the light of a single candle.

"Don't you get up," said the latter. "We're all going to early service,
and I just want to make Robby some bread and milk beforehand. He would
rather communicate fasting, but he has to have something, for he
doesn't get home till dinner-time."

When midday came, Robby was very fractious. The mutton-bone--no cooking
was done--was harder than ever to carve with decency; and poor Mrs.
Shepherd, for sheer fidgetiness, could hardly swallow a bite.

But at nine o'clock that evening, when the labours of the day were
behind him, he was persuaded to lie down on the sofa and drink a glass
of port. At his head sat Mrs. Shepherd, holding the wine and some
biscuits; at his feet Isabella, stroking his soles. The stimulant
revived him; he grew quite mellow, and presently, taking his wife's
hand, he held it in his--and Laura felt sure that all his querulousness
was forgiven him for the sake of this moment. Then, finding a willing
listener in the black-eyed little girl who sat before him, he began to
talk, to relate his travels, giving, in particular, a vivid account of
some months he had once spent in Japan. Laura, who liked nothing better
than travelling at second hand--since any other way was out of the
question--Laura spent a delightful hour, and said so.

"Yes, Robby quite surpassed himself to-night, I thought," said Isabella
as she let down her hair. "I never heard anyone who could talk as well
as he does when he likes.--Can you keep a secret, Laura? We are sure,
Maisie and I, that Robby will be a Bishop some day. And he means to be,
himself.--But don't say a word about it; he won't have it mentioned out
of the house.--And meanwhile he's working as hard as he can, and we're
saving every penny, to let him take his next degree."

"I do hope you'll come again," she said the following morning, as they
walked back to the College. "I don't mind telling you now, I felt quite
nervous when Robby said we were to ask you. I've had no experience of
little girls. But you haven't been the least trouble--not a bit. And
I'm sure it was good for Robby having something young about the house.
So mind you write and tell us when you have another holiday"--and
Isabella's smile beamed out once more, none the less kindly because it
was caught, on its way to Laura, by the gate they were passing through.

Laura, whose mind was set on a good, satisfying slab of cake, promised
to do this, although her feelings had suffered so great a change that
she was not sure whether she would keep her word. She was pulled two
ways: on the one side was the remembrance of Mr. Shepherd hacking
cantankerously at the bare mutton-bone; on the other, the
cherry-blossom and the mousmes of Japan.




XVII.


OHNMACHT ZUR LUGE IST LANGE NOCH NICHT LIEBE ZUR WAHRHEIT.... WER NICHT
LUGEN KANN, WEISS NICHT, WAS WAHRHEIT IST.

NIETZSCHE


A pantomime of knowing smiles and interrogatory grimaces greeted her,
when, having brushed the cake-crumbs from her mouth, she joined her
class. For the twinkling of an eye Laura hesitated, being unprepared.
Then, however, as little able as a comic actor to resist pandering to
the taste of the public, she yielded to this hunger for spicy
happenings, and did what was expected of her: clapped her hands, one
over the other, to her breast, and cast her eyes heavenwards. Curiosity
and anticipation reached a high pitch; while Laura, by tragically
shaking her head, gave it to be understood that no signs could transmit
what she had been through, since seeing her friends last.

In the thick of this message she was, unluckily, caught by Dr Pughson,
who, after dealing her one of his butcherly gibes, bade her to the
blackboard, to grapple with the Seventh Proposition.

The remainder of the forenoon was a tussle with lessons not glanced at
since Friday night.--Besides, Laura seldom forestalled events by
thinking over them, choosing rather to trust for inspiration to the
spur of the moment.

Morning school at an end, she was laid hands on and hurried off to a
retired corner of the garden. Here, four friends squatted round,
determined to extract her adventures from her--to the last pip.

Laura was in a pretty pickle. Did she tell the plain truth, state the
pedestrian facts--and this she would have been capable of doing with
some address; for she had looked through her hosts with a perspicacity
uncommon in a girl of her age; had once again put to good use those
'sharp, unkind eyes' which Mother deplored. She had seen an overworked,
underfed man, who nagged like any woman, and made slaves of two weak,
adoring ladies; and she very well knew that, as often as her thoughts
in future alighted on Mr. Robby, she would think of him pinching and
screwing, with a hawk-like eye on a shadowy bishopric. Of her warm
feelings for him, genuine or imaginary, not a speck remained. The first
touch of reality had sunk them below her ken, just as a drop of cold
water sinks the floating grounds in a coffee-pot ... But did she
confess this, confess also that, save for a handful of monosyllables,
her only exchange of words with him had been a line of Virgil; and,
still more humbling, that she had liked his wife and sister better than
himself: did this come to light, she would forfeit every sou of the
prestige the visit had lent and yet promised to lend her. And, now that
the possible moment for parting with this borrowed support had come,
she recognised how greatly she had built on it.

These thoughts whizzed through her mind, as she darted a look at the
four predatory faces that hemmed her in. Tilly's was one of them: the
lightly mocking smile sat on it that Laura had come to know so well,
since her maladroit handling of Bob. She would kill that smile--and if
she had to die for it herself.

Still, she must be cautious, wary in picking her steps. Especially as
she had not the ghost of an idea how to begin.

Meanwhile cries of impatience buzzed round her.

"She doesn't want to tell."

"Mean brute!"

"Shouldn't wonder if it's too dashed shady."

"Didn't I SAY he was a bad 'un?"

"I bet you there's nothing to tell," said Tilly cockily, and turned up
her nose.

"Yes, there is," flung out Laura, at once put on the defensive, and as
she spoke she coloured.

"Look at her! Look how red she's got!"

"And after she promised--the sneak!"

"I'm not a sneak. I AM going to tell. But you're all in such a blooming
hurry."

"Oh, fire away, slow-coach!"

"Well, girls," began Laura gamely, breathing a little hard.--"But,
mind, you must never utter a word of what I'm going to tell you. It's a
dead secret, and IF you let on----"

"S' help me God!"

"Ananias and Sapphira!"

"Oh, DO hurry up."

"Well ... well, he's just the most--oh, I don't know how to say it,
girls--the MOST----"

"Just scrumptious, I suppose, eh?"

"Just positively scrumptious, and ..."

"And what'd he do?"

"And what about his old sketch of a wife?"

"Her? Oh"--and Laura squeezed herself desperately for the details that
WOULD not come--"oh, why she's just a perfect old ... old cat. And
twenty years older than him."

"What on earth did he marry her for?"

"Guess he's pretty sick of being tied to an old gin like that?"

"I should say! Perfectly MISERABLE. He can't think now why he let
himself be induced to marry her. He just despises her."

"Well, why in the name of all that's holy did he take her?"

Laura cast a mysterious glance round, and lowered her voice. "Well, you
see, she had LOTS of money and he had none. He was ever so poor. And
she paid for him to be a clergyman."

"Go on! As poor as all that?"

"As poor as a church-mouse.--But, oh," she hastened to add, at the
visible cooling-off of the four faces, "he comes of a MOST
distinguished family. His father was a lord or a baronet or something
like that, but he married a beautiful girl who hadn't a penny against
his father's will and so he cut him out of his will."

"I say!"

"Oh, never mind the father."

"Yes. Well, now he feels under an awful obligation to her, and all that
sort of thing, you know."

"And she drives it home, I bet. She looks a nipper."

"Is always throwing it in his face."

"What a ghoul!"

"He'd do just ANYTHING to get rid of her, but--Girls, it's a dead
secret; you must swear you won't tell."

Gestures of assurance were showered on her.

"Well, he's to be a Bishop some day. It's promised him."

"Holy Moses!"

"And I suppose he can't divorce her, because of that?"

"No, of course not. He'll have to drag her with him like millstone
round his neck."

"And he'd twigged right enough you were gone on him?"

Laura's coy smile hinted many things. "I should say so. Since the very
first day in church. He said--but I don't like to tell you what he
said."

"You must!"

"No. You'll only call me conceited."

"No fear, Kiddy. Out with it!"

"Well, then, he said he saw me as soon as he got in the pulpit, and he
wondered ever so much who the girl was with the eyes like sloes, and
the skin like ... like cream."

"Snakes-alive-oh! He went it strong."

"And how often were you alone with him?"

"Yes, and if he had met me before he was married--but no, I can't tell
any more."

"Oh, don't be such an ass!"

"No, I can't.--Well, I'll whisper it then ... but only to Maria," and
leaning over Laura put her lips to Maria's ear.

The reason for this by-stroke she could not have told: the detail she
imparted did not differ substantially from those that had gone
before.-- But by now she was at the end of her tether.

Here, fortunately for Laura, the dinner-bell rang, and the girls had to
take to their heels in order to get their books put away before grace.
Throughout the meal, from their scattered seats, they exchanged looks
of understanding, and their cheeks were pink.

In the afternoon, Laura was again called on to prove her mettle. Her
companion on the daily walk was Kate Horner. Kate had been one of the
four, and did not lose this chance of beating up fresh particulars.

After those first few awkward moments, however, which had come wellnigh
being a fiasco, Laura had no more trouble with her story. Indeed, the
plunge once taken, it was astounding how easy it became to make up
things about the Shepherds; the difficulty was, to know where to stop.
Fictitious details crowded thick and fast upon her--a regular
hotchpotch; she had only to stretch out her hand and seize what she
needed. It was simpler than the five-times multiplication-table, and
did not need to be learnt. But all the same she was not idle: she
polished away at her flimflams, bringing them nearer and nearer
probability, never, thanks to her sound memory, contradicting herself
or making a slip, and always able to begin again from the beginning.

Such initial scepticism as may have lurked in her hearers was soon got
the better of. For, crass realists though these young colonials were,
and bluntly as they faced facts, they were none the less just as hungry
for romance as the most insatiable novel-reader. Romance in any guise
was hailed by them, and swallowed uncritically, though it was no more
permitted to interfere with the practical conduct of their lives than
it is in the case of just that novel-reader, who puts untruth and
unreality from him, when he lays his book aside.--Another and weightier
reason was, their slower brains could not conceive the possibility of
such extraordinarily detailed lying as that to which Laura now
subjected them. Its very elaboration stood for its truth.

And the days passed, and Laura had the happiest ideas. A strange thing
about them was that they came to her quite unsought, dropping on her
like Aladdin's oranges on his turban. All she had to do was to fit them
into their niche in her fabrication.

At first, her tale had been chiefly concerned with the internal rift in
Mr. Shepherd's home-life, and only in a minor degree with herself. But
her public savoured the love-story most, and hence, consulting its
taste, as it is the tale-maker's bounden duty to do, Laura was obliged
to develop this side of her narrative at the expense of the other. And
the more the girls heard, the more they wished to hear. She had early
turned Miss Isabella into a staunch ally of her own, in the dissension
she had introduced into the curate's household; and one day she arrived
at a hasty kiss, stolen in the vestry after evening service, while Mr.
Shepherd was taking off his surplice. The puzzle had been, to get
herself into the vestry; but, once there, she saw what followed as if
it had actually happened. She saw Mr. Shepherd's arm slipped with
diffident alacrity round her waist, and her own virtuous recoil; saw
Maisie and Isabella waiting, sheep-like, in their pew, till it should
please the couple to emerge; saw the form of the verger moving about
the darkening church, as he put the lights out, one by one.

But the success this incident brought her turned Laura's head, making
her so foolhardy in her inventions that Maria, who for all her boldness
of speech was at heart a prude like the rest, grew uneasy.

"You're not to go to that house again, Kiddy. If you do, I'll peach to
old Gurley."

Laura ran upstairs to dress for tea, taking two steps at a time. On the
top landing, beside the great clothes-baskets, she collided with
Chinky, who was coming primly down.

"O ki, John!" she greeted her, being in a vast good-humour. "What do
you look so black for?"

"Dunno. Why do you never walk with me nowadays, Laura? I say, you know
about that ring? You haven't forgotten?"

"Course not. When am I to get it? It never turns up." Her eyes
glittered as she asked, for she foresaw a further link in her chain.
"Soon, now?"

Chinky nodded mysteriously. "Pretty soon. And you promise faithfully
never to take it off?"

"But it must be a NICE one ... with a red stone in it. And listen,
Chink, no one must ever know it was you who gave it me."

"All right, I swear. You're a darling to say you'll wear it," and
putting her arm round Laura's shoulders, Chinky gave her a hearty kiss.

This was more than Laura had bargained for;--she freed herself,
ungraciously. "Oh, don't!--now mind, a red stone, and for the third
finger of the left hand."

"Yes. And Laura, I've thought of something to put inside. SEMPER EADEM
... do you like that, Laura?"

"It'll do.--Look out, there's old Day!" and leaving Chinky standing,
she ran down the corridor to her room.




XVIII.


DER VERBRECHER IST HAUFIG GENUG SEINER TAT NICHT GEWACHSEN.

NIETZSCHE


For a month or more, Laura fed like a honeybee on the sweets of
success. And throve--even to the blindest eye. What had hitherto been
lacking was now hers: the admiration and applause of her circle. And
never was a child so spurred and uplifted by praise as Laura. Without
it, her nature tended to be wary and unproductive; and those in touch
with her, had they wished to make the most of her, would no more have
stinted with the necessary incentive, that one stints a delicate rose
tree in aids to growth. Laura could swallow praise in large doses,
without becoming over-sure. Under the present stimulus she sat top in a
couple of classes, grew slightly ruddier in face, and much less
shrinking in manner.

"Call her back at once and make her shut that door," cried Miss Day
thickly, from behind one of the long, dining-hall tables, on which were
ranged stacks and piles of clean linen. She had been on early duty
since six o'clock.

The pupil-teacher in attendance stepped obediently into the passage;
and Laura returned.

"Doors are made to be shut, Laura Rambotham, I'd have you remember
that!" fumed Miss Day in the same indistinct voice: she was in the grip
of a heavy cold, which had not been improved by the draughts of the
hall.

"I'm sorry, Miss Day. I thought I had. I was a little late."

"That's your own lookout," barked the governess.--"Oh, there you are at
last, Miss Snodgrass. I'd begun to think you weren't going to appear at
all this morning. It's close on a quarter past seven."

"Sorry," said Miss Snodgrass laconically. "My watch must be losing.--
Well, I suppose I can begin by marking Laura Rambotham down late.--What
on earth are you standing there holding the door for?"

"Miss Day knows--I don't," sauced Laura, and made her escape.

She did not let Miss Snodgrass's bad mark disturb her. No sooner had
she begun her practising than she fell to work again on the theme that
occupied all her leisure moments, and was threatening to assume the
bulk of an early Victorian novel. But she now built at her top-heavy
edifice for her own enjoyment; and the usual fate of the robust liar
had overtaken her: she was beginning to believe in her own lies. Still
she never ventured to relax her critical alertness, her careful
surveillance of detail. For, just a day or two before, she had seen a
quick flare-up of incredulity light Tilly's face, and oddly enough this
had happened when she tried her audience with a fact, a simple little
fact, an incident that had really occurred. She had killed the doubt,
instantly, by smothering it with a fiction; but she could not forget
that it had existed. It has very perplexing; for otherwise her hearers
did not shy at a mortal thing; she could drive them where and how she
chose.

At the present moment she was planning a great coup: nothing more or
less than a frustrated attempt on her virtue. It was almost ready to be
submitted to them--for she had read PAMELA with heartfelt interest
during the holidays--and only a few connecting links were missing, with
which to complete her own case.

Then, without the slightest warning, the blow fell.

It was a Sunday afternoon; the half-hour that preceded Sunday school.
Laura, in company with several others, was in the garden, getting her
Bible chapter by heart, when Maria called her.

"Laura! Come here. I want to tell you something."

Laura approached, her lips in busy motion. "What's up?"

"I say, chicken, your nose is going to be put out of joint."

"Mine? What do you mean?" queried Laura, and had a faint sense of
impending disaster.

"What I say. M. Pidwall's asked to the you-know-who's next Saturday."

"No, she's not!" cried Laura vehemently, and clapped her Bible to.

"S'help me God, she is," asserted Maria.--"Look out, don't set the
place on fire."

"How do you know? ... who told you?"

"M. P. herself--Gosh, but you are a jealous little cub. Oh, go on,
Kiddy, don't take it like that. I guess he won't give you away."--For
Laura was as pale as a moment before she had been scarlet.

Alleging a violent headache, she mounted to her room, and sat down on
her bed. She felt stunned, and it took her some time to recover her
wits. Sitting on the extreme edge of the bedstead, she stared at
[P.181] the objects in the room without seeing them. "M. P.'s going
there on Saturday ... M. P.'s going there on Saturday," she repeated
stupidly, and, with her hands pressed on her hips, rocked herself to
and fro, after the fashion of an older woman in pain.

The fact was too appalling to be faced; her mind postponed it. Instead,
she saw the fifty-five at Sunday school--where they were at this
minute--drawn up in a line round the walls of the dining-hall. She saw
them rise to wail out the hymn; saw Mr. Strachey on his chair in the
middle of the floor, perpetually nimming with his left leg. And, as she
pictured the familiar scene to herself, she shivered with a sudden
sense of isolation: behind each well-known face lurked a possible enemy.

