The Carved Lions Page 9

  CHAPTER IX.

  OUT IN THE RAIN.

  It would be an exaggeration to say that I did not sleep that night.Children often sleep very heavily when they are specially unhappy, and Iwas unhappy enough, even before Harriet's telling me what she had heard.But though I did sleep, I shall never forget that night. My dreams wereso miserable, and when I awoke--very early in the morning--I couldscarcely separate them from real things. It was actually not so bad whenI was quite awake, for then I set myself thoroughly to think it allover.

  I could not bear it--I could not go on without knowing if it was trueabout father and mamma. I could not bear my life at school, if thelooking forward to being with them again, before _very_ long, was to betaken from me. I must write a letter to mamma that no one would see; butfirst--yes, first I must know how much was true. Whom could I ask?Haddie? Perhaps he knew no more than I did, and it was just as difficultto write to him as to mamma. Then suddenly another thought struckme--Mrs. Selwood, old Mrs. Selwood, if I could but see her. Perhaps if Iwrote to her she would come to see me; mamma always said she was verykind, though I know she did not care much for children, especiallylittle girls. Still I thought I would try, though it would be difficult,for I should not like Miss Ledbury to know I had written to Mrs. Selwoodsecretly. She would be so angry, and I did not want to make Miss Ledburyangry. She was much nicer than the others. Once or twice the idea cameto me of going straight to her and telling her how miserable I was, butthat would bring in Harriet, and oh, how furious the other governesseswould be! No, I would try to write to Mrs. Selwood--only, I did not knowher address. I only knew the name of her house--Fernley--that would notbe enough, at least I feared not. I would try to find out; perhapsHarriet could ask some one when she went home.

  My spirits rose a little with all this planning. I am afraid that thelife I led was beginning to make me unchildlike and concealed in myways. I enjoyed the feeling of having a secret and, so to say,outwitting my teachers, particularly Miss Broom. So, though I waslooking pale and my eyes were still very swollen, I think Harriet wassurprised, and certainly very glad, to find that I was not verymiserable or upset.

  A message was sent up to say I was to go down to breakfast with theothers. And after prayers and breakfast were over I went into theschoolroom as usual.

  That morning did not pass badly; it happened to be a day for lessons Igot on well with--written ones principally, and reading aloud. So I gotinto no fresh disgrace. It was a very rainy day, there was no questionof going out, and I was sent to practise at twelve o'clock till thedressing-bell rang for the early dinner. That was to keep me away fromthe other girls.

  As soon as dinner was over Miss Broom came to me with a French poetrybook in her hand.

  "This is the poem you should have learnt yesterday," she said, "thoughyou denied having been told so. Miss Aspinall desires you to take itupstairs to your room and learn it, as you can do perfectly, if youchoose, by three o'clock. Then you are to come downstairs to thedrawing-room, where you will find her."

  "Very well," I said, as I took the book, "I will learn it."

  They were going to let me off rather easily, I thought, and possibly,just _possibly_, if Miss Ledbury was in the drawing-room too and seemedkind, I might ask her to give me leave to write to Mrs. Selwood just tosay how very much I would like to see her, and then if I _did_ see her Icould tell her what Harriet had said, without risking getting Harrietinto trouble.

  So I set to work at my French poetry with good will, and long beforethree o'clock I had learnt it perfectly. There was a clock on thelanding half-way down the staircase which struck the quarters andhalf-hours. I heard the quarter to three strike and then I read the poemright through six times, and after that, closing the book, I said italoud to myself without one mistake, and then just as the clock began"_burr_-ing" before striking the hour I made my way quietly down to thedrawing-room.

  I tapped at the door.

  "Come in," said Miss Aspinall.

  She was standing beside Miss Ledbury, who was sitting in an arm-chairnear the fire. She looked very pale, her face nearly as white as herhair, and it made me feel sorry, so that I stared at her and forgot tocurtsey as we always were expected to do on entering a room where any ofthe governesses were.

  "Do you not see Miss Ledbury?" said Miss Aspinall sharply. I felt mycheeks get red, and I turned back towards the door to make my curtsey.

