The Carved Lions Read online

  CHAPTER IV.

  ALL SETTLED.

  That Sunday--that last Sunday I somehow feel inclined to call it--standsout in my memory quite differently from its fellows. Both Haddie and Ifelt dull and depressed, partly owing no doubt to the weather, but stillmore, I think, from that vague fear of something being wrong which wewere both suffering from, though we would not speak of it to each other.

  It cleared up a little in the evening, and though it was cold and chillywe went to church. Mamma had said to us we might if we liked, and Lydiawas going.

  When we came in, cook sent us a little supper which we were very gladof; it cheered us up.

  "Aren't you thankful they're coming home to-morrow?" I said to Haddie."I've never minded their being away so much before."

  They had been away two or three times that we could remember, thoughnever for longer than a day or two.

  "Yes," said Haddie, "I'm very glad."

  But that was all he said.

  They did come back the next day, pretty early in the morning, as fatherhad to be at the bank. He went straight there from the railway station,and mamma drove home with the luggage. She was very particular when shewent to stay with her godmother to take nice dresses, for Mrs. Selwoodwould not have been pleased to see her looking shabby, and it would nothave made her any more sympathising or anxious to help, but rather theother way. Long afterwards--at least some years afterwards, when I wasold enough to understand--I remember Mrs. Selwood saying to me that itwas mamma's courage and good management which made everybody respecther.

  I was watching at the dining-room window, which looked out to thestreet, when the cab drove up. After the heavy rain the day before, itwas for once a fine day, with some sunshine. And sunshine was rare atGreat Mexington, especially in late November.

  Mamma was looking out to catch the first glimpse of me--of course sheknew that my brother would be at school. There was a sort of sunshineon her face, at least I thought so at first, for she was smiling. Butwhen I looked more closely there was something in the smile which gaveme a queer feeling, startling me almost more than if I had seen that shewas crying.

  I think for my age I had a good deal of self-control of a certain kind.I waited till she had come in and kissed me and sent away the cab and wewere alone. Then I shut the door and drew her to father's specialarm-chair beside the fire.

  "Mamma, dear," I half said, half whispered, "what is it?"

  Mamma gave a sort of gasp or choke before she answered. Then she said,

  "Why, dear, why should you think--oh, I don't know what I am saying,"and she tried to laugh.

  But I wouldn't let her.

  "It's something in your face, mamma," I persisted.

  She was silent for a moment.

  "We had meant to tell you and Haddie this evening," she said, "fatherand I together; but perhaps it is better. Yes, my Geraldine, there issomething. Till now it was not quite certain, though it has been hangingover us for some weeks, ever since----"

  "Since that day I asked you--the morning after father came home so lateand you had been crying?"

  "Yes, since then," said mamma.

  She put her arm round me, and then she told me all that I have toldalready, or at least as much of it as she thought I could understand.She told it quietly, but she did not try not to cry--the tears just cametrickling down her face, and she wiped them away now and then. I thinkthe letting them come made her able to speak more calmly.

  And I listened. I was very sorry for her, very _very_ sorry. But you maythink it strange--I have often looked back upon it with wonder myself,though I now feel as if I understood the causes of it better--when Itell you that I was _not_ fearfully upset or distressed myself. I didnot feel inclined to cry, _except_ out of pity for mamma. And I listenedwith the most intense interest, and even curiosity. I was all wound upby excitement, for this was the first great event I had ever known, thefirst change in my quiet child-life.

  And my excitement grew even greater when mamma came to the subject ofwhat was decided about us children.

  "Haddie of course must go to school," she said; "to a larger and betterschool--Mrs. Selwood speaks of Rugby, if it can be managed. He will behappy there, every one says. But about you, my Geraldine."

  "Oh, mamma," I interrupted, "do let me go to school too. I have alwayswanted to go, you know, and except for being away from you, I would farrather be a boarder. It's really being at school then. I know theyrather look down upon day-scholars--Haddie says so."

  Mamma looked at me gravely. Perhaps she was just a little disappointed,even though on the other hand she may have felt relieved too, at mytaking the idea of this separation, which to her over-rode _everything_,which made the next two years a black cloud to her, so veryphilosophically. But she sighed. I fancy a suspicion of the truth cameto her almost at once and added to her anxiety--the truth that I did notthe least realise what was before me.

  "We _are_ thinking of sending you to school, my child," she saidquietly, "and of course it must be as a boarder. Mrs. Selwood advisesMiss Ledbury's school here. She has known the old lady long and has avery high opinion of her, and it is not very far from Fernley in caseMiss Ledbury wished to consult Mrs. Selwood about you in any way, or incase you were ill."