If it had only not been M. P.!--that was the first thought that
crystallised. Anyone else! ... from any of the rest she might have
hoped for some mercy. But Mary Pidwall was one of those people--there
were plenty such--before whom a nature like Laura's was inclined, at
the best of times, to shrink away, keenly aware of its own paltriness
and ineffectualness. Mary was rectitude in person: and it cannot be
denied that, to Laura, this was synonymous with hard, narrow,
ungracious. Not quite a prig, though: there was fun in Mary, and life
in her; but it was neither fun nor vivacity of a kind that Laura could
feel at ease with. Such capers as the elder girl cut were only
skin-deep; they were on the surface of her character, had no real roots
in her: just as the pieces of music she played on the piano were
accidents of the moment, without deeper significance. To Mary, life was
already serious, full of duties. She knew just what she wanted, too,
where she wanted to go and how to get there; her plans were cut and
dried. She was clever, very industrious, the head of several of her
classes. Nor was she ever in conflict with the authorities: she moved
among the rules of the school as safely as an egg-dancer among his
eggs. For the simple reasons that temptations seemed to pass her by.
There was, besides, a kind of manly exactness in her habit of thinking
and speaking; and it was this trait her companions tried to symbolise,
in calling her by the initial letters of her name.

She and Laura, though classmates, had never drawn together. It is true,
Mary was sixteen, and, at that time of life, a couple of years dig a
wide breach. But there was also another reason. Once, in the innocence
of her heart, Laura had let the cat out of the bag that an uncle of
hers lived in the up-country township to which Mary belonged.

The girl had eyed her coldly, incredulously. "What? That dreadful man
your uncle?" she had exclaimed: she herself was the daughter of a
church dignitary. "I should say I did know him--by reputation at least.
And it's quite enough, thank you."

Now Laura had understood that Uncle Tom--he needed but a pair of gold
earrings to pose as the model for a Spanish Grandee--that Uncle Tom WAS
odd, in this way: he sometimes took more to drink than was good for
him; but she had never suspected him of being "dreadful", or a byword
in Wantabadgery. Colouring to the roots of her hair, she murmured
something about him of course not being recognised by the rest of the
family; but M. P., she was sure, had never looked on her with the same
eyes again.

Such was the rigid young moralist into whose hands her fate was given.

She sat and meditated these things, in spiritless fashion. She would
have to confess to her fabrications--that was plain. M. P.'s precise
mind would bring back a precise account of how matters stood in the
Shepherd household: not by an iota would the truth be swerved from.
Why, oh why, had she not foreseen this possibility? What evil spirit
had prompted her and led her on?--But, before her brain could
contemplate the awful necessity of rising and branding herself as a
liar, it sought desperately for a means of escape. For a wink, she even
nursed the idea of dragging in a sham man, under the pretence that Mr.
Shepherd had been but a blind, used by her to screen some one else. But
this yarn, twist it as she might, would not pass muster. Against it was
the mass of her accumulated detail.

She sat there, devising scheme after scheme. Not one of them would do.

When, at tea-time, she rose to wash her face before going downstairs,
the sole point on which she had come to clearness was, that just seven
days lay between her and detection.--Yet after all, she reminded
herself, seven days made a week, and a week was a good long time.
Perhaps something would happen between now and Saturday. M. P. might
have an accident and break her leg, and not be able to go. Or thin,
poorly-fed Mr. Shepherd fall ill from overwork.--Oh, how she would
rejoice to hear of it!

And, if the worst came to the worst and she HAD to tell, at least it
should not be to-day. To-day was Sunday; and people's thoughts were
frightfully at liberty. To-morrow they would be engaged again; and, by
to-morrow, she herself would have grown more accustomed to the
idea.--Besides, how foolish to have been in too great a hurry, should
something come to pass that rendered confession needless.

On waking next morning, however, and accounting, with a throb, for the
leaden weight on her mind, she felt braver, and quite determined to
make a clean breast of her misdoings. Things could not go on like this.
But no sooner was she plunged into the routine of the day than her
decision slackened: it was impossible to find just the right moment to
begin. Early in the morning everyone was busy looking over lessons, and
would not thank you for the upset, the dinner-hour was all too short;
after school, on the walk, she had a partner who knew nothing about the
affair, and after tea she practised.--Hence, on Monday her purpose
failed her.

On Tuesday it was the same; the right moment never presented itself.

In bed that night she multiplied the remaining days into hours. They
made one hundred and twenty. That heartened her a little; considered
thus, the time seemed very much longer; and so she let Wednesday slip
by, without over-much worry.

On Thursday she not only failed to own up, but indulged anew.

All the week, as if Mary Pidwall's coming visit worked upon them, the
girls had been very greedy for more love-story, and had shown
themselves decidedly nettled by Laura's refusal to continue; for this
was the week when the great revelation she had hinted at should have
been made. And one afternoon when the four were twitting her, and
things were looking very black, Laura was incited by some devil to
throw them, not, it is true, the savoury incident their mouths watered
for, but a fresh fiction--just as the beset traveller throws whatever
he has at hand, to the ravenous wolves that press round the sledge. At
the moment, the excitement that accompanies inspiration kept her up;
but afterwards she had a stinging fit of remorse; and her
self-reproaches were every whit as bitter as those of the man who has
again broken the moral law he has vowed to respect, and who now sees
that he is powerless against recurring temptation.

When she remembered those four rapacious faces, Laura realised that,
come what might, she would never have the courage to confess. To them,
at least. That night in deep humility she laid her sin bare to God,
imploring Him, even though He could not pardon it, to avert the
consequences from her.

The last days were also darkened by her belief that M. P. had got wind
of her romancings: as, indeed, was quite likely; for the girls' tongues
were none too safe. Mary looked at her from time to time with such a
sternly suspicious eye that Laura's very stomach quailed within her.

And meanwhile the generous hours had declined to less than half.

"Twice more to get up, and twice to go to bed," she reckoned aloud to
herself on Saturday morning.

She was spending that week-end at Godmother's. It was as dull as usual;
she had ample leisure to brood over what lay before her. It was now a
certainty, fixed, immovable; for, by leaving school that day without
having spoken, she had burned her ships behind her. When she went back
on Monday M. P. would be there, and every loophole closed. On Sunday
evening she made an excuse and went down into the garden. There was no
moon; but, overhead, the indigo-blue was a prodigal glitter of
stars--myriads of silver eyes that perforated the sky. They sparkled
with a cold disregard of the small girl standing under the mulberry
tree; but Laura, too, was only half-alive to their magnificence. Her
thoughts ran on suicide, on making an end of her blighted career. God
was evidently not going to be generous or long-suffering enough to come
to her aid; and in imagination she saw the fifty-five gaining on her
like a pack of howling hyaenas; saw Mrs. Gurley, Mr. Strachey--Mother.
Detection and exposure, she knew it now, were the most awful things the
world held. But she had nothing handy: neither a rope, nor poison, nor
was there a dam in the neighbourhood.

That night she had the familiar dream that she was being "stood up" and
expelled, as Annie Johns had been: thousands of tongues shouted her
guilt; she was hunted like a wallaby. She wakened with a scream, and
Marina, her bedfellow, rose on one elbow and lighted the candle.
Crumpled and dishevelled, Laura lay outside the sheet that should have
covered her; and her pillow had slipped to the floor.

"What on earth's the matter? Dreaming? Then depend on it you've eaten
something that's disagreed with you."

How she dragged her legs back to school that morning, Laura never knew.
At the sight of the great stone building her inner disturbance was such
that she was nearly sick. Even the unobservant Marina was forced to a
remark.

"You do look a bit peaky. I'm sure your stomach's out of order. Your
should take a dose of castor-oil to-night, before you go to bed."

Though it was a blazing November day, her fingers were cold as she took
off her hat and changed her white frock. "For the last time," she
murmured; by which she meant the last time in untarnished honour. And
she folded and hung up her clothes, with a neatness that was foreign to
her.

Classes were in full swing when she went downstairs; nothing could
happen now till the close of morning school. But Laura signalised the
beginning of her downfall, the end of her comet-like flight, by losing
her place in one form after another, the lessons she had prepared on
Friday evening having gone clean out of her head.

Directly half-past twelve struck, she ran to the top of the garden and
hid herself under a tree. There she crouched, her fingers in her ears,
her heart thumping as if it would break. Till the dinner-bell rang.
Then she was forced to emerge--and no tottering criminal, about to face
the scaffold, has ever had more need of Dutch courage than Laura in
this moment. Peeping round the corner of the path she saw the fateful
group: M. P. the centre of four gesticulating figures. She loitered
till they had scattered and disappeared; then with shaking legs crept
to the house. At the long tables the girls still stood, waiting for Mr.
Strachey; and the instant Laura set foot in the hall, five pairs of
eyes caught her, held her, pinned her down, as one pins a butterfly to
a board. She was much too far gone to think of tossing her head and
braving things out, now that the crisis had come. Pale, guilty,
wretched, she sidled to her seat. This was near Maria's, and, as she
passed, Maria leant back.

"You VILE little liar!"

"How's that shy little mouse of a girl we had here a month or two ago?"
Mr. Shepherd had inquired. "Let me see--what was her name again?"

To which Miss Isabella had replied: "Well, you know, Robby dear, you
really hardly saw her. You had so much to do, poor boy, just when she
was here. Her name was Laura--Laura Rambotham."

And Mrs. Shepherd gently: "Yes, a nice little girl. But very young for
her age. And SO shy."

"You wretched little lying sneak!"

In vain Laura wept and protested.

"You made me do it. I should never have told a word, if it hadn't been
for you."

This point of view enraged them. "What? You want to put it on us now,
do you? ... you dirty little skunk! To say WE made you tell that pack
of lies?--Look here: as long as you stay in this blooming shop, I'll
never open my mouth to you again!"

"Someone ought to tell old Gurley and have her expelled. That's all
she's fit for. Spreading disgusting stories about people who've been
kind to her. They probably only asked her there out of charity. She's
as poor as dirt."

"Wants her bottom smacked--that's what I say!"

Thus Maria, and, with her, Kate Horner.

Tilly was cooler and bitterer. "I was a dashed fool ever to believe a
word. I might have known her little game. She? Why, when I took her out
to see my cousin Bob, she couldn't say bo to a goose. He laughed about
her afterwards like anything; said she ought to have come in a
perambulator, with a nurse.--YOU make anyone in love with you--you!"
And Tilly spat, to show her disdain.

"What have they been saying to you, Laura?" whispered Chinky, pale and
frightened. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Mind your own business and go away," sobbed Laura.

"I am, I'm going," said Chinky humbly.--"Oh, Laura, I WISH you had that
ring."

"Oh, blow you and your ring! I hate the very name of it," cried Laura,
maddened.--And retreating to a lavatory, which was the only private
place in the school, she wept her full.

They all, every girl of them, understood white lies, and practised
them. They might also have forgiven her a lie of the good, plain,
straightforward, thumping order. What they could not forgive, or get
over, was the extraordinary circumstantiality of the fictions which
with she had gulled them: to be able to invent lies with such
proficiency meant that you had been born with a criminal bent.--And as
a criminal she was accordingly treated.

Even the grown-up girls heard a garbled version of the story.

"Whyever did you do it?" one of them asked Laura curiously; it was a
very pretty girl, called Evelyn, with twinkling brown eyes.

"I don't know," said Laura abjectly; and this was almost true.

"But I say! ... nasty tarradiddles about people who'd been so nice to
you? What made you tell them?"

"I don't KNOW. They just came."

The girl's eyes smiled. "Well, I never! Poor little Kiddy," she said as
she turned away.

But this was the only kind word Laura heard. For many and many a night
after, she cried herself to sleep.




XIX.


Thus Laura went to Coventry.--Not that the social banishment she now
suffered was known by that name. To the majority of the girls Coventry
was just a word in the geography book, a place where ribbons were said
to be made, and where for a better-read few, some one had hung with
grooms and porters on a bridge; this detail, odd to say, making a
deeper impression on their young minds than the story of Lady Godiva,
which was looked upon merely as a naughty anecdote.

But, by whatever name it was known, Laura's ostracism was complete. She
had been sampled, tested, put on one side. And not the softest-hearted
could find an excuse for her behaviour.

It was but another instance of how misfortune dogs him who is down,
that Chinky should choose this very moment to bring further shame upon
her.

On one of the miserable days that were now the rule, when Laura would
have liked best to be a rabbit, hid deep in its burrow; as she was
going upstairs one afternoon, she met Jacob, the man-of-all-work,
coming down. He had a trunk on his shoulder. Throughout the day she had
been aware of a subdued excitement among the boarders; they had stood
about in groups, talking in low voices--talking about her, she
believed, from the glances that were thrown over shoulders at her as
she passed. She made herself as small as she could; but when tea-time
came, and then [P.192] supper, and Chinky had not appeared at either
meal, curiosity got the better of her, and she tried to pump one of the
younger girls.

Maria came up while she was speaking, and the child ran away; for the
little ones aped their elders in making Laura taboo.

"What, liar? You want to stuff us you don't know why she's gone?" said
Maria. "No, thank you, it's not good enough. You can't bamboozle us
this time."

"Sapphira up to her tricks again, is she?" threw in the inseparable
Kate, who had caught the last words. "No, by dad, we don't tell liars
what they know already.--So put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

Only bit by bit did Laura dig out their meaning: then, the horrible
truth lay bare. Chinky had been dismissed--privately because she was a
boarder--from the school. Her crime was: she had taken half-a-sovereign
from the purse of one of her room-mates. When taxed with the theft, she
wept that she had not taken it for herself, but to buy a ring for Laura
Rambotham; and, with this admission on her lips, she passed out of
their lives, leaving Laura, her confederate, behind.--Yes, confederate;
for, in the minds of most, liar and thief were synonymous.

Laura had not cared two straws for Chinky; she found what the latter
had done, "mean and disgusting", and said so, stormily; but of course
was not believed. Usually too proud to defend herself, she here
returned to the charge again and again; for the hint of connivance had
touched her on the raw. But she strove in vain to prove her innocence:
she could not get her enemies to grasp the abysmal difference between
merely making up a story about people, and laying hands on others'
property; if she could do the one, she was capable of the other; and
her companions remained convinced that, if she had not actually had her
fingers in some one's purse, she had, by a love of jewellery, incited
Chinky to the theft. And so, after a time, Laura gave up the attempt
and suffered in silence; and it WAS suffering; for her schoolfellows
were cruel with that intolerance, that unimaginative dullness, which
makes a woman's cruelty so hard to bear. Laura had to accustom herself
to hear every word she said doubted; to hear some one called to, before
her face, to attest her statements; to see her room-mates lock up their
purses under her very nose.

However, only three weeks had still to run till the Christmas holidays.
She drew twenty-one strokes on a sheet of paper, which she pinned to
the wall above her bed; and each morning she ran her pencil through a
fresh line. She was quite resolved to beg Mother not to send her back
to school: if she said she was not getting proper food, that would be
enough to put Mother up in arms.

The boxes were being fetched from the lumber-rooms and distributed
among their owners, when a letter arrived from Mother saying that the
two little boys had sandy blight, and that Laura would not be able to
come home under two or three weeks, for fear of infection. These weeks
she was to spend, in company with Pin, at a watering-place down the
Bay, where one of her aunts had a cottage.

The news was welcome to Laura: she had shrunk from the thought of
Mother's searching eye. And at the cottage there would be none of her
grown-up relatives to face; only an old housekeeper, who was looking
after a party of boys.

Hence, when speech day was over, instead of setting out on an
up-country railway journey, Laura, under the escort of Miss Snodgrass,
went on board one of the steamers that ploughed the Bay.

"I should say sea-air'll do you good--brighten you up a bit," said the
governess affably as they drove: she was in great good-humour at the
prospect of losing sight for a time of the fifty-five. "You seem to be
always in the dumps nowadays."

Laura dutifully waved her handkerchief from the deck of the SILVER
STAR; and the paddles began to churn. As Miss Snodgrass's back
retreated down the pier, and the breach between ship and land widened,
she settled herself on her seat with a feeling of immense relief. At
last--at last she was off. The morning had been a sore trial to her: in
all the noisy and effusive leave-taking, she was odd man out; no one
had been sorry to part from her; no one had extracted a promise that
she would write. Her sole valediction had been a minatory shaft from
Maria: if she valued her skin, to learn to stop telling crams before
she showed up there again. Now, she was free of them; she would not be
humiliated afresh, would not need to stand eye to eye with anyone who
knew of her disgrace, for weeks to come; perhaps never again, if Mother
agreed. Her heart grew momentarily lighter. And the farther they left
Melbourne behind them, the higher her spirits rose.

But then, too, was it possible, on this radiant December day, long to
remain in what Miss Snodgrass had called "the dumps"?--The sea was a
blue-green mirror, on the surface of which they swam. The sky was a
stretched sheet of blue, in which the sun hung a very ball of fire. But
the steamer cooled the air as it moved; and none of the white-clad
people who, under the stretched white awnings, thronged the deck, felt
oppressed by the great heat. In the middle of the deck, a brass band
played popular tunes.