  "I--I forgot," I said, and before Miss Aspinall had time to speak again,the old lady held out her hand.

  "You must try to be more thoughtful," she said, but her voice wasgentle. "Now give me your book," she went on, "I want to hear yourFrench verses myself."

  I handed her the book, which was open at the place. I felt very glad Ihad learnt the poetry so well, as I wished to please Miss Ledbury.

  "Begin, my dear," she said.

  I did so, repeating the six or eight verses without any mistake orhesitation.

  Miss Ledbury seemed pleased and relieved.

  "Very well said--now, my dear child, that shows that you can learn wellwhen you try."

  "Of course she can," said Miss Aspinall.

  "But more important than learning your lessons well," continued MissLedbury, "is to be perfectly truthful and honest. What has distressedme, Geraldine, has been to hear that when--as may happen to anychild--you have forgotten a lesson, or learnt it imperfectly, instead ofat once owning your fault, you have tried to screen yourself behindinsincere excuses. That was the case about these very verses, was itnot, Miss Aspinall?" (Miss Ledbury always called her niece "MissAspinall" before any of us.)

  "It was," replied Miss Aspinall. "Miss Broom will tell you all theparticulars," and as she spoke Miss Broom came in.

  Miss Ledbury turned to her.

  "I wish you to state exactly what you have had to complain of inGeraldine Le Marchant," she said. And Miss Broom, with a far fromamiable expression, repeated the whole--my carelessness and ill-preparedlessons for some time past, the frequent excuses I made, saying that shehad not told me what she certainly _had_ told me, my forgetting myFrench poetry altogether, and persisting in denying that it had beengiven out.

  I did not hear clearly all she said, but she raised her voice at theend, and I caught her last words. I felt again a sort of fury at her,and I gave up all idea of confiding in Miss Ledbury, or of trying toplease any one.

  Miss Ledbury seemed nervous.

  "Geraldine has said her French poetry perfectly," she said. "I think shehas taken pains to learn it well."

  "It is some time since she has said any lesson perfectly to _me_, I amsorry to say," snapped Miss Broom.

  Miss Ledbury handed her the book.

  "You can judge for yourself," she said. "Repeat the verses to MissBroom, Geraldine."

  Then a strange thing happened. I really wanted to say the poetry well,partly out of pride, partly because again something in Miss Ledbury'smanner made me feel gentler, but as I opened my mouth to begin, thewords entirely left my memory. I looked up--possibly a little help, asyllable just to start me, would have set me right, but instead of thatI saw Miss Broom's half-mocking, half-angry face, and Miss Aspinall'scold hard eyes. Miss Ledbury I did not look at. In reality I think bothshe and Miss Aspinall were afraid of Miss Broom. I do not think MissAspinall was as hard as she seemed.

  I drew a long breath--no, it was no use. I could not recall one word.

  "I've forgotten it," I said.

  Miss Aspinall gave an exclamation--Miss Ledbury looked at me withreproach. Both believed that I was not speaking the truth, and that Ihad determined not to say the verses to Miss Broom.

  "Impossible," said Miss Aspinall.

  "Geraldine," said Miss Ledbury sadly but sternly, "do not make medistrust you."

  I grew stony. Now I did not care. Even Miss Ledbury doubted my word. Ialmost think if the verses had come back to me then, I would not havesaid them. I stood there, dull and stupid and obstinate, though aperfect fire was raging inside me.

  "Geraldine," said Miss Led
bury again, still more sadly and sternly.

  I was only a child, and I was almost exhausted by all I had gonethrough. Even my pride gave way. I forgot all that Emma and Harriet hadsaid about not crying, and, half turning away from the three before me,I burst into a loud fit of tears and sobbing.

  Miss Ledbury glanced at her niece. I think the old lady had hard work tokeep herself from some impulsive kind action, but I suppose she wouldhave thought it wrong. But Miss Aspinall came towards me, and placed herarm on my shoulders.

  "Geraldine," she said, and her voice was not unkind, "I beg you to tryto master this naughty obstinate spirit. Say the verses again, and allmay be well."

