Part 10 (1/2)

”I can knit plain--plain and purl--just straight on,” I said. ”But I've never done it round like that.”

”Never mind, you will learn easily, as you know how to knit. Come and sit beside me, so that I can watch you.”

She made the girls sit a little more closely, making a place for me beside her, and I would have been quite happy had I not seen a cross expression on several faces, and heard murmurs of ”favouring,” ”spoilt pet,” and so on.

Miss Fenmore, if _she_ heard, took no notice. And in a few moments all was in order. We read aloud in turns--the book was supposed to be a story-book, but it seemed to me very dull, though the fault may have lain in the uninteresting way the girls read, and the constant change of voices, as no one read more than two pages at a time. I left off trying to listen and gave my whole attention to my knitting, encouraged by Miss Fenmore's whispered ”very nice--a little looser,” or ”won't it be nice to knit socks for your father or brother, if you have a brother?”

I nodded with a smile. I was burning to tell her everything. Already I felt that I loved her dearly--her voice was as sweet as her face. Yet there were tones in the former and lines in the latter telling of much sorrow and suffering, young as she was. I was far too much of a child to understand this. I only felt vaguely that there was something about her which reminded me of mamma as she had looked these last few weeks.

And my heart was won.

CHAPTER VII.

GATHERING CLOUDS.

After that first day at Green Bank, the remembrance of things in detail is not so clear to me.

To begin with, the life was very monotonous. Except for the different lessons, one day pa.s.sed much like another, the princ.i.p.al variety being the coming of Sunday and the two weekly half-holidays--Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day. But to me the half-holidays brought no pleasure. I think I disliked them more than lesson days, and most certainly I disliked Sundays most of all.

Looking back now, I think my whole nature and character must have gone through some curious changes in these first weeks at school. I grew older very rapidly.

There first came by degrees the great _disappointment_ of it all--for though I am anxious not to exaggerate anything, it was a bewildering ”disillusionment” to me. n.o.body and nothing were what I had imagined they would be. Straight out of my sheltered home, where every thought and tone and word were full of love, I was tossed into this world of school, where, though no doubt there were kind hearts and nice natures as there are everywhere, the whole feeling was different. Even the good-nature was rough and unrefined--the tones of voice, the ways of moving about, the readiness to squabble, though very likely it was more a kind of bl.u.s.ter than anything worse, all startled and astounded me, as I gradually awoke from my dream of the delights of being at school surrounded by companions.

And there was really a prejudice against me, both among teachers and pupils. A story had got about that my family was very, very poor, that father had had to go abroad on this account, and that my schooling was to be paid for out of charity. So even my gentleness, my soft way of speaking, the surprise I was too innocent to conceal at much that I saw, were all put down to my ”giving myself airs.” And I daresay the very efforts I made to please those about me and to gain their affection did more harm than good. Because I clung more or less to Harriet Smith, my room-mate, and the nearest to me in age, I was called a little sneak, trying to get all I could ”out of her,” as she was such a rich little girl.

I overheard these remarks once or twice, but it was not for some time that I in the least knew what they meant, and so I daresay the coa.r.s.e-minded girls who made them thought all the worse of me because I did not resent them and just went quietly on my own way.

What I did want from Harriet was sympathy; and when she was in the humour to pay attention to me, she did give me as much as it was in her to give.

I shall never forget the real kindness she and Emma too showed me that first night at Green Bank, when a great blow fell on me after we went upstairs to go to bed.

Some one had unpacked my things. My night-dress was lying on the bed, my brushes and sponges were in their places, and when I opened the very small chest of drawers I saw familiar things neatly arranged in them.

But there seemed so few--and in the bottom drawer only one frock, and that my oldest one, not the pretty new one mamma had got me for Sundays or any special occasion.

”Where can all my other things be?” I said to Harriet, who was greatly interested in my possessions.

”What more have you?” she said, peering over my shoulder.

I named several.

”And all my other things,” I went on, ”not clothes, I don't mean, but my workbox and my new writing-desk, and the picture of father and mamma and Haddie”--it was before the days of ”carte-de-visite” or ”cabinet”

photographs; this picture was what was called a ”daguerreotype” on gla.s.s, and had been taken on purpose for me at some expense--”and my china dog and the rabbits, and my sc.r.a.ps of silk, and all my puzzles, and, and----” I stopped short, out of breath with bewilderment. ”Can they be all together for me to unpack myself?” I said.

Emma, the most experienced of the three, shook her head.

”I'm afraid,” she was beginning, when the door opened, and Miss Broom's face appeared.

”Young ladies,” she said, ”I cannot have this. No talking after the last bell has rung. My dear Miss Smith, you are not usually so forgetful. If it is _you_, Miss Marchant, it is a very bad beginning, disobedience the very first evening.”