At a pretty watering-place where they stopped, Laura rose and crossed
to the opposite railing. A number of passengers went ashore, pushing
and laughing, but almost as many more came on board, all dressed in
white, and with eager, animated faces. Then the boat stood to sea again
and sailed past high, grass-grown cliffs, from which a few old cannons,
pointing their noses at you, watched over the safety of the Bay--in the
event, say, of the Japanese or the Russians entering the Heads past the
pretty township, and the beflagged bathing-enclosures on the beach
below. They neared the tall, granite lighthouse at the point, with the
flagstaff at its side where incoming steamers were signalled; and as
soon as they had rounded this corner they were in view of the Heads
themselves. From the distant cliffs there ran out, on either side,
brown reefs, which made the inrushing water dance and foam, and the
entrance to the Bay narrow and dangerous: on one side, there projected
the portion of a wreck which had lain there as long as Laura had been
in the world. Then, having made a sharp turn to the left, the boat
crossed to the opposite coast, and steamed past barrack-like buildings
lying asleep in the fierce sunshine of the afternoon; and, in due
course, it stopped at Laura's destination.

Old Anne was waiting on the jetty, having hitched the horse to a post:
she had driven in, in the 'shandrydan', to meet Laura. For the cottage
was not on the front beach, with the hotels and boarding-houses, the
fenced-in baths and great gentle slope of yellow sand: it stood in the
bush, on the back beach, which gave to the open sea.

Laura took her seat beside the old woman in her linen sunbonnet, the
body of the vehicle being packed full of groceries and other stores;
and the drive began. Directly they were clear of the township the road
as good as ceased, became a mere sandy track, running through a scrub
of ti-trees.--And what sand! White, dry, sliding sand, through which
the horse shuffled and floundered, in which the wheels sank and stuck.
Had one of the many hillocks to be taken, the two on the box-seat
instinctively threw their weight forward; old Anne, who had a stripped
wattle-bough for a whip, urged and cajoled; and more than once she
handed Laura the reins and got down, to give the horse a pull. They had
always to be ducking their heads, too, to let the low ti-tree branches
sweep over their backs.

About a couple of miles out, the old woman alighted and slipped a rail;
and having passed the only other house within cooee, they drove through
a paddock, but at a walking-pace, because of the thousands of
rabbit-burrows that perforated the ground. Another slip-rail lowered,
they drew up at the foot of a steepish hill, beside a sandy little
vegetable garden, a shed and a pump. The house was perched on the top
of the hill, and directly they sighted it they also saw Pin flying
down, her sunbonnet on her neck.

"Laura, Laura! Oh, I AM glad you've come. What a time you've been!"

"Hullo, Pin.--Oh, I say, let me get out first."

"And pull up your bonnet, honey. D'you want to be after gettin'
sunstruck?"

Glad though Laura was to see her sister again, she did not manage to
infuse a very hearty tone into her greeting; for her first glimpse of
Pin had given her a disagreeable shock. It was astonishing, the change
the past half-year had worked in the child; and as the two climbed the
hill together, to the accompaniment of Pin's bubbly talk, Laura stole
look after look at her little sister, in the hope of growing used to
what she saw. Pin had never been pretty, but now she was "downright
hideous"--as Laura phrased it to herself. Eleven years of age, she had
at last begun to grow in earnest: her legs were as of old mere
spindleshanks, but nearly twice as long; and her fat little body,
perched above them, made one think of a shrivelled-up old man who has
run all to paunch. Her face, too, had increased in shapelessness, the
features being blurred in the fat mass; her blue eyes were more
slit-like than before; and, to cap everything, her fine skin had
absolutely no chance, so bespattered was it with freckles. And none of
your pretty little sun-kisses; but large, black, irregular freckles
that disfigured like moles. Laura felt quite distressed; it outraged
her feelings that anyone belonging to her should be so ugly; and as
Pin, in happy ignorance of her sister's reflections, chattered on,
Laura turned over in her mind what she ought to do. She would have to
tell Pin about herself--that was plain: she must break the news to her,
in case others should do it, and more cruelly. It was one consolation
to know that Pin was not sensitive about her looks; so long as you did
not tease her about her legs, there was no limit to what you might say
to her: the grieving was all for the onlooker. But not today: this was
the first day; and there were pleasanter things to think of. And so,
when they had had tea--with condensed milk in it, for the cow had gone
dry, and no milkman came out so far--when tea was over--and that was
all that could be undertaken in the way of refreshment after the
journey; washing your face and hands, for instance, was out of the
question; every drop of water had to be carried up the hill from the
pump, and old Anne purposely kept the ewers empty by day; if you WOULD
wash, you must wash in the sea--as soon, then, as tea was over, the two
sisters made for the beach.

The four-roomed, weatherboard cottage, to which at a later date a
lean-to had been added, faced the bush: from the verandah there was a
wide view of the surrounding country. Between the back of the house and
the beach rose a huge sand-hill, sparsely grown with rushes and coarse
grass. It took you some twenty minutes to toil over this, and boots and
stockings were useless impedimenta; for the sand was once more of that
loose and shifting kind in which you sank at times up to the knees,
falling back one step for every two you climbed. But then, sand was the
prevailing note of this free and easy life: it bestrewed verandah and
floors; you carried it in your clothes; the beds were full of it; it
even got into the food; and you were soon so accustomed to its presence
that you missed the grit of it under foot, or the prickling on your
skin, did old Anne happen to take a broom in her hand, or thoroughly
re-make the beds.--When, however, on your way to the beach you had
laboriously attained the summit of the great dune, the sight that met
you almost took your breath away: as far as the eye could reach, the
bluest of skies melting into the bluest of seas, which broke its
foam-flecked edge against the flat, brown reefs that fringed the shore.
Then, downhill--with a trip and a flounder that sent the sand
man-high--and at last you were on what Laura and Pin thought the most
wonderful beach in the world. What a variety of things was there!
Whitest, purest sand, hot to the touch as a zinc roof in summer; rocky
caves, and sandy caves hung with crumbly stalactites; at low tide, on
the reef, lakes and ponds and rivers deep enough to make it unnecessary
for you to go near the ever-angry surf at all; seaweeds that ran
through the gamut of colours: brown and green, pearl-pink and
coral-pink, to vivid scarlet and orange; shells, beginning with tiny
grannies and cowries, and ending with the monsters in which the
breakers had left their echo; the bones of cuttlefish, light as paper,
and shaped like javelins. And, what was best of all, this beach
belonged to them alone; they had not to share its treasures with
strangers; except the inhabitants of the cottage, never a soul set foot
upon it.

The chief business of the morning was to bathe. If the girls were alone
and the tide full, they threw off their clothes and ran into a sandy,
shallow pool, where the water never came above their waists, and where
it was safe to let the breakers dash over them. But if the tide were
low, the boys bathed, too, and then Pin and Laura tied themselves up in
old bathing-gowns that were too big for them, and all went in a body to
the "Half-Moon Hole". This pool, which was about twenty feet long and
ten to fifteen deep, lay far out on the reef, and, at high tide, was
hidden beneath surf and foam; at low water, on the other hand, it was
like a glass mirror reflecting the sky, and so clear that you could see
every weed that waved at the bottom. Having cast off your shoes, you
applied your soles gingerly to the prickles of the rock; then
plop!--and in you went. Pin often needed a shove from behind, for
nowhere, of course, could you get a footing; but Laura swam with the
best. Some of the boys would dive to the bottom and bring up weeds and
shells, but Laura and Pin kept on the surface of the water; for they
had the imaginative dread common to children who know the sea well--the
dread of what may lurk beneath the thick, black horrors of seaweed.

Then, after an hour or so in the water, home to dinner, hungry as
swagmen, though the bill of fare never varied: it was always rabbit for
dinner, crayfish for tea; for the butcher called only once a week, and
meat could not be kept an hour without getting flyblown. The rabbits
were skinned and in the stew-pot before they were cold; the crayfish
died an instant death: one that drove the blood to Laura's head, and
made Pin run away and cry, with her fingers to her ears; for she
believed the sizzling of the water, as the fish were dropped in, to be
the shriek of the creatures in their death-agony.

Except in bathing, the girls saw little of the boys. Both were afraid
of guns, so did not go out on the expeditions which supplied the
dinner-table; and old Anne would not allow them to join the crayfishing
excursions. For these took place by night, off the end of the reef,
with nets and torches; and it sometimes happened, if the surf were
heavy, that one of the fishers was washed off the rocks, and only
hauled up again with considerable difficulty.

Laura took her last peep at the outside world, every evening, in the
brief span of time between sunset and dark. Running up to the top of
one of the hills, and letting her eyes range over sky and sea, she
would drink in the scents that were waking to life after the burning
heat of the day: salt water, warmed sand and seaweeds, ti-scrub,
sour-grass, and the sturdy berry-bushes, high as her knee, through
which she had ploughed her way. That was one of the moments she liked
best, that, and lying in bed at night listening to the roar of the
surf, which went on and on like a cannonade, even though the hill lay
between. It made her flesh crawl, too, in delightful fashion, did she
picture to herself how alone she and Pin were, in their room: the boys
slept in the lean-to on the other side of the kitchen; old Anne at the
back. For miles round, no house broke the solitude of the bush; only a
thin wooden partition separated her from possible bushrangers, from the
vastness and desolation of the night, the eternal booming of the sea.

Such was the life into which Laura now threw herself heart and soul,
forgetting, in the sheer joy of living, her recent tribulation.

But even the purest pleasures WILL pall; and after a time, when the
bloom had worn off and the newness and her mind was more at leisure
again, she made some disagreeable discoveries which ruffled her
tranquillity.

It was Pin, poor, fat, little well-meaning Pin, who did the mischief

Pin was not only changed in looks; her character had changed, too; and
in so marked a way that before a week was out the sisters were at
loggerheads. Each day made it plainer to Laura that Pin was developing
a sturdy independence; she had ceased to look up to Laura as a prodigy
of wisdom, and had begun to hold opinions of her own. She was, indeed,
even disposed to be critical of her sister; and criticism from this
quarter was more than Laura could brook: it was just as if a slave
usurped his master's rights. At first speechless with surprise, she
ended by losing her temper; the more, because Pin was prone to be
mulish, and could not be got to budge, either by derision or by scorn,
from her espoused views. They were those of the school at which for the
past half-year she had been a day-pupil, and seemed to her
unassailable. Laura found them ridiculous, as she did much else about
Pin at this time: her ugliness, her setting herself up as an authority:
and she jeered unkindly whenever Pin came out with them.--A still more
ludicrous thing was that, despite her plainness, Pin actually had an
admirer. True, she did not say so outright; perhaps she was not even
aware of it; but Laura gathered from her talk that a boy at her school,
a boy some three years older than herself, had given her a silk
handkerchief and liked to help her with her sums.--And to Laura this
was the most knockdown blow of all.

One day it came to an open quarrel between them.

They were lying on the beach after bathing, trying to protect their
bare and blistered legs from the sandflies. Laura, flat on her back,
had spread a towel over hers; Pin sat Turk--fashion with her legs
beneath her and fought the flies with her hands. Having vainly
endeavoured to draw from the reticent Laura some of those school-tales
of which, in former holidays, she had been so prodigal, Pin was now
chattering to her heart's content, about the small doings of home.
Laura listened to her with the impatient toleration of one who has seen
the world: she really could not be expected to interest herself in such
trifles; and she laughed in her sleeve at Pin's simpleness. When,
however, her little sister began to enlarge anew on some wonderful
orders Mother had lately had, she could not refrain from saying
crossly: "You've told me that a dozen times already. And you needn't
bawl it out for everyone to hear."

"Oh, Laura! there isn't anyone anywhere near us ... and even if there
were--why, I thought you'd be so pleased. Mother's going to give you an
extra shilling pocket-money, 'cause of it."

"Of course I'm pleased. Don't be so silly, Pin."

"I'm not ALWAYS silly, Laura," protested Pin. "And I don't believe you
ARE glad, a bit. Old Anne was, though. She said: 'Bless her dear
heart!'"

"Old Anne? Well, I just wonder what next! It's none of her dashed
business."

"Oh, Laura!" began Pin, growing tearful both at words and tone. "Why,
Laura, you're not ashamed of it, are you?--that mother does
sewing?"--and Pin opened her lobelia-blue eyes to their widest, showing
what very big eyes they would be, were they not so often swollen with
crying.

"Of course not," said Laura tartly. "But I'm blessed if I can see what
it's got to do with old Anne."

"But she asked me ... what mother was working at--and if she'd got any
new customers. She just loves mother."

"Like her cheek!" snapped Laura. "Poking her ugly old nose into what
doesn't concern her. You should just have said you didn't know."

"But that would have been a story, Laura!" cried Pin, horrified "I did
know--quite well."

"Goodness gracious, Pin, you----"

"I've never told a story in my life," said Pin hotly. "And I'm not
going to either, for you or anyone. I think you ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"Hold your silly tongue!"

"I shan't, Laura. And I think you're very wicked. You're not a bit like
what you used to be. And it's all going to school that's done
it--Mother says it is."

"Oh, don't be such a blooming ass!" and Laura, stung to the quick,
retaliated by taunting Pin with the change that had come to pass in her
appearance. To her surprise, she found Pin grown inordinately touchy
about her looks: at Laura's brutal statement of the truth she cried
bitterly.

"I'm not, no, I'm not! I haven't got a full moon for a face! It's no
fatter than yours. Sarah said last time you were home how fat you were
getting."

"I'm sure I'm not," said Laura, indignant in her turn.

"Yes, you are," sobbed Pin. "But you only think other people are ugly,
not yourself I'll tell mother what you've said as soon as ever I get
home. And I'll tell her, too, you want to make me tell stories. And
that I'm sure you've done something naughty at school, 'cause you won't
ever talk about it. And how you're always saying bad words like
blooming and gosh and golly--yes, I will!"

"You were always a sneak and a tell-tale."

"And you were always a greedy, selfish, deceitful thing."

"You don't know anything about me, you numbskull, you!"

"I don't want to! I know you're a bad, wicked girl."

After this exchange of home truths, they did not speak to each other
for two days: Pin had a temper that smouldered, and could not easily
forgive. So she stayed at old Anne's side, helping to bake scones and
leatherjackets; or trotted after the boys, who had dropped into the way
of saying: "Come on, little Pin!" as they never said: "Come on, Laura!"
and Laura retired in lonely dudgeon to the beach.

She took the estrangement so much to heart that she eased her feelings
by abusing Pin in thought; Pin was a pig-headed little ignoramus, as
timid as ever of setting one foot before the other. And the rest of
them would be just the same--old stick-in-the muds, unchanged by a
hair, or, if they HAD changed, then changed for the worse. Laura had
somehow never foreseen the day on which she would find herself out of
tune with her home circle; with unthinking assurance she had expected
that Pin, for instance, would always be eager to keep pace with her.
Now, she saw that her little sister would probably never catch up to
her again. Such progress as Pin might make--if she were not already
glued firm to her silly notions--would be in quite another direction.
For the quarrel had made one thing plain to Laura: with regard to her
troubles, she need not look to Pin for sympathy: if Pin talked such
gibberish at the hint of putting off an inquisitive old woman, what
would she--and not she alone--what would they all say to the tissue of
lies Laura had spun round Mr. Shepherd, a holy man, a clergyman, and a
personal friend of Mother's into the bargain? She could not blink the
fact that, did it come to their ears, they would call her in earnest,
what Pin had called her in her temper--bad and wicked. Home was, alas!
no longer the snug nest in which she was safe from the slings and
shanghais of the world.

And then there was another thing: did she stay at home, she would have
to re-live herself into the thousand and one gimcrack concerns, which
now, as set forth by Pin, so bored her: the colic Leppie had brought on
by eating unripe fruit; the fact that another of Sarah's teeth had
dropped out without extraneous aid. It was all very well for a week or
two, but, at the idea of shutting herself wholly up with such mopokes,
of cutting herself off from her present vital interests, Laura hastily
reconsidered her decision to leave school. No: badly as she had
suffered at her companions' hands, much as she dreaded returning, it
was at school she belonged. All her heart was there: in the doings of
her equals, the things that really mattered--who would be promoted, who
prefect, whose seat changed in the dining-hall.--Besides, could one who
had experienced the iron rule of Mr. Strachey, or Mrs. Gurley, ever be
content to go back and just form one of a family of children? She not,
at any rate!

Thus she lay, all day long, her hands clasped under her neck, a small
white speck on the great wave-lapped beach. She watched the surf break,
watched the waves creep up and hide the reef, watched the gulls vanish
in the sun-saturated blue overhead. Sometimes she rose to her elbow to
follow a ship just inside the horizon; and it pleased her to think that
this great boat was sailing off, with a load of lucky mortals, to some
unknown, fairer world, while she, a poor Cinderella, had to stop
behind--even though she knew it was only the English mail going on to
Sydney. Of Pin she preferred not to think; nor could she dwell with
equanimity on her late misfortunes at school and the trials that
awaited her on her reappearance; and since she HAD to think of
something, she fell into the habit of making up might-have-been, of
narrating to herself how things would have fallen out had her fictions
been fact, her ascetic hero the impetuous lover she had made of
him.--In other words, lying prostrate on the sand, Laura went on with
her story.

