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Carved Lions

<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> <h3>"NOBODY—NOBODY."</h3> The history of that first week might stand for the history of several months at Green Bank. That is why I have related it as clearly as possible. In one sense I suppose people would say my life grew easier to me, that is to say I got more accustomed to it, but with the "growing accustomed," increased the loss of hope and spring, so I doubt if time did bring any real improvement. I became very dull and silent. I seemed to be losing the power of complaining, or even of wishing for sympathy. I took some interest in my lessons, and almost the only pleasure I had was when I got praise for them. But that did not often happen, not as often as it should have done, I really believe. For the prejudice against me on the part of the upper teachers did not wear off. And I can see now that I must have been a disagreeable child. Nor did I win more liking among my companions.[Pg 114] They gradually came to treat me with a sort of indifferent contempt. "It's only that stupid child," I would hear said when I came into the room. The Christmas holidays came and went, without much improving matters. I spent them at school with one or two other pupils, much older than I. Miss Broom went away, and we were under Miss Aspinall's charge, for Miss Ledbury had caught a bad cold and her niece would not leave her. I preferred Miss Aspinall to Miss Broom certainly, but I had half hoped that Miss Fenmore would have stayed. She too went away, however, having got a "holiday engagement," which she was very glad of she told me when she bade me good-bye. I did not understand what she meant, beyond hearing that she was glad to go, so I said nothing about being sorry. "She doesn't care for me," I thought. I saw nothing of Haddie, though he wrote that he was very happy spending the holidays at the house of one of his schoolfellows, and I was glad of this, even while feeling so utterly deserted myself. It was very, very dull, but I felt as if I did not mind. Even mamma's letters once a fortnight gave me only a kind of tantalising pleasure, for I knew I[Pg 115] dared not really answer them. The only thing I felt glad of was that she did not know how lonely and unhappy I was, and that she never would do so till the day—the day which I could scarcely believe would ever, ever come—when I should see her again, and feel her arms round me, and know that all the misery and loneliness were over! Some new pupils came after the Christmas holidays, and one or two of the elder girls did not return. But the new boarders were older than I and took no notice of me, so their coming made no difference. One event, however, did interest me—that was the appearance at certain classes two or three times a week of a very sweet-looking little girl about my own age. She was pretty and very nicely dressed, though by no means showily, and her tone of voice and way of speaking were different from those of most of my companions. I wished she had come altogether, and then I might have made friends with her. "Only," I said to myself unselfishly, "she would most likely be as unhappy as I am, so I shouldn't wish for it." One of the classes she came to was the French one—the class which, as I have said, Miss Fenmore taught. And Miss Fenmore seemed to know her,[Pg 116] for she called her by her Christian name—"Myra." The first time I heard it I felt quite puzzled. I knew I had heard it before, though I could not remember where or when, except that it was not very long ago. And when I heard her last name, "Raby"—"Miss Raby" one of the other teachers called her—and put the two together—"Myra Raby"—I felt more and more certain I had heard them spoken of before, though I was equally certain I had never seen the little girl herself. I might have asked Miss Fenmore about her, but it did not enter into my head to do so: that was one of my odd childish ways. And it was partly, too, that I was growing more and more reserved and silent. Even to Harriet Smith I did not talk half as much as at first, and she used to tell me I was growing sulky. I took great interest in watching for Myra's appearance. I daresay if I could make a picture of her now she would seem a quaint old-fashioned little figure to you, but to me she seemed perfectly lovely. She had pretty brown hair, falling in ringlets round her delicate little face; her eyes were gray, very soft and gentle, and she had a dear little rosebud of a mouth. She was generally dressed in pale gray[Pg 117] merino or cashmere, with white lace frilled round the neck and short sleeves—all little girls wore short sleeves then, even in winter; and once when I caught a glimpse of her getting into a carriage which was waiting for her at the door, I was lost in admiration of her dark green cloth pelisse trimmed with chinchilla fur. "She must be somebody very rich and grand," I