  "I am very glad," I said. "I should like to go to Miss Ledbury's."

  My fancy had been tickled by seeing the girls at her school walking outtwo and two in orthodox fashion. I thought it must be delightful tomarch along in a row like that, and to have a partner of your own sizeto talk to as much as you liked.

  Mamma said no more just then. I think she felt at a loss what to say.She was afraid of making me unnecessarily unhappy, and on the other handshe dreaded my finding the reality all the worse when I came to contrastit with my rose-coloured visions.

  She consulted father, and he decided that it was best to leave me tomyself and my own thoughts.

  "She is a very young child still," he said to mamma. (All this of courseI was told afterwards.) "It is quite possible that she will _not_ sufferfrom the separation as we have feared. It may be much easier for herthan if she had been two or three years older."

  Haddie had no illusions. From the very first he took it all in, andthat very bitterly. But he was, as I have said, a very good boy, and aboy with a great deal of resolution and firmness. He said nothing todiscourage me. Mamma told him how surprised she was at my way of takingit, and he agreed with father that perhaps I would not be reallyunhappy.

  And I do think that my chief unhappiness during the next few weeks camefrom the sight of dear mamma's pale, worn face, which she could nothide, try as she might to be bright and cheerful.

  There was of course a great deal of bustle and preparation, and allchildren enjoy that, I fancy. Even Haddie was interested about hisschool outfit. He was to go to a preparatory school at Rugby till hecould get into the big school. And as far as school went, he told me hewas sure he would like it very well, it was only the--but there hestopped.

  "The what?" I asked.

  "Oh, the being all separated," he said gruffly.

  "But you'd have had to go away to a big school some day," I remindedhim. "You didn't want always to go to a day-school."

  "No," he allowed, "but it's the holidays."

  The holidays! I had not thought about that part of it.

  "Oh, I daresay something nice will be settled for the holidays," I saidlightly.

  In one way Haddie was very lucky. Mrs. Selwood had undertaken the wholecharge of his education for the two years our parents were to be away.And after that "we shall see," she said.

  She had great ideas about the necessity of giving a boy the very bestschooling possible, but she had not at all the same opinion about_girls'_ education. She was a clever woman in some ways, but veryold-fashioned. Her own upbringing had been at a time when _very_ littlelearning was considered needful or even advisable for our sex. And asshe had good practical capacities, and had managed her own affairssensibly, she always held herself up both in her o
wn mind and to othersas a specimen of an _un_learned lady who had got on far better than ifshe had had all the "'ologies," as she called them, at her fingers'ends.

  This, I think, was one reason why she approved of Miss Ledbury's school,which, as you will hear, was certainly not conducted in accordance withthe modern ideas which even then were beginning to make wise parentsask themselves if it was right to spend ten times as much on their sons'education as on their daughters'.

  "Teach a girl to write a good hand, to read aloud so that you canunderstand what she says, to make a shirt and make a pudding and to addup the butcher's book correctly, and she'll do," Mrs. Selwood used tosay.

  "And what about accomplishments?" some one might ask.

  "She should be able to play a tune on the piano, and to sing a niceEnglish song or two if she has a voice, and maybe to paint a wreath offlowers if her taste lies that way. That sort of thing would do no harmif she doesn't waste time over it," the old lady would allow, with greatliberality, thinking over her own youthful acquirements no doubt.

  I daresay there was a foundation of solid sense in the first part of heradvice. I don't see but that girls nowadays might profit by some of it.And in many cases they _do_. It is quite in accordance with modernthought to be able to make a good many "puddings," though home-madeshirts are not called for. But as far as the "accomplishments" go, Ishould prefer none to such a smattering of them as our old friendconsidered more than enough.

  So far less thought on Mrs. Selwood's part was bestowed onGeraldine--that is myself, of course--than on Haddon, as regarded theschool question. And mamma _had_ to be guided by Mrs. Selwood's adviceto a great extent just then. She had so much to do and so little time todo it in, that it would have been impossible for her to go hunting aboutfor a school for me more in accordance with her own ideas. And she knewthat personally Miss Ledbury was well worthy of all respect.

  She went to see her once or twice to talk about me, and make the bestarrangements possible. The first of these visits left a pleasanterimpression on her mind than the second. For the first time she saw MissLedbury alone, and found her gentle and sympathising, and full ofconscientious interest in her pupils, so that it seemed childish to takeobjection to some of the rules mentioned by the school-mistress which inher heart mamma did not approve of.

  One of these was that all the pupils' letters were to be read by one ofthe teachers, and as to this Miss Ledbury said she could make noexception. Then, again, no story-books were permitted, except such aswere read aloud on the sewing afternoons. But if I spent my holidaysthere, as was only too probable, this rule should be relaxed.