When, towards the end of the third week, she and Pin were summoned to
spend some days with Godmother, she had acquired such a gusto for this
occupation, that she preferred to shirk reality, and let Pin pay the
visit alone.




XX.


WIE SOLLTE EIN STROM NICHT ENDLICH DEN WEG ZUM MEERE FINDEN!

NIETZSCHE


Sea, sun and air did their healing work, as did also the long, idle
days in the home garden; and Laura drank in health and vigour with
every breath.

She had need of it all when, the golden holidays over, she returned to
school; for the half-year that broke was, in many ways, the most trying
she had yet had to face. True, her dupes' first virulence had
waned--they no longer lashed her openly with their tongues--but the
quiet, covert insults, that were now the rule, were every bit as hard
to bear; and before a week had passed Laura was telling herself that,
had she been a Christian Martyr, she would have preferred to be torn
asunder with one jerk, rather than submit to the thumbkin. Not an eye
but looked askance at her; on every face was painted a reminder of her
moral inferiority; and even newcomers among the boarders soon learnt,
without always knowing what her crime had been, that Laura Rambotham
was "not the thing".

This system of slight and disparagement was similar to what she had had
to endure in her first school term; but its effect upon her was
different. Then, in her raw timidity, she had bowed her head beneath
it; now, she could not be so lamb-like. In thought, she never ceased to
lay half the blame of what had happened on her companions' shoulders;
and she was embittered by their injustice in making her alone
responsible, when all she had done was to yield to their craving for
romance. She became a rebel, wrapping herself round in the cloak of
bitterness which the outcasts of fortune wear, feeding on her hate of
those within the pale. Very well then, she said to herself: if her
fellows chose to shut her out like this, she would stop outside, and
never see eye to eye with them again. And it gave her an unholy
pleasure to mock, in secret, at all they set store by.

Her outward behaviour for many a day was, none the less, that of a
footlicker; and by no sign did she indicate what she really was--a very
unhappy girl. Like most rebels of her sex, she ardently desired to
re-enter the fold of law and order; and it was to this end she worked,
although, wherever she approached it, the place seemed to bristle with
spears. But she did not let herself be daunted; she pocketed injuries,
pretended not to hear them, played the spaniel to people she despised;
and it soon became open talk, that no matter what you said to her,
Laura Rambotham would not take offence. You could also rely on her to
do a dirty job for you.--A horrid little toady was the verdict;
especially of those who had no objection to be toadied to.

Torn thus, between mutinous sentiments on the one hand, a longing for
restitution on the other, Laura grew very sly--a regular little
tactician. In these days, she was for ever considering what she ought
to do, what to leave undone. She learnt to weigh her words before
uttering them, instead of blurting out her thoughts in the childish
fashion that had exposed her to ridicule; she learnt, too, at last, to
keep her real opinions to herself, and to make those she expressed
tally with her hearers'. And she was quick to discover that this was a
short-cut towards regaining her lost place: to conceal what she truly
felt--particularly if her feelings ran counter to those of the
majority. For, the longer she was at school, the more insistently the
truth was driven home to her, that the majority is always in the right.

In the shifting of classes that took place at the year's end, she left
the three chief witnesses of her disgrace--Tilly, Maria, Kate--behind
her. She was again among a new set of girls. But this little piece of
luck was outweighed by the fact that, shortly after Christmas, her room
was changed for the one occupied by M. P., and M. P.'s best friend.

So far, Laura had hardly dared to lift her eyes in Mary Pidwall's
presence. For Mary knew not only the sum of her lies, but also held--or
so Laura believed--that she came of a thoroughly degenerate family;
thanks to Uncle Tom. And the early weeks spent at close quarters with
her bore out these fears. The looks both M. P. and her friend bent on
Laura said as plainly as words: if we are forced to tolerate this
obnoxious little insect about us, we can at least show it just what a
horrid little beast it is.--M. P. in particular was adamant,
unrelenting; Laura quailed at the sound of her step.

And yet she soon felt, rightly enough, it was just in the winning over
of this stern, rigid nature that her hope of salvation lay. If she
could once get M. P. on her side, all might yet be well again.

So she began to lay siege to Mary's good-will--to Mary, who took none
but the barest notice of her, even in the bedroom ignoring her as if
she did not exist, and giving the necessary orders, for she was the
eldest of the three, in tones of ice. But it needed a great wariness on
Laura's part. And, in the beginning, she made a mistake. She was a
toadeater here, too, seeking to curry favour with M. P. as with the
rest, by fawning on her, in a way for which she could afterwards have
hit herself. For it did not answer; M. P. had only a double disdain for
the cringer, knowing nothing herself of the pitfalls that lie in wait
for a temperament like Laura's. Mary's friendship was extended to none
but those who had a lofty moral standard; and truthfulness and honesty
were naturally the head virtues on her list. Laura was sharp enough to
see that, if she wished to gain ground with M. P. she must make a
radical change in her tactics. It was not enough, where Mary was in
question, to play the echo. Did she, Laura, state an opinion, she must
say what she meant, above all, mean what she said, and stick manfully
to it, instead of, at the least hint, being ready to fly over to Mary's
point of view: always though, of course, with the disquieting proviso
in the background that her own opinions were such as she ought to have,
and not heretical leanings that shocked and dismayed. In which case,
there was nothing for it but to go on being mum.

She ventured, moreover, little unobtrusive services, to which she
thought neither of the girls could take exception; making their beds
for them in the morning, and staying up last at night to put out the
light. And once she overheard the friend, who was called Cupid, say:
"You know, M. P., she's not such a bad little stick after all."--But
then Cupid was easy-going, and inclined to be original.

May answered: "She's no doubt beginning to see she can't lie to US. But
she's a very double-faced child."

It was also with an eye to M. P.'s approval that Laura threw herself,
with renewed zeal, upon her work. And in those classes that called only
for the exercise of her memory, she soon sat high. The reason why she
could not mount still higher was that M. P. occupied the top place, and
was not to be moved, even had Laura dreamed of attempting it.

And at length, after three months of unremitting exertion in the course
of which, because she had little peeps of what looked like success, the
rebel in her went to sleep again--at length Laura had her reward. One
Sunday morning M. P. asked her to be her partner on the walk to church.
This was as if a great poet should bend from his throne to take a
younger brother-singer by the hand; and, in her headlong fashion, Laura
all but fell at the elder girl's feet. From this day forward she
out-heroded Herod, in her efforts to make of herself exactly what Mary
thought she ought to be.

Deep within her, none the less, there lurked a feeling which sometimes
made as if to raise its head: a feeling that she did not really like M.
P., or admire her, or respect her; one which, had it come quite to
life, would have kicked against Mary's authority, been contemptuous of
her unimaginative way of seeing and saying things, on the alert to
remind its owner that HER way, too, had a right to existence. But is
was not strong enough to make itself heard, or rather Laura refused to
hear it, and turned a deaf ear whenever it tried to hint at its
presence.--For Mr. Worldly-Wiseman was her model just now.

Whereas Cupid--there was something in Cupid that was congenial to her.
A plain girl, with irregular features--how she had come by her nickname
no one knew--Cupid was three years older than Laura, and one of the few
in the school who loved reading for its own sake. In a manner, she was
cleverer even than M. P.; but it was not a school-booky way, and hence
was not thought much of. However, Laura felt drawn to her at once--even
though Cupid treated her as quite a little girl--and they sometimes got
as far as talking of books they had read. From this whiff of her, Laura
was sure that Cupid would have had more understanding than M. P. for
her want of veracity; for Cupid had a kind of a dare-devil mind in a
hidebound character, and was often very bold of speech.

Yet it was not Cupid's good opinion she worked for, with might and main.

The rate of her upward progress in Mary's estimation could be gauged by
the fact that the day came when the elder girl spoke openly to her of
her crime. At the first merciless words Laura winced hotly, both at and
for the tactlessness of which Mary was guilty. But, the first shameful
stab over, she felt the better of it; yes, it was a relief to speak to
some one of what she had borne alone for so long. To speak of it, and
even to argue round it a little; for, like most wrongdoers, Laura soon
acquired a taste for dwelling on her misdeed. And Mary, being entirely
without humour, and also unversed in dealing with criminals, did not
divine that this was just a form of self-indulgence. It was Cupid who
said: "Look here, Infant, you'll be getting cocky about what you did,
if you don't look out."

Mary would not allow that a single one of Laura's excuses held water.

"That's the sheerest nonsense. You don't seem to realise that you tried
to defame another person's moral character," she said, in the assured,
superior way that so impressed Laura.--And this aspect of the case,
which had never once occurred to her, left Laura open-mouthed; and yet
a little doubtful: Mr. Shepherd was surely too far above her, and too
safely ensconced in holiness, to be injured by anything she might say.
But the idea gave her food for thought; and she even tentatively
developed her story along these unfamiliar lines, just to see how it
might have turned out.

One night as they were undressing for bed, Mary spoke, with the same
fireless depreciation, of the behaviour of a classmate which had been
brought to her notice that day. This girl was said to have nefariously
"copied" from another, in the course of a written examination; and, as
prefect of her class Mary was bound to track the evil down. "I shall
make them both show me their papers as soon as they get them back; and
then, if I find proof of what's being said, I must tackle her. Just as
I tackled you, Laura."

Laura flushed. "Oh, M. P., I've never 'copied' in my life!" she cried.

"Probably not. But those things all belong in the same box: lying, and
'copying', and stealing."

"You never WILL believe me when I say I didn't know anything about that
horrid Chinky. I only told a few crams--that was quite different."

"I think it's most unfortunate, Laura, that you persist in clinging to
that idea."

Here M. P. was obliged to pause; for she had put a lock of hair between
her teeth while she did something to a plait at the back. As soon as
she could speak again, she went on: "You and your few crams! Have you
ever thought, pray, what a state of things it would be, if we all went
about telling false-hoods, and saying it didn't matter, they were
merely a few little fibs?--What are you laughing at?"

"I'm not laughing. I mean ... I just smiled. I was only thinking how
funny it would be--Sandy, and old Gurley, and Jim Chapman, all going
round making up things that had never happened."

"You've a queer notion of what's funny. Have you utterly no respect for
the truth?"

"Yes, of course I have. But I say"--Laura, who always slipped quickly
out of her clothes, was sitting in her nightgown on the edge of the
bed, hugging her knees. "I say, M. P., if everybody told stories, and
everybody knew everybody else was telling them, then truth wouldn't be
any good any more at all, would it? If nobody used it?"

"What rubbish you do talk!" said Mary serenely, as she shook her
toothbrush on to a towel and rubbed it dry.

"As if truth were a soap!" remarked Cupid who was already in bed,
reading NANA, and trying to smoke a cigarette under the blankets.

"You can't do away with truth, child."

"But why not? Who says so? It isn't a law."

"Don't try to be so sharp, Laura."

"I don't mean to, M. P.--But what IS truth, anyhow?" asked Laura.

"The Bible is truth. Can you do away with the Bible, pray?"

"Of course not. But M. P.... The Bible isn't quite all truth, you know.
My father----" here she broke off in some confusion, remembering Uncle
Tom.

"Well, what about him? You don't want to say, I hope, that he didn't
believe in the Bible?"

Laura drove back the: "Of course not!" that was all but over her lips.
"Well, not exactly," she said, and grew very red. "But you KNOW, M. P.,
whales don't have big enough throats ever to have swallowed Jonah."

"Little girls shouldn't talk about what they don't understand. The
Bible is God's Word; and God is Truth."

"You're a silly infant," threw in Cupid, coughing as she spoke. "Truth
has got to be--and honesty, too. If it didn't exist, there couldn't be
any state, or laws, or any social life. It's one of the things that
makes men different from animals, and the people who boss us know
pretty well what they're about, you bet when they punish the ruffians
who don't practise it."

"Yes, now THAT I see," agreed Laura eagerly. "Then truth's a useful
thing.--Oh, and that's probably what it means, too, when you say:
Honesty is the best Policy."

"I never heard such a child," said M. P., shocked. "Cupid, you really
shouldn't put such things into her head.--You're down-right immoral,
Laura."

"Oh, how CAN you say such a horrid thing?"

"Well, your ideas are simply dreadful. You ought to try your hardest to
improve them."

"I do, M. P., really I do."

"You don't succeed. I think there must be a screw loose in you
somewhere."

"Anyhow, I vote we adjourn this meeting," said Cupid, recovering from a
fresh cough and splutter. "Or old Gurley'll be coming in to put me on a
mustard plaster.--As for you, Infant, if you take the advice of a chap
who has seen life, you'll keep your ideas to yourself: they're too
crude for this elegant world."

"Right you are!" said Laura cheerfully.

She was waiting by the gas-jet till M.P. had folded her last garment,
and she shuffled her bare feet one over the other as she stood; for it
was a cold night. The light out, she hopped into bed in the dark.




XXI.


But the true seal was set on her regeneration when she was invited to
join the boarders' Literary Society; of which Cupid and Mary were the
leading spirits. This carried her back, at one stroke, into the swing
of school life. For everybody who was anybody belonged to the society.
And, despite her friendship with the head of her class, Laura still
knew what it was to get the cold shoulder.

But this was to some extent her own fault. At the present stage of her
career she was an extraordinarily prickly child, and even to her two
sponsors did not at times present a very amiable outside: like a
hedgehog, she was ever ready to shoot out her spines. With regard, that
is, to her veracity. She had been so badly grazed, in her recent
encounter, that she was now constantly seeing doubt where no doubt was;
and this wakeful attitude of suspicion towards others did not make for
brotherly love. The amenity of her manners suffered, too: though she
kept to her original programme of not saying all she thought, yet what
she was forced to say she blurted out in such a precise and blunt
fashion that it made a disagreeable impression. At the same time, a
growing pedantry in trifles warped both her imagination and her
sympathies: under the aegis of M. P., she rapidly learned to be the
latter's rival in an adherence to bald fact, and in her contumely for
those who departed from it. Indeed, before the year spent in Mary's
company was out, Laura was well on the way towards becoming one of
those uncomfortable people who, concerned only for their own salvation,
fire the truth at you on every occasion, without regard for your tender
places.--So she remained but scantly popular.

Hence, her admission to the Literary Society augured well.

Her chief qualifications for membership were that she could make
verses, and was also very fond of reading. At school, however, this
taste had been quiescent; for books were few. Still, she had read
whatever she could lay hands on, and for the past half-year or more she
had fared like a little pig in a clover field. Since Christmas, she was
one of the few permitted to do morning practice on the grand piano in
Mrs. Strachey's drawing-room--an honour, it is true, not overmuch
valued by its recipients, for Mrs. Gurley's bedroom lay just above, and
that lady could swoop down on whoever was weak enough to take a little
rest. But Laura snapped her fingers at such a flimsy objection; for
this was the wonderful room round the walls of which low, open
bookshelves ran; and she was soon bold enough, on entering, hastily to
select a book to read while she played, always on the alert to pop it
behind her music, should anyone come into the room.

For months, she browsed unchecked. As her choice had to be made with
extreme celerity, and from those shelves nearest the piano, it was in
the nature of things that it was not invariably a happy one. For some
time she had but moderate luck, and sampled queer foods. To these must
be reckoned a translation of FAUST, which she read through, to the end
of the First Part at least, with a kind of dreary wonder why such a
dull thing should be called great. For her next repast, she sought hard
and it was in the course of this rummage that she had the strangest
find of all. Running a skilled eye over the length of a shelf close at
hand, she hit on a slim, blue volume, the title of which at once
arrested her attention. For, notwithstanding her fourteen years, and
her dabblings in Richardson and Scott, Laura's liking for a real
child's book was as strong as it had ever been; and A DOLL'S HOUSE
seemed to promise good things. Deftly extracting the volume, she struck
up her scales and began to read.

This was the day on which, after breakfast, Mrs. Gurley pulverised her
with the remark: "A new, and, I must say, extremely interesting,
fashion of playing scales, Laura Rambotham! To hold, the forte pedal
down, from beginning to end!"

Laura was unconscious of having sinned in this way. But it might quite
well be so. For she had spent a topsy-turvy, though highly engrossing
hour. In place of the children's story she anticipated, she had found
herself, on opening the book, confronted by the queerest stuff she had
ever seen in print. From the opening sentence on. To begin with, it was
a play--and Laura had never had a modern prose play in her hand
before--and then it was all about the oddest, yet the most commonplace
people. It seemed to her amazingly unreal--how these people spoke and
behaved--she had never known anyone like them; and yet again so true,
in the way it dragged in everyday happenings, so petty in its rendering
of petty things, that it bewildered and repelled her: why, some one
might just as well write a book about Mother or Sarah! Her young,
romantic soul rose in arms against this, its first bluff contact with
realism, against such a dispiriting sobriety of outlook. Something
within her wanted to cry out in protest as she read--for read she did,
on three successive days, with an interest she could not explain. And
that was not all. It was worse that the people in this book--the
extraordinary person who was married, and had children, and yet ate
biscuits out of a bag and said she didn't; the man who called her his
lark and his squirrel--as if any man ever did call his wife such
names!--all these people seemed eternally to be meaning something
different from what they said; something that was for ever eluding her.
It was most irritating.-- There was, moreover, no mention of a doll's
house in the whole three acts.