thought. But I had no opportunity of getting to know more of her, than a nice little smile or a word or two of thanks if I passed her a book at the class or happened to sit next her. For she always left immediately after the lesson was over. Up to Easter she came regularly. Then we had three weeks' holidays, and as before, Miss Fenmore went away. She was pleased to go, but when she said good-bye to me I thought she looked sad, and she called me "my poor little girl." "Why do you say that?" I asked her. She smiled and answered that she did not quite know; she thought I looked dull, and she wished I were going too. "Are you less unhappy than when you first came to school?" she said, looking at me rather earnestly. It was very seldom she had an opportunity of speaking to me alone. [Pg 118] "No," I replied, "I'm much unhappier when I think about it. But I'm getting not to think, so I don't care." She looked still graver at this. I fancy she saw that what I said was true. I was growing dulled and stupefied, as it were, for want of any one to sympathise with me or draw me out, though I did not know quite how to put this in words. As I have said before, I was not a child with much power of expression. Miss Fenmore kissed me, but she sighed as she did so. "I wish——" she began, but then she stopped. "When I come back after Easter," she said more cheerfully, "I hope I may somehow manage to see more of you, dear Geraldine." "Thank you," I answered. I daresay my voice did not sound as if I did thank her or as if I cared, though in my heart I was pleased, and often thought of what she had said during the holidays, which I found even duller than the Christmas ones had been. They came to an end at last, however, but among the returning governesses and pupils there was no Miss Fenmore. Nor did Myra Raby come again to the classes she used to attend. I wondered to myself[Pg 119] why it was so, but for some time I knew nothing about Miss Fenmore, and in the queer silent way which was becoming my habit I did not ask. At last one day a new governess made her appearance, and then I overheard some of the girls saying she was to take Miss Fenmore's place. A sort of choke came into my throat, and for the first time I realised that I had been looking forward to the pretty young governess's return. I do not remember anything special happening for some time after that. I suppose Easter must have been early that year, for when the events occurred which I am now going to relate, it was still cold and wintry weather—very rainy at least, and Mexington was always terribly gloomy in rainy weather. It seems a long stretch to look back upon—those weeks of the greatest loneliness I had yet known—but in reality I do not think it could have been more than three or four. I continued to work steadily—even hard—at my lessons. I knew that it would please mamma, and I had a vague feeling that somehow my getting on fast might shorten the time of our separation, though I could not have said why. I was really interested in some of my lessons, and anxious to do well even[Pg 120] in those I did not like. But I was not quick or clever, and often, very often, my hesitation in expressing myself made me seem far less intelligent than I actually was. Still I generally got good marks, especially for written tasks, for the teachers, though hard and strict, were not unprincipled. They did not like me, but they were fair on the whole, I think. Unluckily, however, about this time I got a bad cold. I was not seriously ill, but it hung about me for some time and made me feel very dull and stupid. I think, too, it must have made me a little deaf, though I did not know it at the time. I began to get on less well at lessons, very often making mistakes and replying at random, for which I was scolded as if I did it out of carelessness. And though I tried more and more to prepare my lessons perfectly, things grew worse and worse. At last one day they came to a point. I forget what the lesson was, and it does not matter, but every time a question came to me I answered wrongly. Once or twice I did not hear, and when I said so, Miss Broom, whose class it was, was angry, and said I was talking nonsense. It ended[Pg 121] in my bursting into tears, which I had never done before in public since I had been at Green Bank. Miss Broom was very annoyed. She said a great deal to me which between my tears and my deafness I did not hear, and at last she must have ordered me to go up to my room, for her tone grew more and more angry. "Do you mean to defy me?" she said, so loud that I heard her plainly. I stared, and I do not know what would have happened if Harriet Smith, who was near me, had not started up in her good-natured way. "She doesn't hear; she's crying so," she said. "Gerry, dear, Miss Broom says you're to go up to your room." I was nothing loth. I got up from my seat and made my way more by feeling than seeing—so blinded was I by crying—to the door, and