  The plan for Sundays, too, struck my mother disagreeably.

  "My poor Geraldine," she said to father, when she was telling him allabout it, "I don't know how she will stand such a dreary day."

  Father suggested that I should be allowed to write my weekly letter tothem on Sunday, and mamma said she would see if that could be.

  And then father begged her not to look at the dark side of things.

  "After all," he said, "Geraldine is very young, and will accommodateherself better than you think to her new circumstances. She will enjoycompanions of her own age too. And we know that Miss Ledbury is a goodand kind woman--the disadvantages seem trifling, though I should notlike to think the child was to be there for longer than these twoyears."

  Mamma gave in to this. Indeed, there seemed nothing else to do. But thesecond time she went to see Miss Ledbury, the school-mistressintroduced her niece--her "right hand," as she called her--a woman ofabout forty, named Miss Aspinall, who, though only supposed to be secondin command, was really the principal authority in the establishment,much more than poor old Miss Ledbury, whose health was failing, realisedherself.

  Mamma did not take to Miss Aspinall. But it was now far too late to makeany change, and she tried to persuade herself that she was nervouslyfanciful.

  And here, perhaps, I had better say distinctly, that Miss Aspinall wasnot a bad or cruel woman. She was, on the contrary, truly conscientiousand perfectly sincere. But she was wanting in all finer feelings andinstincts. She had had a hard and unloving childhood, and had almostlost the power of caring much for any one. She loved her aunt after afashion, but she thought her weak. She was just, or wished to be so, andwith some of the older pupils she got on fairly well. But she did notunderstand children, and took small interest in the younger scholars,beyond seeing that they kept the rules and were not complained of by theunder teachers who took charge of them. And as the younger pupils werevery seldom boarders it did not very much matter, as they had their ownhomes and mothers to make them happy once school hours were over.

  Mamma did not know that there were scarcely any boarders as young as I,for when she first asked about the other pupils, Miss Ledbury, thinkingprincipally of lessons, said, "oh yes," there was a nice little classjust about my age, where I should feel quite at home.

  A few days before _the_ day--the day of separation for us all--mammatook me to see Miss Ledbury. She thought I would feel rather lessstrange if I had been there once, and had seen the lady who was to be myschool-mistress.

  I knew the house--Green Bank, it was called--by sight. It was a littlefarther out of the town than ours, and had a melancholy bit of garden infront, and a sort of playground at the back. It was not a largehouse--indeed, it was not really large enough for the number of peopleliving in it--twenty to thirty boarders, and a number of day-scholars,who of course helped to fill the schoolrooms and to make them hot andairless, four resident teachers, and four or five servants. But in thosedays people did not think nearly as much as now about ventilation andlots of fresh air, and perfectly pure water, and all such things, whichwe now know to be quite as important to our health as food and clothes.

  Mamma rang the bell. Everything about Green Bank was neat and orderly,prim, if not grim. So was the maid-servant who opened the door, and inanswer to mamma's inquiry for Miss Ledbury, showed us into thedrawing-room, a square moderate-sized-room, at the right hand of thepassage.

  I can remember the look of that room even now, perfectly. It waspainfully neat, not exactly ugly, for most of the furniture was of thespindle-legged quaint kind, to which everybody now gives the generalname of "Queen Anne." There were a few books set out on the round table,there was a cottage piano at one side, there were some faintwater-colours on the wall, and a rather nice clock on the white marblemantelpiece, the effect of which was spoilt by a pair of huge "lustres,"as they were called, at each side of it. The carpet was very ugly, largeand sprawly in pattern, and so was the hearth-rug. They were the newestthings in the room, and greatly admired by Miss Ledbury and her niece,who were full of the bad taste of the day in furniture, and wouldgladly have turned out all the delicate spidery-looking tables andchairs to make way for heavy and cumbersome sofas and ottomans, but forthe question of expense, and perhaps for the sake of old association onthe elder lady's part.

  There was no fire, though it was November, and mamma shivered a littleas she sat down, possibly, however not altogether from cold. It wasbetween twelve and one in the morning--that was the hour at which MissLedbury asked parents to call.

  Afterwards, when I got to know the rules of the house, I found that thedrawing-room fire was never lighted except on Wednesday and Saturdayafternoons, or on some very special occasion.

  I stood beside mamma. Somehow I did not feel inclined to sit down. I wasfull of a strange kind of excitement, half pleasant, half frightening. Ithink the second half prevailed as the moments went on. Mamma did notspeak, but I felt her hand clasping my shoulder.

  Then at last the door opened.