The state of confusion this booklet left her in, she allayed with a
little old brown leather volume of Longfellow. And HYPERION was so much
more to her liking that she even ventured to borrow it from its place
on the shelf, in order to read it at her leisure, braving the chance
that her loan, were it discovered, might be counted against her as a
theft.

It hung together, no doubt, with the after-effects of her dip into
Ibsen that, on her sitting down to write the work that was to form her
passport to the Society, her mind should incline to the most romantic
of romantic themes. Not altogether, though: Laura's taste, such as it
was, for literature had, like all young people's, a mighty bias towards
those books which turned their backs on reality: she sought not truth,
but the miracle. However, though she had thus taken sides, there was
still a yawning gap to be bridged between her ready acceptance of the
honourable invitation, and the composition of a masterpiece. Thanks to
her wonted inability to project her thoughts beyond the moment, she had
been so unthinking of possible failure that Cupid had found it
necessary to interject: "Here, I say, don't blow!" Whereas, when she
came to write, she sat with her pen poised over the paper for nearly
half an hour, without bringing forth a word. First, there was the
question of form: she considered, then abruptly dismissed, the idea of
writing verses: the rhymes with love and dove, and heart and part,
which could have been managed, were, she felt, too silly and
sentimental to be laid before her quizzical audience. Next, what to
write about--a simple theme, such as a fairy-tale, was not for a moment
to be contemplated. No, Laura had always flown her hawk high, and she
was now bent on making a splutter. It ended by being a toss-up between
a play in the Shakesperian manner and a novel after Scott. She decided
on the novel. It should be a romance of Venice, with abundant murder
and mystery in it, and a black, black villain, such as her soul
loved--no macaroon-nibblers or rompers with children for her! And
having thus attuned her mind to scarlet deeds, she set to work. But she
found it tremendously difficult to pin her story to paper: she saw
things clearly enough, and could have related them by word of mouth;
but did she try to write them down they ran to mist; and though she
toiled quite literally in the sweat of her brow, yet when the eventful
day came she had but three niggardly pages to show for her pains.

About twenty girls formed the Society, which assembled one Saturday
evening in an empty music-room. All were not, of course, equally
productive: some had brought it no further than a riddle: and it was
just these drones who, knowing nothing of the pother composition
implied, criticised most stringently the efforts of the rest. Several
members had pretty enough talents, Laura's two room-mates among the
number: on the night Laura made her debut, the weightiest achievement
was, without doubt, M. P.'s essay on "Magnanimity"; and Laura's eyes
grew moist as she listened to its stirring phrases. Next best--to her
thinking, at least--was a humorous episode by Cupid, who had a gift
that threw Laura into a fit of amaze; and this was the ability to
expand infinitely little into infinitely much; to rig out a trifle in
many words, so that in the end it seemed ever so much bigger than it
really was--just as a thrifty merchant boils his oranges, to swell them
to twice their size.

Laura being the youngest member, her affair came last on the programme:
she had to sit and listen to the others, her cheeks hot, her hands very
cold. Presently all were done, and then Cupid, who was chairman, called
on "a new author, Rambotham, who it is hoped will prove a valuable
acquisition to the Society, to read us his maiden effort".

Laura rose to her feet and, trembling with nervousness, stuttered forth
her prose. The three little pages shot past like a flash; she had
barely stood up before she was obliged to sit down again, leaving her
hearers, who had only just re-adopted their listening attitudes, agape
with astonishment. She could have endured, with phlegm, the ridicule
this malheur earned her: what was harder to stomach was that her paper
heroics made utterly no impression. She suffered all the humiliation of
a flabby fiasco, and, till bedtime, shrank out of her friends' way.

"You were warned not to be too cocky, you know," Mary said judicially,
on seeing her downcast air.

"I didn't mean to be, really.--Then you don't think what I wrote was up
to much, M. P.?"

"Mm," said the elder girl, in a non-committal way.

Here Cupid chimed in. "Look here, Infant, I want to ask you something.
Have you ever been in Venice?"

"No."

"Ever seen a gondola?"

"No."

"Or the Doge's palace?--or a black-cloaked assassin?--or a masked lady?"

"You know I haven't," murmured Laura, humbled to the dust.

"And probably never will. Well then, why on earth try to write wooden,
second-hand rubbish like that?"

"Second-hand? ... But Cupid ... think of Scott! He couldn't have seen
half he told about?"

"My gracious!" ejaculated Cupid, and sat down and fanned herself with a
hairbrush. "You don't imagine you're a Scott, do you? Here, hold me, M.
P., I'm going to faint!"--and at Laura's quick and scarlet denial, she
added: "Well, why the unmentionable not use the eyes the Lord has given
you, and write about what's before them every day of your life?"

"Do you think that would be better?"

"I don't think--I know it would."

But Laura was not so easily convinced as all that.

Ever a talented imitator, she next tried her hand at an essay on an
abstract subject. This was a failure: you could not SEE things, when
you wrote about, say, "Beneficence"; and Laura's thinking was done
mainly in pictures. Matters were still worse when she tinkered at
Cupid's especial genre: her worthless little incident stared at her,
naked and scraggy, from the sheet; she had no wealth of words at her
disposal in which to deck it out. So, with a sigh, she turned back to
the advice Cupid had given her, and prepared to make a faithful
transcript of actuality. She called what she now wrote: "A Day at
School", and conscientiously set down detail on detail; so fearful,
this time, of over-brevity, that she spun the account out to twenty
pages; though the writing of it was as distasteful to her as her
reading of A DOLL'S HOUSE had been.

At the subsequent meeting of the Society, expression of opinion was not
lacking.

"Oh, Jehoshaphat! How much more?"

"Here, let me get out. I've had enough."

"I say, you forgot to count how many steps it took you to come
downstairs."

Till the chairman had pity on the embarrassed author and said: "Look
here, Laura, I think you'd better keep the rest for another time."

"It was just what you told me to do," Laura reproached Cupid that
night: she was on the brink of tears.

But Cupid was disinclined to shoulder the responsibility. "Told you to
be as dull and long-winded as that? Infant, it's a whacker!"

"But it was TRUE what I wrote--every word of it."

Neither of the two elder girls was prepared to discuss this vital
point. Cupid shifted ground. "Good Lord, Laura, but it's hard to drive
a thing into YOUR brain-pan.--You don't need to be ALL true on paper,
silly child!"

"Last time you said I had to."

"Well, if you want it, my candid opinion is that you haven't any talent
for this kind of thing.--Now turn off the gas."

As the light in the room went out, a kind of inner light seemed to go
up in Laura; and both then and on the following days she thought hard.
She was very ambitious, anxious to shine, not ready to accept defeat;
and to the next literary contest she brought the description of an
excursion to the hills and gullies that surrounded Warrenega; into
which she had worked an adventure with some vagrant blacks. She and Pin
and the boys had often picnicked on these hills, with their lunches
packed in billies; and she had seen the caves and rocky holes where
blackfellows were said to have hidden themselves in early times; but
neither this particular excursion, nor the exciting incident which she
described with all the aplomb of an eyewitness, had ever taken place.
That is to say: not a word of her narration was true, but every word of
it might have been true.

And with this she had an unqualified success.

"I believe there's something in you after all," said Cupid to her that
night. "Anyhow, you know now what it is to be true, yet not dull and
prosy."

And Laura manfully choked back her desire to cry out that not a word of
her story was fact.

She was long in falling asleep. Naturally, she was elated and excited
by her success; but also a new and odd piece of knowledge had niched
itself in her brain. It was this. In your speech, your talk with
others, you must be exact to the point of pedantry, and never romance
or draw the long-bow; or you would be branded as an abominable liar.
Whereas, as soon as you put pen to paper, provided you kept one foot
planted on probability, you might lie as hard as you liked: indeed, the
more vigorously you lied, the louder would be your hearers' applause.

And Laura fell asleep over a chuckle.




XXII.


UND VERGESST MIR AUCH DAS GUTE LACHEN NICHT!

NIETZSCHE


And then, alas! just as she rode high on this wave of approbation,
Laura suffered another of those drops in the esteem of her fellows,
another of those mental upsets, which from time to time had thrown her
young life out of gear.

True, what now came was not exactly her own fault; though it is
doubtful whether a single one of her companions would have made her
free of an excuse. They looked on, round-eyed, mouths a-stretch. Once
more, the lambkin called Laura saw fit to sunder itself from the flock,
and to cut mad capers in sight of them all. And their delectation was
as frank as their former wrath had been.--As for Laura, as usual she
did not stop to think till it was too late; but danced lightly away to
her own undoing.

The affair began pleasantly enough. A member of the Literary Society
was the girl with the twinkly brown eyes--she who had gone out of her
way to give Laura a kindly word after the Shepherd debacle. This girl,
Evelyn Souttar by name, was also the only one of the audience who had
not joined in the laugh provoked by Laura's first appearance as an
author. Laura had never forgotten this; and she would smile shyly at
Evelyn when their looks met. But a dozen reasons existed why there
should have been no further rapport between them. Although now in the
fifth form, Laura had remained childish for her age: whereas Evelyn was
over eighteen, and only needed to turn up her hair to be quite
grown-up. She had matriculated the previous Christmas, and was at
present putting away a rather desultory half-year, before leaving
school for good. In addition, she was rich, pampered and very
pretty--the last comrade in the world for drab little Laura.

One evening, as the latter was passing through the dining-hall, she
found Evelyn, who studied where she chose, disconsolately running her
fingers through her gold-brown hair.

"I say, Kiddy," she called to Laura. "You know Latin, don't you? Just
give us a hand with this."--Latin had not been one of Evelyn's
subjects, and she was now employing some of her spare time in studying
the language with Mr. Strachey, who taught it after a fashion of his
own. "How on earth would you say: 'We had not however rid here so long,
but should have tided it up the river'? What's the old fool mean by
that?" and she pushed an open volume of ROBINSON CRUSOE towards Laura.

Laura helped to the best of her ability.

"Thanks awfully," said Evelyn. "You're a clever chickabiddy. But you
must let me help you with something in return. What's hardest?"

"Filling baths and papering rooms," replied Laura candidly.

"Arithmetic, eh? Well, if ever you want a sum done, come to me."

But Laura was temperamentally unable to accept so vague an invitation;
and here the matter closed.

When, consequently, Miss Chapman summoned her one evening to tell her
that she was to change her present bedroom for Evelyn's, the news came
as a great shock to her.

"Change my room?" she echoed, in slow disgust. "Oh, I can't, Miss
Chapman!"

"You've got to, Laura, if Mrs. Gurley says so," expostulated the kindly
governess.

"But I won't! There MUST be some mistake. Just when I'm so comfortably
settled, too.--Very well, then, Miss Chapman, I'll speak to Mrs. Gurley
myself."

She carried out this threat, and, for daring to question orders,
received the soundest snubbing she had had for many a long day.

That night she was very bitter about it all, and the more so because
Mary and Cupid did not, to her thinking, show sufficient sympathy.

"I believe you're both glad I'm going. It's a beastly shame. Why must I
always be odd man out?"

"Look here, Infant, don't adopt that tone, please," said Cupid
magisterially. "Or you'll make us glad in earnest. People who are
always up in arms about things are the greatest bores in the world."

So the following afternoon Laura wryly took up armfuls of her
belongings, mounted a storey higher, and deposited them on the second
bed in Evelyn's room.

The elder girl had had this room to herself for over a year now, and
Laura felt sure would be chafing inwardly at her intrusion. For days
she stole mousily in and out, avoiding the hours when Evelyn was there,
getting up earlier in the morning, hurrying into bed at night and
feeling very sore indeed at the sufferance on which she supposed
herself to be.

But once Evelyn caught her and said: "Don't, for gracious' sake, knock
each time you want to come in, child. This is your room now as well as
mine."

Laura reddened, and blurted out something about knowing how she must
hate to have HER stuck in there.

Evelyn wrinkled up her forehead and laughed. "What rot! Do you think
I'd have asked to have you, if I hated it so much?"

"You asked to have me?" gasped Laura.

"Of course--didn't you know? Old Gurley said I'd need to have some one;
so I chose you."

Laura was too dumbfounded, and too diffident, to ask the grounds of
such a choice. But the knowledge that it was so, worked an instant
change in her.

In all the three years she had been at school, she had not got beyond a
surface friendliness with any of her fellows. Even those who had been
her "chums" had wandered like shades through the groves of her
affection: rough, teasing Bertha; pretty, lazy Inez; perky Tilly,
slangily frank Maria and Kate, Mary and her moral influence, clever,
instructive Cupid: to none of them had she been drawn by any deeper
sense of affinity. And though she had come to believe, in the course of
the last, more peaceful year, that she had grown used to being what you
would call an unpopular girl--one, that is, with whom no one ever
shared a confidence--yet seldom was there a child who longed more
ardently to be liked, or suffered more acutely under dislike. Apart
however from the brusque manner she had contracted, in her search after
truth, it must be admitted that Laura had but a small talent for
friendship; she did not grasp the constant give-and-take intimacy
implies; the liking of others had to be brought to her, unsought, she,
on the other hand, being free to stand back and consider whether or no
the feeling was worth returning. And friends are not made in this
fashion.

But Evelyn had stoutly, and without waiting for permission, crossed the
barrier; and each new incident in her approach was pleasanter than the
last. Laura was pleased, and flattered, and round the place where her
heart was, she felt a warm and comfortable glow.

She began to return the liking, with interest, after the manner of a
lonely, bottled-up child. And everything about Evelyn made it easy to
grow fond of her. To begin with, Laura loved pretty things and pretty
people; and her new friend was out and away the prettiest girl in the
school. Then, too, she was clever, and that counted; you did not make a
friend of a fool. But her chief characteristics were a certain sound
common sense, and an inexhaustible fund of good-nature--a careless,
happy, laughing sunniness, that was as grateful to those who came into
touch with it as a rare ointment is grateful to the skin. This
kindliness arose, it might be, in the first place from indolence: it
was less trouble to be merry and amiable than to put oneself out to be
selfish, which also meant standing a fire of disagreeable words and
looks; and then, too, it was really hard for one who had never had a
whim crossed to be out of humour. But, whatever its origin, the
good-nature was there, everlastingly; and Laura soon learnt that she
could cuddle in under it, and be screened by it, as a lamb is screened
by its mother's woolly coat.

Evelyn was the only person who did not either hector her, or feel it a
duty to clip and prune at her: she accepted Laura for what she was--for
herself. Indeed, she even seemed to lay weight on Laura's bits of
opinions, which the girl had grown so chary of offering; and, under the
sunshine of this treatment, Laura shot up and flowered like a spring
bulb. She began to speak out her thoughts again; she unbosomed herself
of dark little secrets; and finally did what she would never have
believed possible: sitting one night in her nightgown, on the edge of
Evelyn's bed, she made a full confession of the pickle she had got
herself into, over her visit to the Shepherds.

To her astonishment, Evelyn, who was already in bed, laughed till the
tears ran down her cheeks. At Laura's solemn-faced incredulity she said:

"I say, Kiddy, but that WAS rich. To think a chicken of your size sold
them like that. It's the best joke I've heard for an age. Tell us
again--from the beginning."

Nothing loath Laura started in afresh, and in this, the second telling,
embroidered the edge of her tale with a few fancy stitches, in a way
she had not ventured on for months past; so that Evelyn was more
tickled than before.

"No wonder they were mad about being had like that. You little rascal!"

She was equally amused by Laura's description of the miserable week she
had spent, trying to make up her mind to confess.

"You ridiculous sprat! Why didn't you come to me? We'd have let them
down with a good old bump."

But Laura could not so easily forget the humiliations she had been
forced to suffer, and delicately hinted to her friend at M. P.'s moral
strictures. With her refreshing laugh, Evelyn brushed these aside as
well.

"Tommyrot! Never mind that old jumble-sale of all the virtues. It was
jolly clever of a mite like you to bamboozle them as you did--take my
word for that."

This jocose way of treating the matter seemed to put it in an entirely
new light; Laura could even smile at it herself. In the days that
followed, she learned, indeed, to laugh over it with Evelyn, and to
share the latter's view that she had been superior in wit to those she
had befooled. This meant a great and healthy gain in self-assurance for
Laura. It also led to her laying more and more weight on what her
friend said. For it was not as if Evelyn had a low moral standard; far
from that: she was honest and straightforward, too proud, or, it might
be, too lazy to tell a lie herself--with all the complications lying
involved--and Laura never heard her say a harder thing of anyone than
what she had just said about Mary Pidwall.

The two talked late into every night after this, Laura perched,
monkey-fashion, on the side of her friend's bed. Evelyn had all the
accumulated wisdom of eighteen, and was able to clear her young
companion up on many points about which Laura had so far been in the
dark. But when, in time, she came to relate the mortifications she had
suffered--and was still called on to suffer--at the hands of the other
sex, Evelyn pooh-poohed the subject.

"Time enough in a couple of years for that. Don't bother your head
about it in the meantime."

"I don't now--not a bit. I only wanted to know why. Sometimes, Evvy, do
you know, they liked to talk to quite little kids of seven and eight
better than me."

"Perhaps you talked too much yourself--and about yourself?"

"I don't think I did. And if you don't talk something, they yawn and go
away."