upstairs. Arrived there, I flung myself on to the end of my bed. It was cold, and outside it was raining, raining—it seems to me now that it never left off raining at Mexington that spring; the sky, if I had looked out of the window, was one dull gray sheet. But I seemed to care for nothing—just at first the comfort of being able to cry with no one to look[Pg 122] at me was all I wanted. So I lay there sobbing, though not loudly. After some little time had passed the downstairs bell rang—it was afternoon, and the bell meant, I knew, preparation for tea. So I was not very surprised when the door opened and Emma and Harriet came in—they were both kind, Harriet especially, though her kindness was chiefly shown by loud abuse of Miss Broom. "You'd better take care, Harry," said her sister at last, "or you'll be getting into disgrace yourself, which certainly won't do Gerry any good. Do be quick and make yourself tidy, the tea-bell will be ringing in a moment. Hadn't you better wash your face and brush your hair, Gerry—you do look such a figure." "I can't go down unless Miss Broom says I may," I replied, "and I don't want any tea," though in my heart I knew I was feeling hungry. Much crying often makes children hungry; they are not like grown-up people. "Oh, nonsense," said Emma. "You'd feel ever so much better if you had some tea. What I think you're so silly for is minding—why need you care what that old Broom says? She daren't beat you[Pg 123] or starve you, and once you're at home again you can snap your fingers at school and governesses and——" Here Harriet said something to her sister in a low voice which I did not hear. It made Emma stop. "Oh, well, I can't help it," she said, or something of that kind. "It doesn't do any good to cry like that, whatever troubles you have," she went on. I got up slowly and tried to wash away some of the traces of my tears by plunging my face in cold water. Then Harriet helped me to smooth my hair and make myself look neat. Emma's words had had the effect of making me resolve to cry no more if I could help it. And a moment or two later I was glad I had followed her advice, for one of the elder girls came to our room with a message to say that I was to go down to tea, and after tea I was to stay behind in the dining-room as Miss Aspinall wished to speak to me. "Very well," I said. But the moment the other girl had gone both Emma and Harriet began again. "That horrid old Broom," said Harriet, "just fancy her complaining to Miss Aspinall." And "Promise me, Gerry," said Emma, "not to mind what she says, and whatever you do, don't cry.[Pg 124] There's nothing vexes old Broom so much as seeing we don't care—mean old cat." I could scarcely help laughing, my spirits had got up a little—that is to say, I felt more angry than sad now. I felt as if I really did not much care what was said to me. And I drank my tea and ate my slices of thick bread and butter with a good appetite, though I saw Miss Broom watching me from her end of the table; and when I had finished I felt, as Emma had said I should, "ever so much better"—that is to say, no longer in the least inclined to cry. Nor did I feel nervous or frightened when Miss Aspinall—all the others having gone—seated herself in front of me and began her talk. It began quite differently from what I had expected. She was a good woman, and not nearly so bad-tempered as Miss Broom, though hard and cold, and I am sure she meant to do me good. She talked about how changed I had been of late, my lessons so much less well done, and how careless and inattentive I seemed. There was some truth in it. I knew my lessons had not been so well done, but I also knew I had not been careless or inattentive. "And worst of all," continued the governess, "you[Pg 125] have got into such a habit of making excuses that it really amounts to telling untruths. Several times, Miss Broom tells me, you have done a wrong lesson or not done one at all, and you have maintained to her that you had not been told what you had been told—there was something about your French poetry yesterday, which you must have known you were to learn. Miss Broom says you positively denied it." I was getting very angry now—I had wanted to say I was sorry about my lessons, but now that I was accused of not speaking the truth I felt nothing but anger. "I never tell stories," I said very loudly; "and if Miss Broom says I do, I'll write to mamma and tell her. I won't stay here if you say such things to me." Miss Aspinall was quite startled; she had never seen me in a passion before, for I was usually considered in the school as sulky rather than violent-tempered. For a moment or two she stared, too astonished to speak. Then, "Go back to your room," she said. "I am sorry to say I must lay this before Miss Ledbury." I got up from my seat—Miss Aspinall had not kept me standing—and went upstairs again to my[Pg 126] room, where I stayed for the rest of the evening, my supper—a