Part 11 (1/2)

No, no, you must not do that. Miss Ledbury will seal it.”

”It doesn't need sealing,” I replied. ”It is a gumming-down envelope.”

But she had come close to me, and drew it out of my hand.

”No letters leave this house without being first read by Miss Ledbury or Miss Aspinall,” she said. ”Why do you stare so? It is the rule at every school,” and so in those days I suppose it was. ”If you have written nothing you should not, you have no reason to dread its being seen.”

”Yes, I have,” I replied indignantly. Even the three or four days I had been at school had made me months older. ”I have,” I repeated. ”n.o.body would say to strangers all they'd say to their own mamma.”

I felt my face growing very red; I pulled the letter out of the envelope and began to tear it across. But Miss Broom's strong hands caught hold of mine.

”You are a very naughty girl,” she said, ”a very naughty girl indeed. I saw at once how spoilt and self-willed you were, but I never could have believed you would dare to give way to such violent temper.”

She dragged the letter out of my fingers--indeed, I was too proud to struggle with her--and left the room. I sat there in a sort of stupefied indifference. That day had been the worst I had had. There was not the interest of lessons, nor the daily bustle which had always something enlivening about it. It was so dull, and oh, so different from home! The home-sickness which I was too ignorant to give a name to began to come over me with strides; but for my letter to mamma I felt as if I could not have lived through that afternoon. For even the Smiths were away.

They were what was called ”weekly boarders,” going home every Sat.u.r.day at noon and staying till Monday morning.

The indifference did not last long. Gradually both it and the indignation broke down. I laid my head on the table before me and burst into convulsive crying.

I do not think I cried loudly. I only remember the terrible sort of shaking that went through me--I had never felt anything like it in my life--and I remember trying to choke down my sobs for fear of Miss Broom hearing me and coming back.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”MY POOR LITTLE GIRL, WHAT _IS_ THE MATTER?”]

Some one opened the door and looked in. I tried to be perfectly quiet.

But the some one, whoever it was, had seen and perhaps heard me, for she came forward, and in another moment I felt an arm steal gently round me, while a kind voice said softly, very softly,

”My poor little girl, what _is_ the matter?” and looking up, I saw that the new-comer was Miss Fenmore.

”Oh,” I said through my tears, ”it's my letter, and she's taken it away--that horrid, _horrid_ Miss Broom.”

And I told her the whole story.

Miss Fenmore was very wise as well as kind. I have often wondered how she had learnt so much self-control in her short life, for though she then seemed quite ”old” to me, I now know she cannot have been more than eighteen or nineteen. But she had had a sad life--that of an orphan since childhood. I suppose sorrow had done the work of years in her case--work that is indeed often not done at all! For she had a character which was good soil for all discipline. She was naturally so sweet and joyous--she seemed born with rose-coloured spectacles.

”Dear child,” she said, ”try not to take this so much to heart. I daresay your letter will be sent just as it is. Miss Broom is sure to apply to Miss Aspinall, perhaps to Miss Ledbury. And Miss Ledbury is really kind, and she must have had great experience in such things.”

But the last words were spoken with more hesitation. Miss Fenmore knew that the cla.s.s of children composing Miss Ledbury's school had not had a home like mine.

Suddenly she started up--steps were coming along the pa.s.sage.

”I must not talk to you any more just now,” she said, ”I came to fetch a book.”

After all, the steps did not come to the schoolroom. So after sitting there a little longer, somewhat comforted by the young governess's words, I went up to my own room, where I bathed my eyes and smoothed my hair, mindful of Haddie's warning--not to get the name of a cry-baby!

Late that evening, after tea, I was sent for to Miss Ledbury in the drawing-room. It was a very rainy night, so only a few of the elder girls had gone to church. Miss Ledbury herself suffered sadly from asthma, and could never go out in bad weather. This was the first time I had seen her to speak to since I came.

I was still too unhappy to feel very frightened, and I was not naturally shy, though I seemed so, owing to my difficulty in expressing myself.

And there was something about the old lady's manner, gentle though she was, which added to my constraint. I have no doubt she found me very dull and stupid, and it must have been disappointing, for she did mean to be kind.