"You've got to let them do the lion's share, child. Just you sit still,
and listen, and pretend you like it--even though you're bored to
extinction."

"And they never need to pretend anything, I suppose? No, I think
they're horrid. You don't like them either, Evvy, do you? ... any more
than I do?"

Evelyn laughed.

"Say what you think they are," persisted Laura and waggled the other's
arm, to make her speak.

"Mostly fools," said Evelyn, and laughed again--laughed in all the
conscious power of lovely eighteen.

Overjoyed at this oneness of mind, Laura threw her arms round her
friend's neck and kissed her. "You dear!" she said.

And yet, a short time afterwards, it was on this very head that she had
to bear the shock of a rude awakening.

Evelyn's people came to Melbourne that year from the Riverina. Evelyn
was allowed considerable freedom, and one night, by special permit,
Laura also accepted an invitation to dinner and the theatre. The two
girls drove to a hotel, where they found Evelyn's mother, elegant but a
little stern, and a young lady-friend. Only the four of them were
present at dinner, and the meal passed off smoothly; though the
strangeness of dining in a big hotel had the effect of tying Laura's
tongue. Another thing that abashed her was the dress of the young lady,
who sat opposite. This person--she must have been about the ripe age of
twenty-five--was nipped into a tight little pink satin bodice, which,
at the back, exposed the whole of two very bony shoulder-blades. But it
was the front of the dress that Laura faced; and, having imbibed strict
views of propriety from Mother, she wriggled on her chair whenever she
raised her eyes.

They drove to the theatre--though it was only a few doors off. The
seats were in the dress circle. The ladies sat in the front row, the
girls, who were in high frocks, behind.

Evelyn made a face of laughing discontent. "It's so ridiculous the
mater won't let me dress."

These words gave Laura a kind of stab. "Oh Evvy, I think you're EVER so
much nicer as you are," she whispered, and squeezed her friend's hand.

Evelyn could not answer, for the lady in pink had leant back and tapped
her with her fan. "It doesn't look as if Jim were coming, my dear."

Evelyn laughed, in a peculiar way. "Oh, I guess he'll turn up all
right."

There had been some question of a person of this name at dinner; but
Laura had paid no great heed to what was said. Now, she sat up sharply,
for Evelyn exclaimed: "There he is!"

It was a man, a real man--not a boy--with a drooping, fair moustache, a
single eyeglass in one eye, and a camellia-bud in his buttonhole. For
the space of a breathless second Laura connected him with the pink
satin; then he dropped into a vacant seat at Evelyn's side.

From this moment on, Laura's pleasure in her expensive seat, in the
pretty blue theatre and its movable roof, in the gay trickeries of the
MIKADO, slowly fizzled out. Evelyn had no more thought for her. Now and
then, it is true, she would turn in her affectionate way and ask Laura
if she were all right just as one satisfies oneself that a little child
is happy--but her real attention was for the man at her side. In the
intervals, the two kept up a perpetual buzz of chat, broken only by
Evelyn's low laughs. Laura sat neglected, sat stiff and cold with
disappointment, a great bitterness welling up within her. Before the
performance had dragged to an end, she would have liked to put her head
down and cry.

"Tired?" queried Evelyn noticing her pinched look, as they drove home
in the wagonette. But the mother was there, too, so Laura said no.

Directly, however, the bedroom door shut behind them, she fell into a
tantrum, a fit of sullen rage, which she accentuated till Evelyn could
not but notice it.

"What's the matter with you? Didn't you enjoy yourself?"

"No, I hated it," returned Laura passionately.

Evelyn laughed a little at this, but with an air of humorous dismay. "I
must take care, then, not to ask you out again."

"I wouldn't go. Not for anything!"

"What on earth's the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter."

"Well, if that's all, make haste and get into bed. You're overtired."

"Go to bed yourself!"

"I am, as fast as I can. I can hardly keep my eyes open;" and Evelyn
yawned heartily.

When Laura saw that she meant it, she burst out: "You're nothing but a
story-teller--that's what you are! You said you didn't like them ...
that they were mostly fools ... and then ... then, to go on as you did
to-night." Her voice was shaky with tears.

"Oh, that's it, is it? Come now, get to bed. We'll talk about it in the
morning."

"I never want to speak to you again."

"You're a silly child. But I'm really too sleepy to quarrel with you
to-night."

"I hate you--hate you!"

"I shall survive it."

She turned out the light as she spoke, settled herself on her pillow,
and composedly went to sleep.

Laura's rage redoubled. Throwing herself on the floor she burst into
angry tears, and cried as loudly as she dared, in the hope of keeping
her companion awake. But Evelyn was a magnificent sleeper; and remained
undisturbed. So after a time Laura rose, drew up the blind, opened the
window and sat down on the sill.

It was a bitterly cold night, of milky-white moonlight; each bush and
shrub carved its jet-black shadow on paths and grass. Across Evelyn's
bed fell a great patch of light: this, or the chill air would, it was
to be trusted, wake her. Meanwhile Laura sat in her thin nightgown and
shivered, feeling the cold intensely after the great heat of the day.
She hoped with all her heart that she would be lucky enough to get an
inflammation of the lungs. Then, Evelyn would be sorry she had been so
cruel to her.

It was nearly two o'clock, and she had several times found herself
nodding, when the sleeper suddenly opened her eyes and sat bolt upright
in bed.

"Laura, good heavens, what are you doing at the window? Oh, you wicked
child, you'll catch your death of cold! Get into bed at once."

And, the culprit still maintaining an immovable silence, Evelyn dragged
her to bed by main force, and tucked her in as tightly as a mummy.




XXIII.


GUT UND BOSE UND LUST UND LEID UND ICH UND DU.

NIETZSCHE


"Laura, you're a cipher!"

"I'm nothing of the sort!" threw back Laura indignantly. "You're one
yourself.--What does she mean, Evvy?" she asked getting out of earshot
of the speaker.

"Goodness knows. Don't mind her, Poppet."

It was an oppressive evening: all day long a hot north wind had scoured
the streets, veiling things and people in clouds of gritty dust; the
sky was still like the prolonged reflection of a great fire. The
hoped-for change had not come, and the girls who strolled the paths of
the garden were white and listless. They walked in couples, with
interlaced arms; and members of the Matriculation Class carried books
with them, the present year being one of much struggling and
heartburning, and few leisured moments. Mary Pidwall and Cupid were
together under an acacia tree at the gate of the tennis-court; and it
was M. P. who had cast the above gibe at Laura. At least Laura took it
as a gibe, and scowled darkly; for she could never grow hardened to
ridicule.

As she and Evelyn re-passed this spot in their perambulation, a merry
little lump of a girl called Lolo, who darted her head from side to
side when she spoke, with the movements of a watchful bird--this
[P.241] Lolo called: "Evelyn, come here, I want to tell you something."

"Yes, what is it?" asked Evelyn, but without obeying the summons; for
she felt Laura's grip of her arm tighten.

"It's a secret. You must come over here."

"Hold on a minute, Poppet," said Evelyn persuasively, and crossed the
lawn with her characteristically lazy saunter. Minutes went by; she did
not return.

"Look at her Laura-ship!" said a saucebox to her partner. The latter
made "Hee-haw, hee-haw!" and both laughed derisively.

The object of their scorn stood at the farther end of the wire-net
fence: all five fingers of her right hand were thrust through the holes
of the netting, and held oddly and unconsciously outspread; she stood
on one leg, and with her other foot rubbed up and down behind her
ankle; mouth and brow were sullen, her black eyes bent wrathfully on
her faithless friend.

"A regular moon-calf!" said Cupid, looking up from THE TEMPEST, which
was balanced breast-high on the narrow wooden top of the fence.

"Mark my words, that child'll be plucked in her 'tests'," observed M. P.

"Serve her right, say I, for playing the billy-ass," returned Cupid,
and killed a giant mosquito with such a whack that her wrist was
stained with its blood. "Ugh, you brute! ... gorging yourself on me.
But I'm dashed if I know how Evelyn can be bothered to have her always
dangling round."

"She's a cipher," repeated Mary, in so judicial a tone that it closed
the conversation.

Laura, not altogether blind to externals, saw that her companions made
fun of her. But at the present pass, the strength of her feelings quite
out-ran her capacity for self-control; she was unable to disguise what
she felt, and though it made her the laughing-stock of the school. What
scheme was the birdlike Lolo hatching against her? Why did Evelyn not
come back?--these were the thoughts that buzzed round inside her head,
as the mosquitoes buzzed outside.--And meanwhile the familiar, foolish
noises of the garden at evening knocked at her ear. On the other side
of the hedge a batch of third-form girls were whispering, with choked
laughter, a doggerel rhyme which was hard to say, and which meant
something quite different did the tongue trip over a certain letter. Of
two girls who were playing tennis in half-hearted fashion, the one next
Laura said 'Oh, damn!' every time she missed a ball. And over the
parched, dusty grass the hot wind blew, carrying with it, from the
kitchens, a smell of cabbage, of fried onions, of greasy dish-water.

Then Evelyn returned, and a part, a part only of the cloud lifted from
Laura's brow.

"What did she want?"

"Oh, nothing much."

"Then you're not going to tell me?"

I can't.

"What business has she to have secrets with you?" said Laura furiously.
And for a full round of the garden she did not open her lips.

Her companions were not alone in eyeing this lopsided friendship with
an amused curiosity. The governesses also smiled at it, and were
surprised at Evelyn's endurance of the tyranny into which Laura's
liking had degenerated. On this particular evening, two who were
sitting on the verandah-bench came back to the subject.

"Just look at that Laura Rambotham again, will you?" said Miss
Snodgrass in her tart way. "Sulking for all she's worth. What a little
fool she is!"

"I'm sure I wonder Mrs. Gurley hasn't noticed how badly she's working
just now," said Miss Chapman; and her face wore it best-meaning, but
most uncertain smile.

"Oh, you know very well if Mrs. Gurley doesn't want to see a thing she
doesn't," retorted Miss Snodgrass. "A regular talent for going blind, I
call it--especially where Evelyn Souttar's concerned."

"Oh, I don't think you should talk like that," urged Miss Chapman
nervously.

"I say what I think," asserted Miss Snodgrass. "And if I had my way,
I'd give Laura Rambotham something she wouldn't forget. That child'll
come to a bad end yet.--How do you like that colour, Miss C.?" She had
a nest of cloth-patterns in her lap, and held one up as she spoke.

"Oh, you shouldn't say such things," remonstrated Miss Chapman.
"There's many a true word said in jest." She settled her glasses on her
nose. "It's very nice, but I think I like a bottle-green better."

"Of course, I don't mean she'll end on the gallows, if that's what
troubles you. But she's frightfully unbalanced, and, to my mind, ought
to have some sense knocked into her before it's too late.--That's a
better shade, isn't it?"

"Poor little Laura," said Miss Chapman, and drew a sigh. "Yes, I like
that. Where did you say you were going to have the dress made?"

Miss Snodgrass named, not without pride, one of the first warehouses in
the city. "I've been saving up my screw for it, and I mean to have
something decent this time. Besides, I know one of the men in the shop,
and I'm going to make them do it cheap." And here they fell to
discussing price and cut.

Thus the onlookers laughed and quizzed and wondered; no one was bold
enough to put an open question to Evelyn, and Evelyn did not offer to
take anyone into her confidence. She held even hints and allusions at
bay, with her honeyed laugh; which was HER shield against the world.
Laura was the only person who ever got behind this laugh, and what she
discovered there, she did not tell. As it was, varying motives were
suggested for Evelyn's long-suffering, nobody being ready to believe
that it could really be fondness, on her part, for the Byronic atom of
humanity she had attracted to her.

However that might be, the two girls, the big fair one and the little
dark one, were, outside class-hours, seldom apart. Evelyn did not
often, as in the case of the birdlike Lolo, give her young tyrant cause
for offence; if she sometimes sought another's company, it was done in
a roguish spirit--from a feminine desire to tease. Perhaps, too, she
was at heart not averse to Laura's tantrums, or to testing her own
power in quelling them. On the whole, though, she was very careful of
her little friend's sensitive spots. She did not repeat the experiment
of taking Laura out with her; as her stay at school drew to a close she
went out less frequently herself; for the reason that, no matter how
late it was on her getting back, she would find Laura obstinately
sitting up in bed, wide-awake. And it went against the grain in her to
keep the pale-faced girl from sleep.

On such occasions, while she undid her pretty muslin dress, unpinned
the flowers she was never without, and loosened her gold-brown hair,
which she had put up for the evening: while she undressed, Evelyn had
to submit to a rigorous cross-examination. Laura demanded to know where
she had been, what she had done, whom she had spoken to; and woe to her
if she tried to shirk a question. Laura was not only jealous, she was
extraordinarily suspicious; and the elder girl had need of all her
laughing kindness to steer her way through the shallows of distrust.
For a great doubt of Evelyn's sincerity had implanted itself in Laura's
mind: she could not forget the incident of the "mostly fools"; and,
after an evening of this kind, she never felt quite sure that Evelyn
was not deceiving her afresh out of sheer goodness of heart, of
course--by assuring her that she had had a "horrid time", been bored to
death, and would have much preferred to stay with her; when the truth
was that, in the company of some moustached idiot or other, she had
enjoyed herself to the top of her bent.

On the night Laura learned that her friend had again met the loathly
"Jim", there was a great to-do. In vain Evelyn laughed, reasoned,
expostulated. Laura was inconsolable.

"Look here, Poppet," said Evelyn at last, and was so much in earnest
that she laid her hairbrush down, and took Laura by both her bony
little shoulders. "Look here, you surely don't expect me to be an old
maid, do you?--ME?" The pronoun signified all she might not say: it
meant wealth, youth, beauty, and an unbounded capacity for pleasure.

"Evvy, you're not going to MARRY that horrid man?"

"Of course not, goosey. But that doesn't mean that I'm never going to
marry at all, does it?"

Laura supposed not--with a tremendous sniff.

"Well, then, what IS all the fuss about?"

It was not so easy to say. She was of course reconciled, she sobbed, to
Evelyn marrying some day: only plain and stupid girls were left to be
old maids: but it must not happen for years and years and years to
come, and when it did, it must be to some one much older than herself,
some one she did not greatly care for: in short, Evelyn was to marry
only to escape the odium of the single life.

Having drawn this sketch of her future word by word from the weeping
Laura, Evelyn fell into a fit of laughter which she could not stifle.
"Well, Poppet," she said when she could speak, "if that's your idea of
happiness for me, we'll postpone it just as long as ever we can. I'm
all there. For I mean to have a good time first--a jolly good
time--before I tie myself up for ever, world without end, amen."

"That's just what I hate so--your good time, as you call it," retorted
Laura, smarting under the laughter.

"Everyone does, child. You'll be after it yourself when you're a little
older."

"Me?--never!"

"Oh, yes, indeed you will."

"I won't. I hate men and I always shall. And oh, I thought"--with an
upward, sobbing breath--"I thought you liked me best."

"Of course I like you, you silly child! But that's altogether
different. And I don't like you any less because I enjoy having some
fun with them, too."

"I don't want your old leavings!" said Laura savagely. It hurt, almost
as much as having a tooth pulled out, did this knowledge that your
friend's affection was wholly yours only as long as no man was in
question. And out of the sting, Laura added: "Wait till I'm grown up,
and I'll show them what I think of them--the pigs!"

This time Evelyn had to hold her hand in front of her mouth. "No, no, I
don't mean to laugh at you. Come, be good now," she petted. "And you
really must go to bed, Laura. It's past twelve o'clock, and that
infernal machine'll be going off before you've had any sleep at all."

The "machine" was Laura's alarum, which ran down every night just now
at two o'clock. For, if one thing was sure, it was that affairs with
Laura were in a sorry muddle. In this, the last and most momentous year
of her school life, at the close of which, like a steep wall to be
scaled, rose the university examination, she was behindhand with her
work, and occupied a mediocre place in her class. So steadfastly was
her attention pitched on Evelyn that she could link it to nothing else:
in the middle of an important task, her thoughts would stray to
contemplate her friend or wonder what she was doing; while, if Evelyn
were out for the evening, Laura gave up her meagre pretence of study
altogether, and moodily propped her head in her hand. This was why she
had hit on the small hours for the necessary cramming; then, there were
no distractions: the great house was as still as an empty church; and
Evelyn lay safe and sound before her. So, punctually at two o'clock
Laura was startled, with a pounding heart, out of her first sleep; and
lighting the gas she sat up in bed and pored over her books. Evelyn was
not disturbed by the light, or at least she did not complain; and it
was certainly a famous time for committing things to memory: the
subsequent hours of sleep seemed rather to etch the facts into your
brain than to blur them.

You cannot however rob Peter to pay Paul, with impunity, and in the
weeks that followed, despite her nightly industry, Laura made no
headway.

As the term tapered to an end, things went from bad to worse with her;
and since, besides, the parting with Evelyn was at the door, she was
often to be seen with red-rimmed eyelids, which she did not even try to
conceal.

"As if she'd lost her nearest relation!" laughed her school-fellows.
And did they meet her privately, on the stairs or in a house-corridor,
they crossed their hands on their breasts and turned up their eyes, in
tragedy-fashion.