cup of milk and a piece of dry bread—being brought me by a servant, and with it a message that I was to undress and go to bed, which I was not sorry to do. I lay there, not asleep, and still burning with indignation, when Harriet came up to bed. She had not been told not to speak to me, very likely the teachers thought I would be asleep, and she was very curious to know what had passed. I told her all. She was very sympathising, but at the same time she thought it a pity I had lost my temper with Miss Aspinall. "I don't know how you'll get on now," she said, "with both her and Miss Broom so against you. You should just not have minded—like Emma said." "Not mind her saying I told stories!" I burst out. Harriet did not seem to think there was anything specially annoying in that. "Well," I went on, "I mind it, whether you do or not. And I'm going to mind it. I shall write to mamma and tell her I can't stay here any more, and I'm sure when she hears it she'll do something. She won't let me stay here. Or—or—perhaps father will fix to come home again and not stay as long as two years there." [Pg 127] "I don't think he'll do that," said Harriet mysteriously. "What do you mean? What do you know about it?" I asked, for something in her voice struck me. "Oh, nothing—I shouldn't have said it—it was only something I heard," she replied, looking rather confused. "Something you heard," I repeated, starting up in bed and catching hold of her. "Then you must tell me. Do you mean there's been letters or news about father and mamma that I don't know about?" "No, no," said Harriet. "Of course not." "Then what do you mean? You shall tell me—if you don't," I went on, more and more excitedly, "I'll—" I hesitated—"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go straight downstairs, just as I am, in my nightgown, to Miss Ledbury herself, and tell her what you've said. I don't care if she beats me, I don't care what she does, but I will know." Harriet tried to pull herself away. "What a horrid temper you're getting, Gerry," she said complainingly. "Just when I hurried up to bed as quick as I could to talk to you. It's nothing, I tell you—only something I heard at home, and Emma said I wasn't ever to tell it you." [Pg 128] I clutched her more firmly. "You shall tell me, or I'll do what I said." Harriet looked really frightened. "You'll not tell Emma, then? You promise?" I nodded. "I promise." "Well, then, it was only one day—papa was talking about somebody going to South America, and I said that was where your papa and mamma had gone, and papa asked your name, and then he said he had seen your papa at the bank, and it was a pity he hadn't been content to stay there. It was such a bad climate where he'd gone—lots of people got ill and died there, unless they were rich enough to live out of the town, and he didn't suppose any one who'd only been a clerk in the bank here would be that. And Emma said, couldn't your papa and mamma come back if they got ill, and he said if they waited till then it would be rather too late. There's some fever people get there, that comes all of a sudden. And besides that, your papa must have promised he'd stay two years—they always do." As she went on, my heart fell lower and lower—for a moment or two I could not speak. All sorts of dreadful fears and imaginings began to[Pg 129] fill my mind; perhaps my parents had already got that terrible illness Harriet spoke of, perhaps one or both of them had already died. I could have screamed aloud. I felt I could not bear it—I must write to mamma a letter that nobody should read. I must see somebody who would tell me the truth—Haddie, perhaps, knew more than I did. If I could go to him! But I had no money and no idea of the way, and Miss Aspinall would never, never let me even write to ask him. Besides, I was in disgrace, very likely they would not believe me if I told them why I was so miserable; they had already said I told stories, and then I must not get Harriet into trouble. What should I do? If only Miss Fenmore had still been there, I felt she would have been sorry for me, but there was nobody—nobody. I turned my face away from my little companion, and buried it in the pillow. Harriet grew frightened. "What are you doing, Gerry?" she said. "Why don't you speak? Are you going to sleep or are you crying? Very likely your papa and mamma won't get that illness. I wish I hadn't told you." "Never mind," I said. "I'm going to sleep." [Pg 130] "And you won't tell Emma?" Harriet repeated. "Of course not—don't you believe my word? Do you too think that I tell stories?" I tried to get rid of my misery by letting myself grow angry. "You're very cross," said Harriet; but all the same I think she understood me better than she could express, for she kissed me and said, "Do go to sleep—don't be so unhappy." <hr class="chap" />[Pg 131] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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