  "No, no," I cried. "I can't, I can't. It is true that I've forgottenthem, and if I could say them I wouldn't now, because you all think me astory-teller."

  She turned away, really grieved and shocked.

  "Take her upstairs to her room again," said Miss Ledbury. "Geraldine,your tears are only those of anger and temper."

  I did not care now. I suffered myself to be led back to my room, and Ileft off crying almost as suddenly as I had begun, and when MissAspinall shut the door, and left me there without speaking to me again,I sat down on the foot of my bed as if I did not care at all, for againthere came over me that strange stolid feeling that nothing mattered,that nothing would ever make me cry again.

  It did not last long, however. I got up in a few minutes and looked outof the window. It was the dullest afternoon I had ever seen, raining,raining steadily, the sky all gloomy no-colour, duller even than gray.It might have been any season, late autumn, mid-winter; there was not aleaf, or the tiniest beginning of one, on the black branches of the twoor three trees in what was called "the garden"--for my window looked tothe back of the house--not the very least feeling of spring, even thoughwe were some way on in April. I gave a little shiver, and then a suddenthought struck me. It would be a very good time for getting out withoutany one seeing me--no one would fancy it possible that I would ventureout in the rain, and all my schoolfellows and the governesses were stillat lessons. What was the use of waiting here? They might keep me shut upin my room for--for ever, perhaps--and I should never know about fatherand mamma, or get Mrs. Selwood's address or be allowed to write to her,or--or any one. I would go.

  It took but a few minutes to put on my things. As I have said, there wasa queer mixture of childishness and "old-fashionedness," as it iscalled, about me. I dressed myself as sensibly as if I had been agrown-up person, choosing my thickest boots and warm jacket, and armingmyself with my waterproof cape and umbrella. I also put my purse in mypocket--it contained a few shillings.

  Then I opened the door and listened, going out a little way into thepassage to do so. All was quite quiet--not even a piano was to be heard,only the clock on the landing sounded to me much louder than usual. If Ihad waited long, it would have made me nervous. I should have begun tofancy it was talking to me like Dick Whittington's bells, though, I amsure, it would not have said anything half so cheering!

  I CREPT DOWNSTAIRS, PAST ONE SCHOOLROOM WITH ITS CLOSEDDOOR.]

  But I did not wait to hear. I crept downstairs, past one schoolroom withits closed door, and a muffled sound of voices as I drew quite close toit, then on again, past the downstairs class-room, and along the hall tothe front door. For that was what I had made up my mind was the best,bold as it seemed. I would go right out by the front door. I knew itopened easily, for we went out that way on Sundays to church, and onceor twice I had opened it. And nobody would ever dream of my passing outthat way.

  It was all managed quite easily, and almost before I had time to takein what I had done, I found myself out in the road some little distancefrom Green Bank, for as soon as the gate closed behind me I had set offrunning from a half-nervous fear that some one might be coming inpursuit of me. I ran on a little farther, in the same direction, that ofthe town, for Miss Ledbury's house was in the outskirts--then, out ofbreath, I stood still to think what I should do.

  I had really not made any distinct plan. The only idea clearly in mymind was to get Mrs. Selwood's address, so that I could write to her.But as I stood there, another thought struck me. I would go home--to thehouse in the dull street which had never seemed dull to me! For there, Isuddenly remembered, I might find one of our own servants. I recollectedLydia's telling me that cook was probably going to "engage" with thepeople who had taken the house. And cook would be sure to know Mrs.Selwood's address, and--_perhaps_--cook would be able to tell mesomething about father and mamma. She was a kind woman--I would not mindtelling her how dreadfully frightened I was about them since HarrietSmith had repeated what she had heard.

  I knew the way to our house, at least I thought I did, though afterwardsI found I had taken two or three wrong turnings, which had made myjourney longer. It was scarcely raining by this time, but the streetswere dreadfully wet and muddy, and the sky still dark and gloomy.