Laura hardly saw them; for once in her life ridicule could not have
her. The nearer the time drew, the more completely did the coming loss
of Evelyn push other considerations into the background. It was bitter
to reflect that her present dear friendship had no more strength to
endure than the thin pretences of friendship she had hitherto played
at. Evelyn and she would, no doubt, from time to time meet and take
pleasure in each other again; but their homes lay hundreds of miles
apart; and the intimacy of the schooldays was passing away, never to
return. And no one could be held to blame for this. Evelyn's mother and
father thought, rightly enough, that it was time for their daughter to
leave school--but that was all. They did not really miss her, or need
her. No, it was just a stupid, crushing piece of ill-luck, which
happened one did not know why. The ready rebel in Laura sprang into
being again; and she fought hard against the lesson that there are
events in life--bitter, grim, and grotesque events--beneath which one
can only bow one's head.--A further effect of the approaching
separation was to bring home to her a sense of the fleetingness of
things; she began to grasp that, everywhere and always, even while you
revelled in them, things were perpetually rushing to a close; and the
fact of them being things you loved, or enjoyed, was powerless to
diminish the speed at which they escaped you.

Of course, though, these were sensations rather than thoughts; and they
did not hinder Laura from going on her knees to Evelyn, to implore her
to remain. Day after day Evelyn kindly and patiently explained why this
could not be; and if she sometimes drew a sigh at the child's
persistence, it was too faint to be audible. Now Laura knew that it was
possible to kill animal-pets by surfeiting them; and, towards the end,
a suspicion dawned on her that you might perhaps damage feelings in the
same way. It stood to reason: no matter how fond two people were of
each other, the one who was about to emerge, like a butterfly from its
sheath, could not be asked to regret her release; and, at moments--when
Laura lay sobbing face downwards on her bed, or otherwise vented her
pertinacious and disruly grief--at these moments she thought she
scented a dash of relief in Evelyn, at the prospect of deliverance.

But such delicate hints on the part of the hidden self are rarely able
to gain a hearing; and, as the days dropped off one by one, like
over-ripe fruit, Laura surrendered herself more and more blindly to her
emotions. The consequence was, M. P.'s prediction came true: in the
test-examinations which took place at midwinter, Laura, together with
the few dunces of her class, was ignominiously plucked. And still
staggering under this blow, she had to kiss Evelyn good-bye, and to set
her face for home.




XXIV.


WAS MICH NICHT UMBRINGT, MACHT MICH STARKER.

NIETZSCHE


Mother did not know or understand anything about "tests"; and Laura had
no idea of enlightening her. She held her peace, and throughout the
holidays hugged her disgraceful secret to her, untold. She had never
before failed to pass an examination, having always lightly skimmed the
surface of them on the wings of her parrot-like memory; hence, at home
no one suspected that anything was amiss with her. The knowledge
weighed the more heavily on her own mind. And, as if her other troubles
were not enough, she was now beset by nervous fears about the future.
She saw chiefly rocks ahead. If she did not succeed in getting through
the final examination in summer, she would not be allowed to present
herself for matriculation, and, did this happen, there would be the
very devil to pay. All her schooling would, in Mother's eyes, have been
for naught. For Mother was one of those people who laid tremendous
weight on prizes and examinations, as offering a tangible proof that
your time had not been wasted or misspent. Besides this, she could not
afford in the event of a failure, to pay the school-fees for another
year. The money which, by hook and by crook, had been scraped together
and hoarded up for Laura's education was now coming to an end; as it
was, the next six months would mean a terrible pinching and screwing.
The other children, too, were growing day by day more costly; their
little minds and bodies clamoured for a larger share of attention. And
Laura's eyes were rudely opened to the struggle Mother had had to make
both ends meet, while her first-born was acquiring wisdom; for Mother
spoke of it herself, spoke openly of her means and resources, perhaps
with some idea of rousing in Laura a gratitude that had so far been
dormant.

If this was her intention she failed. Laura was much too fast entangled
in her own troubles, to have leisure for such a costly feeling as
gratitude; and Mother's outspokenness only added a fresh weight to her
pack. It seemed as if everybody and everything were ranged against her;
and guilty, careworn, lonely, she shrank into her shell. About school
affairs she again kept her lips shut, enduring, like a stubborn martyr,
the epithets "close" and "deceitful" this reticence earned her. Her
time was spent in writing endless, scrawly letters to Evelyn, which
covered days; in sitting moodily at the top of the fir tree which she
climbed in defiance of her length of petticoat glaring at sunsets, and
brooding on dead delights; in taking long, solitary, evening walks, by
choice on the heel of a thunderstorm, when the red earth was riddled by
creeklets of running water; till Mother, haunted by a lively fear of
encounters with "swags" or Chinamen, put her foot down and forbade them.

Sufferers are seldom sweet-tempered; and Laura formed no exception.
Pin, her most frequent companion, had to bear the brunt of her
acrimony: hence the two were soon at war again. For Pin was tactless,
and took small heed of her sister's grumpy moods, save to cavil at
them. Laura's buttoned-upness, for instance, and her love of solitude,
were perverse leanings to Pin's mind; and she spoke out against them
with the assurance of one who has public opinion at his back. Laura
retaliated by falling foul of little personal traits in Pin: a nervous
habit she had of clearing her throat--her very walk. They quarrelled
passionately, having branched as far apart as the end-points of what is
ultimately to be a triangle, between which the connecting lines have
not yet been drawn.

Sometimes they even came to blows.

"I'll fetch your ma to you--that I will!" threatened Sarah, called by
the noise of the scuffle. "Great girls like you--fightin' like
bandicoots! You ought to be downright ashamed o' yourselves."

"I don't know what's come over you two, I'm sure," scolded Mother, when
the combatants had been parted and brought before her in the kitchen,
where she was rolling pastry. "You never used to go on like this.--Pin,
stop that noise. Do you want to deafen me?"

"She hit me first," sobbed Pin. "It's always Laura who begins."

"I'll teach her to cheek me like that!"

"Well, all I can say is," said Mother exasperated, and pushed a lock of
hair off her perspiring forehead with the back of her hand. "All I say
is, big girls as you are, you deserve to have the nonsense whipped out
of you.--As for you, Laura, if this is your only return for all the
money I've spent on you, then I wish from my heart you'd never seen the
inside of that Melbourne school."

"How pretty your eyes look, mother, when your eyelashes get floury!"
said Laura, struck by the vivid contrast of black and white. She merely
stated the fact, without intent to flatter, her anger being given to
puffing out as suddenly as it kindled.

"Oh, get along with you!" said Mother, at the same time skilfully
lifting and turning a large, thin sheet of paste. "You can't get round
ME like that."

"You used to have nice, ladylike manners," she said on another
occasion, when Laura, summoned to the drawingroom to see a visitor, had
in Mother's eyes disgraced them both. "Now, you've no more idea how to
behave than a country bumpkin. You sit there, like a stock or a stone,
as if you didn't know how to open your mouth."--Mother was very cross.

"I didn't want to see that old frump anyhow," retorted Laura, who
inclined to charge the inhabitants of the township with an extreme
provinciality. "And what else was there to say, but yes or no? She
asked me all things I didn't know anything about. You don't want me to
tell stories, I suppose?"

"Well, if a child of mine doesn't know the difference between being
polite and telling stories," said Mother, completely outraged, "then,
all I can say is, it's a ... a great shame!" she wound up lamely, after
the fashion of hot-tempered people who begin a sentence without being
clear how they are going to end it.--"You were a nice enough child
once. If only I'd never let you leave home."

This jeremiad was repeated by Mother and chorused by the rest till
Laura grew incensed. She was roused to defend her present self, at the
cost of her past perfections; and this gave rise to new dissensions.

So that in spite of what she had to face at school, she was not
altogether sorry, when the time came, to turn her back on her unknowing
and hence unsympathetic relations. She journeyed to Melbourne on one of
those pleasant winter days when the sun shines from morning till night
in a cloudless sky, and the chief mark of the season is the
extraordinary greenness of the grass; returned a pale, determined,
lanky girl, full of the grimmest resolutions.

The first few days were like a bad dream. The absence of Evelyn came
home to her in all its crushing force. A gap yawned drearily where
Evelyn had been--but then, she had been everywhere. There was now a
kind of emptiness about the great school--except for memories, which
cropped up at each turn. Laura was in a strange room, with strange,
indifferent girls; and for a time she felt as lonely as she had done in
those unthinkable days when she was still the poor little green "new
chum".

Her companions were not wilfully unkind to her--her last extravagance
had been foolish, not criminal--and two or three were even sorry for
the woebegone figure she cut. But her idolatrous attachment to Evelyn
had been the means of again drawing round her one of those magic
circles, which held her schoolfellows at a distance. And the aroma of
her eccentricity still clung to her. The members of her class were deep
in study, too; little was now thought or spoken of but the approaching
examinations. And her first grief over, Laura set her teeth and flung
herself on her lessons like a dog on a bone, endeavouring to pack the
conscientious work of twelve months into less than six.

The days were feverish with energy. But at night the loneliness
returned, and was only the more intense because, for some hours on end,
she had been able to forget it.

On one such night when she lay wakeful, haunted by the prospect of
failure, she turned over the leaves of her Bible--she had been
memorising her weekly portion--and read, not as a school-task, but for
herself. By chance she lighted on the Fourteenth Chapter of St John,
and the familiar, honey-sweet words fell on her heart like caresses.
Her tears flowed; both at the beauty of the language and out of pity
for herself; and before she closed the Book, she knew that she had
found a well of comfort that would never run dry.

In spite of a certain flabbiness in its outward expression, deep down
in Laura the supreme faith of childhood still dwelt intact: she
believed, with her whole heart, in the existence of an all-knowing God,
and just as implicitly in His perfect power to succour His human
children at will. But thus far on her way she had not greatly needed
Him: at the most, she had had recourse to Him for forgiveness of sin.
Now, however, the sudden withdrawal of a warm, human sympathy seemed to
open up a new use for Him. An aching void was in her and about her; it
was for Him to fill this void with the riches of His love.--And she
comforted herself for her previous lack of warmth, by the reminder that
His need also was chiefly of the heavy-laden and oppressed.

In the spurt of intense religious fervour that now set in for her, it
was to Christ she turned by preference, rather than to the remoter God
the Father. For of the latter she carried a kind of Michelangelesque
picture in her brain: that of an old, old man with a flowing grey
beard, who sat, Turk-fashion, one hand plucking at this beard, the
other lying negligently across His knees. Christ, on the contrary, was
a young man, kindly of face, and full of tender invitation.

To this younger, tenderer God, she proffered long and glowing prayers,
which vied with one another in devoutness. Soon she felt herself led by
Him, felt herself a favourite lying on His breast; and, as the days
went by, her ardour so increased that she could not longer consume the
smoke of her own fire: it overspread her daily life--to the renewed
embarrassment of her schoolfellows. Was it then impossible, they asked
themselves, for Laura Rambotham to do anything in a decorous and
ladylike way. Must she at every step put them out of countenance? It
was not respectable to be so fervent. Religion, felt they, should be
practised with modesty; be worn like an indispensable but private
garment. Whereas she committed the gross error in taste of, as it were,
parading it outside her other clothes.

Laura, her thoughts turned heavenwards, did not look low enough to
detect the distaste in her comrades' eyes. The farther she spun herself
into her intimacy with the Deity, the more indifferent did she grow to
the people and things of this world.

Weeks passed. Her feelings, in the beginning a mere blissful certainty
that God was Love and she was God's, ceased to be wholly passive. Thus,
her first satisfaction at her supposed election was soon ousted by
self-righteousness, did she contemplate her unremitting devotion. And
one night, when her own eloquence at prayer had brought the moisture to
her eyes--one night the inspiration fell. Throughout these weeks, she
had faithfully worshipped God without asking so much as a pin's head
from Him in return; she had given freely; all she had, had been His.
Now the time had surely come when she might claim to be rewarded. Now
it was for Him to show that He had appreciated her homage.--Oh, it was
so easy a thing for Him to help her, if He would ... if He only would!

Pressing her fingers to her eyeballs till the starry blindness was
effected that induces ecstasy, she prostrated herself before the
mercy-seat, not omitting, at this crisis, to conciliate the Almighty by
laying stress on her own exceeding unworthiness.

"Oh, dear Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me, miserable sinner! Oh, Christ,
I ask Thy humble pardon! For I have been weak, Lord, and have forgotten
to serve Thy Holy Name. My thoughts have erred and strayed like ...
like lost sheep. But loved Thee, Jesus, all the time, my heart seemed
full as it would hold ... no, I didn't mean to say that. But I was not
ever thus, nor prayed that Thou shouldst lead me on. But now, dear
Jesus, if Thou wilt only grant me my desire, I will never forget Thee
or be false to Thee again. I will love Thee and serve Thee, all the
days of my life, till death us do ... I mean, only let me pass my
examinations, Lord, and there is nothing I will not do for Thee in
return. Oh, dear Lord Jesus, Son of Mary, hear my prayer, and I will
worship Thee and adore Thee, and never forget Thee, and that Thou hast
died to save me! Grant me this my prayer, Lord, for Christ's sake,
Amen."

It came to this: Laura made a kind of pact with God, in which His aid
at the present juncture guaranteed her continued, unswerving allegiance.

The idea once lodged in her mind, she wrestled with Him night after
night, filling His ears with her petitions, and remaining on her knees
for such an immoderate length of time that her room-mates, who were
sleepy, openly expressed their impatience.

"Oh, draw it mild, Laura!" said the girl in the neighbouring bed, when
it began to seem as if the supplicant would never rise to her feet
again. "Leave something to ask Him to-morrow."

But Laura, knowing very well that the Lord our God is a jealous God,
was mindful not to scrimp in lip-service, or to shirk the minutest
ceremony by means of which He might be propitiated and won over. Her
prayers of greeting and farewell, on entering and leaving church, were
drawn out beyond anyone else's; she did not doze or dream over a single
clause of the Litany, with its hypnotising refrain; and she not only
made the sign of the Cross at the appropriate place in the Creed, but
also privately at every mention of Christ's name.

Meanwhile, of course, she worked at her lessons with unflagging zeal,
for it was by no means her intention to throw the whole onus of her
success on the Divine shoulders. She overworked; and on one occasion
had a distressing lapse of memory.

And at length spring was gone and summer come, and the momentous week
arrived on which her future depended. Now, though, she was not alone in
her trepidation. The eyes of even the surest members of the form had a
steely glint in them, and mouths were hard. Dr. Pughson's papers were
said to be far more formidable than the public examination: if you got
happily through these, you were safe.

Six subjects were compulsory; high-steppers took nine. Laura was one of
those with eight, and since her two obligatory mathematics were not to
be relied on, she could not afford to fail in a single subject.

In the beginning, things, with the exception of numbers, went pretty
well with her. Then came the final day, and with it the examination in
history. Up to the present year Laura had cut a dash in history; now
her brain was muddled, her memory overtaxed, by her having had to cram
the whole of Green's HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE in a few months,
besides a large dose of GREECE and ROME. Reports ran of the
exceptionally "catchy" nature of Dr Pughson's questions; and Laura's
prayer, the night before, was more like a threat than a supplication.
The class had only just entered the Headmaster's room on the eventful
morning, and begun to choose desks, when there came a summons to Laura
to take a music-lesson. This was outside consideration, and Dr Pughson
made short work of the intruder--a red-haired little girl, who blushed
meekly and unbecomingly, and withdrew. Here, however, Laura rose and
declared that, under these circumstances, some explanation was due to
Monsieur Boehmer, the music-master, to-day's lesson being in fact a
rehearsal for the annual concert.

Dr Pughson raised his red-rimmed eyes from his desk and looked very
fierce.

"Tch, tch, tch!" he snapped, in the genial Irish fashion that made him
dreaded and adored. "How like a woman that is! Playing at concerts when
she can't add two and two together!--Your arithmetic paper's fit for
PUNCH, Miss Rambotham."

The smile he looked for went round.

"Have you seen the questions?--no? Well, give them here then. You've
got to go, I suppose, or we might deprive the concert of your shining
light.--Hurry back, now. Stir your stumps!"

But this Laura had no intention of doing. In handling the printed slip,
her lagging eye had caught the last and most vital question: "Give a
full account of Oliver Cromwell's Foreign Policy."--And she did not
know it! She dragged out her interview with the music-master, put
questions wide of the point, insisted on lingering till he had arranged
another hour for the postponed rehearsal; and, as she walked, as she
talked, as she listened to Monsieur Boehmer's ridiculous English, she
strove in vain to recall jot or tittle of Oliver's relations to foreign
powers.--Oh, for just a peep at the particular page of Green! For, if
once she got her cue, she believed she could go on.

The dining-hall was empty when she went through it on her way back to
the classroom: her history looked lovingly at her from its place on the
shelf. But she did not dare to go over to it, take it out, and turn up
the passage: that was too risky. What she did do, however, when she had
almost reached the door, was to dash back, pull out a synopsis--[P.262]
a slender, medium-sized volume--and hastily and clumsily button this
inside the bodice of her dress. The square, board-like appearance it
gave her figure, where it projected beyond the sides of her apron, she
concealed by hunching her shoulders.

