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The Getting of Wisdom

by Henry Handel Richardson · English · Gutenberg #3728 · 421,740 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Getting of Wisdom

Author: Henry Handel Richardson


        
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3728]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3728

Credits: Produced by Col Choat.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE 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 th

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