  At last I found myself at the well-known corner of our street--how oftenI had run round it with Haddie, when we had been allowed to go on somelittle errand by ourselves! I had not passed this way since mamma went,and the feeling that came over me was very strange. I went along till Icame to our house, number 39; then, in a sort of dream, I mounted thetwo or three steps to the door, and rang the bell. How well I knew itssound! It seemed impossible to believe that Lydia would not open to me,and that if I hurried upstairs I should not find mamma sitting in herusual place in the drawing-room!

  But of course it was not so. A strange face met me as the door drewback, and for a moment or two I felt too confused to speak, though I sawthe servant was looking at me in surprise.

  "Is--can I see cook?" I got out at last.

  "Cook," the maid repeated. "I'm sure I can't say. Can't you give meyour message--Miss?" adding the last word after a little hesitation.

  "I'd rather see her, please. I want to ask her for Mrs. Selwood'saddress. Mrs. Selwood's a friend of mamma's, and I'm sure cook wouldknow. We used to live here, and Lydia said cook was going to stay."

  The servant's face cleared, but her reply was not encouraging.

  "Oh," she said, "I see. But it's no use your seeing our cook, Miss.She's a stranger. The other one--Sarah Wells was her name----"

  "Yes, yes," I exclaimed, "that's her."

  "She's gone--weeks ago. Her father was ill, and she had to go home. I'msorry, Miss"--she was a good-natured girl--"but it can't be helped. AndI think you'd better go home quick. It's coming on to rain again, andit'll soon be dark, and you're such a little young lady to be outalone."

  "Thank you," I said, and I turned away, my heart swelling withdisappointment.

  I walked on quickly for a little way, for I felt sure the servant waslooking after me. Then I stopped short and asked myself again "whatshould I do?" The girl had advised me to go "home"--"home" to GreenBank, to be shut up in my room again, and be treated as a story-teller,and never have a chance of writing to Mrs. Selwood or any one! No, thatI would not do. The very thought of it made me hasten my steps as if toput a greater distance between myself and Miss Ledbury's house. And Iwalked on some way without knowing where I was going except that it wasin an opposite direction from school.

  It must have been nearly six o'clock by this time, and the gloomy daymade it already dusk. The shops were lighting up, and the glare of thegas on the wet pavement made me look about me. I was in one of thelarger streets now, a very long one, that led right out from the centreof the town to the outskirts. I was full of a strange kind ofexcitement; I did not mind the rain, and indeed it was not very heavy; Idid not feel lonely or frightened, and my brain seemed unusually activeand awake.

  "I know what I'll do," I said to myself; "I'll go to the big grocer'swhere they give Haddie and me those nice gingerbreads, and I'll ask_them_ for Mrs. Selwood's address. I remember mamma said Mrs. Selwoodalways bought things there. And--and--I won't write to her. I'll go tothe railway and see if I've money enough to get a ticket, and I'll goto Mrs. Selwood and tell her how I can't bear it any lon
ger. I've gotfour shillings, and if that isn't enough I daresay the railway peoplewouldn't mind if I promised I'd send it them."

  I marched on, feeling once more very determined and valiant. I thought Iknew the way to the big grocer's quite well, but when I turned down astreet which looked like the one where it was, I began to feel a littleconfused. There were so many shops, and the lights in the windowsdazzled me, and worst of all, I could not remember the name of thegrocer's. It was something like Simpson, but not Simpson. I went on,turning again more than once, always in hopes of seeing it before me,but always disappointed. And I was beginning to feel very tired; I must,I suppose, have been really tired all the time, but my excitement hadkept me up.

  At last I found myself in a much darker street than the others. Forthere were few shops in it, and most of the houses were offices of somekind. It was a wide street and rather hilly. As I stood at the top I sawit sloping down before me; the light of the tall lamps glimmeredbrokenly in the puddles, for it was raining again more heavily now.Suddenly, as if in a dream, some words came back to me, so clearly thatI could almost have believed some one was speaking. It was mamma'svoice.

  "You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," I seemed to hear hersay, and then I remembered it all--it came before me like apicture--that rainy evening not many months ago when mamma and Haddieand I had walked home so happily, we two tugging at her arms, one oneach side, heedless of the rain or the darkness, or anything except thatwe were all together.

  I stood still. Never, I think, was a child's heart more nearlybreaking.