Her lightning plan was, to enter a cloakroom, snatch a hurried peep at
Oliver's confounded policy, then hide the book somewhere till the
examination was over. But on emerging from the dining-hall she all but
collided with the secretary, who had come noiselessly across the
verandah; and she was so overcome by the thought of the danger she had
run, and by Miss Blount's extreme surprise at Dr Pughson's leniency,
that she allowed herself to be driven back to the examination-room
without a word.

The girls were hard at it; they scarcely glanced up when she opened the
door. From her friends' looks, she could judge of the success they were
having. Cupid, for instance, was smirking to herself in the peculiar
fashion that meant satisfaction; M. P.'s cheeks were the colour of
monthly roses. And soon Laura, crouching low to cover her deformity,
was at work like the rest.

Had only Oliver Cromwell never been born!--thus she reflected, when she
had got the easier part of the paper behind her. Why could it not have
been a question about Bourke and Wills, or the Eureka Stockade, or the
voyages of Captain Cook? ... something about one's own country, that
one had heard hundreds of times and was really interested in. Or a big,
arresting thing like the Retreat of the Ten Thousand, or Hannibal's
March over the Alps? Who cared for old Oliver, and his shorn head, and
his contempt for baubles! What did it matter now to anyone what his
attitude had been, more than two hundred years ago, to all those
far-away, dream-like countries? ... Desperately she pressed her hand to
her eyes. She knew the very page of Green on which Cromwell's foreign
relations were set forth; knew where the paragraph began, near the foot
of the page: what she could not get hold of was the opening sentence
that would have set her mechanical memory a-rolling.

The two hours drew steadily to a close. About half an hour beforehand
the weakest candidates began to rise, to hand in their papers and leave
the room; but it was not till ten minutes to twelve that the "crack"
girls stopped writing. Laura was to be allowed an extra twenty minutes,
and it was on this she relied. At last, she was alone with the master.
But though he was already dipping into the examination-papers, he was
not safe. She had unbuttoned two buttons and was at a third, when he
looked up so unexpectedly that she was scared out of her senses, and
fastened her dress again with all the haste she could. Three or four of
the precious minutes were lost.

At this point, the door opened and Mr. Strachey strode into the room.
Dr Pughson blinked up from the stacks of papers, rose, and the two
spoke in low tones. Then, with a glance at Laura, they went together to
the door, which Dr Pughson held to behind him, and stood just over the
threshold. As they warmed to their talk, the master let the door slip
into the latch.

Laura could see them from where she sat, without being seen. A moment
later they moved stealthily away, going down the verandah in the
direction of the office.

Now for it! With palsied hands she undid her bodice, clutched at the
book, forced her blurred eyes to find the page, and ran them over it. A
brief survey: five or six heads to remember: a few dates. Flapped to
again; tucked under her apron; shoved into her bosom.

And not a second too soon. There he came, hurrying back. And three
buttons were still undone. But Laura's head was bent over her desk:
though her heart was pummelling her ribs, her pen now ran like
lightning; and by the time the order to stop was given, she had covered
the requisite number of sheets. Afterwards she had adroitly to rid
herself of the book, then to take part--a rather pale-eyed, distracted
part--in the lively technical discussions that ensued; when each
candidate was as long-winded on the theme of her success, or
non-success, as a card-player on his hand at the end of a round.
Directly she could make good her escape, she pleaded a headache,
climbed to her bedroom and stretched herself flat on her bed. She was
through--but at what a cost! She felt quite sore. Her very bones seemed
to hurt her.

Not till she was thoroughly rested, and till she had assured herself
that all risk attaching to the incident was over, did she come to
reflect on the part God had played in the business. And then, it must
be admitted, she found it a sorry one. Just at first, indeed, her
limpid faith was shocked into a reluctance to believe that He had
helped her at all: His manner of doing it would have been so
inexpressibly mean. But, little by little, she dug deeper, and
eventually she reached the [P.265] conclusion that He had given her the
option of this way, throwing it open to her and then standing back and
watching to see what she would do, without so much as raising an eyelid
to influence her decision. In fact, the more she pondered over it, the
more inclined she grew to think that it had been a kind of snare on the
part of God, to trap her afresh into sin, and thus to prolong her
dependence on Him after her crying need was past. But, if this were
true, if He had done this, then He must LIKE people to remain miserable
sinners, so that He might have them always crawling to His feet. And
from this view of the case her ingenuous young mind shrank appalled.
She could not go on loving and worshipping a God who was capable of
double dealing; who could behave in such a "mean, Jewy fashion". Nor
would she ever forget His having forced her to endure the moments of
torture she had come through that day.

Lying on her bed, she grappled with these thoughts. A feeling of deep
resentment was their abiding result. Whatever His aim, it had been past
expression pitiless of Him, Him who had at His command thousands of
pleasanter ways in which to help her, thus to drive a poor unhappy girl
to extremities: one, too, whose petition had not been prompted by
selfish ends alone. What she had implored of Him touched Mother even
more nearly than herself: her part prayer to Him had been to save
Mother--whose happiness depended on things like examinations--from a
bitter disappointment. That much at least He had done--she would give
Him His due--but at the expense of her entire self-respect. Oh, He must
have a cold, calculating heart ... could one only see right down into
it. The tale of His clemency and compassion, which the Bible told, was
not to be interpreted literally: when one came to think of it, had He
ever--outside the Bible--been known to stoop from His judgment-seat,
and lovingly and kindly intervene? It was her own absurd mistake: she
had taken the promises made through His Son, for gospel truth; had
thought He really meant what He said, about rewarding those who were
faithful to Him. Her companions--the companions on whom, from the
heights of her piety, she had looked pityingly down--were wiser than
she. They did not abase themselves before Him, and vow a lifelong
devotion; but neither did they make any but the most approved demands
on Him. They satisfied their consciences by paying Him lip-homage, by
confessing their sins, and by asking for a vague, far-distant mercy, to
which they attached no great importance. Hence, they never came into
fierce personal conflict with Him. Nor would she, ever again; from this
time forward, she would rival the rest in lukewarmness.--But, before
she could put this resolve into force, she had to let her first
indignation subside: only then was it possible for her to recover the
shattering of her faith, and settle down to practise religion after the
glib and shallow mode of her friends. She did not, however, say her
prayers that night, or for many a right to come; and when, at church,
Christ's name occurred in the Service, she held her head erect, and
shut the ears and eyes of her soul.




XXV.


IHR LERNTET ALLE NICHT TANZEN, WIE MAN TANZEN MUSS--UBER EUCH HINWEG
TANZEN!

NIETZSCHE


The school year had ebbed; the ceremonies that attended its conclusion
were over. A few days beforehand, the fifth-form boarders, under the
tutelage of a couple of governesses, drove off early in the morning to
the distant university. On the outward journey the candidates were
thoughtful and subdued; but as they returned home, in the late
afternoon, their spirits were not to be kept within seemly bounds. They
laughed, sang, and rollicked about inside the wagonette, Miss Zielinski
weakly protesting unheard--were so rowdy that the driver pushed his
cigar-stump to the corner of his mouth, to be able to smile at ease,
and flicked his old horse into a canter. For the public examination had
proved as anticipated, child's play, compared with what the class had
been through at Dr Pughson's hands; and its accompanying details were
of an agreeable nature: the weather was not too hot; the
examination-hall was light and airy; through the flung-back windows
trees and flowering shrubs looked in; the students were watched over by
a handsome Trinity man, who laid his straw hat on the desk before him.

Then came the annual concert, at which none of the performers broke
down; Speech Day, when the body of a big hall was crowded with
relatives and friends, and when so many white, blue-beribboned frocks
were massed together on the platform, that this looked like a great bed
of blue and white flowers; and, finally, trunks were brought out from
boxrooms and strewn through the floors, and upper-form girls emptied
cupboards and drawers into them for the last time.

On the evening before the general dispersion, Laura, Cupid, and M. P.
walked the well-known paths of the garden once again. While the two
elder girls were more loquacious than their wont, Laura was quieter.
She had never wholly recovered her humour since the day of the
history-examination; and she still could not look back, with composure,
on the jeopardy in which she had placed herself one little turn of the
wheel in the wrong direction, and the end of her schooldays would have
been shame and disgrace.--And just as her discovery of God's stratagem
had damped her religious ardour, so her antipathy to the means she had
been obliged to employ had left a feeling of enmity in her, towards the
school and everything connected with it: she had counted the hours till
she could turn her back on it altogether. None the less, now that the
time had come there was a kind of ache in her at having to say
good-bye; for it was in her nature to let go unwillingly of things,
places and people once known. Besides, glad as she felt to have done
with learning, she was unclear what was to come next. The idea of life
at home attracted her as little as ever--Mother had even begun to hint
as well that she would now be expected to instruct her young brothers.
Hence, her parting was effected with very mixed feelings; she did not
know in the least where she really belonged, or under what conditions
she would be happy; she was conscious only of a mild sorrow at having
to take leave of the shelter of years.

Her two companions had no such doubts and regrets; for them the past
was already dead and gone; their talk was all of the future, so soon to
become the present. They forecast this, mapping it out for themselves
with the iron belief in their power to do so, which is the hall-mark of
youth.

Laura, walking at their side, listened to their words with the deepest
interest, and with the reverence she had learned to extend to all
opinions save her own.

M. P. proposed to return to Melbourne at the end of the vacation; for
she was going on to Trinity, where she intended to take one degree
after another. She hesitated only whether it was to be in medicine or
arts.

"Oogh! ... to cut off people's legs!" ejaculated Laura. "M. P., how
awful."

"Oh, one soon gets used to that, child.--But I think, on the whole, I
should prefer to take up teaching. Then I shall probably be able to
have a school of my own some day."

"I shouldn't wonder if you got Sandy's place here," said Laura, who was
assured that M. P.'s massy intellect would open all doors.

"Who knows?" answered Mary, and set her lips in a determined fashion of
her own. "Stranger things have happened."

Cupid, less enamoured of continual discipline, intended to be a writer.
"My cousin says I've got the stuff in me. And he's a journalist and
ought to know."

"I should rather think he ought."

"Well, I mean to have a shot at it."

"And you, Laura?" M. P. asked suavely.

"Me?--Oh, goodness knows!"

"Close as usual, Infant."

"No, really not, Cupid."

"Well, you'll soon have to make up your mind to something now. You're
nearly sixteen.--Why not go on working for your B.A.?"

"No thanks! I've had enough of that here." And Laura's thoughts waved
their hands, as it were, to the receding figure of Oliver Cromwell.

"Be a teacher, then."

"M.P.! I never want to hear a date or add up a column of figures again."

"Laura!"

"It's the solemn truth. I'm fed up with all those blessed things."

"Fancy not having a single wish!"

"Wish? ... oh, I've tons of wishes. First I want to be with Evvy again.
And then, I want to see things--yes, that most of all. Hundreds and
thousands of things. People, and places, and what they eat, and how
they dress, and China, and Japan ... just tons."

"You'll have to hook a millionaire for that, my dear."

"And perhaps you'll write a book about your travels for us
stay-at-homes."

"Gracious! I shouldn't know how to begin. But you'll send me all you
write--all YOUR books--won't you, Cupid? And, M. P., you'll let me come
and see you get your degrees--every single one."

With these and similar promises the three girls parted. They never met
again. For a time they exchanged letters regularly, many-sheeted
letters, full of familiar, personal detail. Then the detail ceased, the
pages grew fewer in number, the time-gap longer. Letters in turn gave
place to mere notes and postcards, scribbled in violent haste, at wide
intervals. And ultimately even these ceased; and the great silence of
separation was unbroken. Nor were the promises redeemed: there came to
Laura neither gifts of books nor calls to be present at academic
robings. Within six months of leaving school, M. P. married and settled
down in her native township; and thereafter she was forced to adjust
the rate of her progress to the steps of halting little feet. Cupid
went a-governessing, and spent the best years of her life in the
obscurity of the bush.

And Laura? ... In Laura's case, no kindly Atropos snipped the thread of
her aspirations: these, large, vague, extemporary, one and all achieved
fulfilment; then withered off to make room for more. But this, the
future still securely hid from her. She went out from school with the
uncomfortable sense of being a square peg, which fitted into none of
the round holes of her world; the wisdom she had got, the experience
she was richer by, had, in the process of equipping her for life,
merely seemed to disclose her unfitness. She could not then know that,
even for the squarest peg, the right hole may ultimately be found;
seeming unfitness prove to be only another aspect of a peculiar and
special fitness. But, of the after years, and what they brought her, it
is not the purport of this little book to tell. It is enough to say:
many a day came and went before she grasped that, oftentimes, just
those mortals who feel cramped and unsure in the conduct of everyday
life, will find themselves to rights, with astounding ease, in that
freer, more spacious world where no practical considerations hamper,
and where the creatures that inhabit dance to their tune: the world
where are stored up men's best thoughts, the hopes, and fancies; where
the shadow is the substance, and the multitude of business pales before
the dream.

In the meantime, however, the exodus of the fifty-five turned the
College upside-down.

Early the following morning Laura made her final preparations for
departure. This, alas! was not to be on so imposing a scale as the
departures of her schoolfellows. They, under special escort, would have
a cab apiece, and would drive off with flying handkerchiefs and all
their luggage piled high in front. Whereas Laura's box had gone by van:
for she and Pin, who was in Melbourne on a visit, were to spend a
couple of days at Godmother's before starting up-country. Even her
farewells, which she had often rehearsed to herself with dramatic
emphasis, went off without eclat. Except for Miss Chapman, the
governesses were absent when the moment came, and Miss Chapman's mind
was so full of other things that she went on giving orders while she
was shaking hands.

But Laura was not destined to leave the walls, within the shadow of
which she had learned so much, as tamely as all this. There was still a
surprise in waiting for her. As she whisked about the corridors in
search of Mrs. Gurley, she met two girls, one of whom said: "I say,
Laura Rambotham, you're fetched. Your pretty sister's come for you."

"My ... who?" gaped Laura.

"Your sister. By gum, there's a nose for you--and those whopping eyes!
You'll have to play second fiddle to THAT, all your days, my dear."

On entering the reception-room Laura tried hard to see Pin with the
eyes of a stranger. Pin rose from her chair--awkwardly, of course, for
there were other people present, and Laura's violent stare was
disconcerting in the extreme: it made Pin believe her hat was crooked,
or that she had a black speck on her nose. As for Laura, she could see
no great change in her sister; the freckles were certainly paler, and
the features were perhaps beginning to emerge a little, from the
cushiony fat in which they were bedded; but that was all. Still, if
outsiders, girls in particular, were struck by it ...

A keener stab than this--really, she did not grudge Pin being pretty:
it was only the newness of the thing that hurt--a keener stab was it
that, though she had ordered Pin repeatedly, and with all the stress
she was master of, to come in a wagonette to fetch her, so that she
might at least drive away like the other girls; in spite of this, the
little nincompoop had after all arrived on foot. Godmother had said the
idea of driving was stuff and nonsense--a quite unnecessary expense.
Pin, of course, had meekly given in; and thus Laura's last brave
attempt to be comfortably like her companions came to naught. She went
out of the school in the same odd and undignified fashion in which she
had lived there.

The wrangle caused by Pin's chicken-heartedness lasted the sisters down
the garden-path, across the road, and over into the precincts of a
large, public park. Only when they were some distance through this, did
Laura wake to what was happening to her. Then, it came over her with a
rush: she was free, absolutely free; she might do any mortal thing she
chose.

As a beginning she stopped short.

"Hold on, Pin ... take this," she said, giving her sister the heavy
leather bag they were carrying in turns to the tramway. Pin obediently
held out her hand, in its little white cotton glove.

"And my hat."

"What are you going to do, Laura?"

"You'll see."

"You'll get sunstroke!"

"Fiddles!--it's quite shady. Here're my gloves.--Now, Pin, you follow
your nose and you'll find me--WHERE you find me!"

"Oh, what ARE you going to do, Laura?" cried Pin, in anxiety.

"I'm going to have a good run," said Laura; and tightened her
hair-ribbon.

"Oh, but you can't run in the street! You're too big. People'll see
you."

"Think I care?--If you'd been years only doing what you were allowed
to, I guess you'd want to do something you weren't allowed to, too.--
Good-bye!"

She was off, had darted away into the leaden heat of the December
morning, like an arrow from its bow, her head bent, her arms close to
her sides, fleet-footed as a spaniel: Pin was faced by the swift and
rhythmic upturning of her heels. There were not many people abroad at
this early hour, but the few there were, stood still and looked in
amazement after the half-grown girl in white, whose thick black plait
of hair sawed up and down as she ran; and a man with mop and bucket,
who was washing statues, stopped his work and whistled, and winked at
Pin as she passed.

Cross and confused Pin trudged after her sister, Laura's hat and gloves
in one hand, the leather bag in the other.

Right down the central avenue ran Laura, growing smaller and smaller in
the distance, the area of her movements decreasing as she ran, till she
appeared to be almost motionless, and not much larger than a figure in
the background of a picture. Then came a sudden bend in the long,
straight path. She shot round it, and was lost to sight.










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