Part 14 (1/2)

Miss Ledbury handed her the book.

”You can judge for yourself,” she said. ”Repeat the verses to Miss Broom, 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's manner made me feel gentler, but as I opened my mouth to begin, the words entirely left my memory. I looked up--possibly a little help, a syllable just to start me, would have set me right, but instead of that I saw Miss Broom's half-mocking, half-angry face, and Miss Aspinall's cold hard eyes. Miss Ledbury I did not look at. In reality I think both she and Miss Aspinall were afraid of Miss Broom. I do not think Miss Aspinall 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 with reproach. Both believed that I was not speaking the truth, and that I had determined not to say the verses to Miss Broom.

”Impossible,” said Miss Aspinall.

”Geraldine,” said Miss Ledbury sadly but sternly, ”do not make me distrust you.”

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

”Geraldine,” said Miss Ledbury again, still more sadly and sternly.

I was only a child, and I was almost exhausted by all I had gone through. Even my pride gave way. I forgot all that Emma and Harriet had said 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 to keep herself from some impulsive kind action, but I suppose she would have thought it wrong. But Miss Aspinall came towards me, and placed her arm on my shoulders.

”Geraldine,” she said, and her voice was not unkind, ”I beg you to try to master this naughty obstinate spirit. Say the verses again, and all may be well.”

”No, no,” I cried. ”I can't, I can't. It is true that I've forgotten them, and if I could say them I wouldn't now, because you all think me a story-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 I left off crying almost as suddenly as I had begun, and when Miss Aspinall 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 again there 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 out of 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 a leaf, or the tiniest beginning of one, on the black branches of the two or three trees in what was called ”the garden”--for my window looked to the back of the house--not the very least feeling of spring, even though we were some way on in April. I gave a little s.h.i.+ver, and then a sudden thought struck me. It would be a very good time for getting out without any one seeing me--no one would fancy it possible that I would venture out in the rain, and all my schoolfellows and the governesses were still at lessons. What was the use of waiting here? They might keep me shut up in my room for--for ever, perhaps--and I should never know about father and 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 was a queer mixture of childishness and ”old-fas.h.i.+onedness,” as it is called, about me. I dressed myself as sensibly as if I had been a grown-up person, choosing my thickest boots and warm jacket, and arming myself with my waterproof cape and umbrella. I also put my purse in my pocket--it contained a few s.h.i.+llings.

Then I opened the door and listened, going out a little way into the pa.s.sage 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 I had waited long, it would have made me nervous. I should have begun to fancy it was talking to me like d.i.c.k Whittington's bells, though, I am sure, it would not have said anything half so cheering!

[Ill.u.s.tration: I CREPT DOWNSTAIRS, PAST ONE SCHOOLROOM WITH ITS CLOSED DOOR.]

But I did not wait to hear. I crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with its closed door, and a m.u.f.fled sound of voices as I drew quite close to it, then on again, past the downstairs cla.s.s-room, and along the hall to the 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 it opened easily, for we went out that way on Sundays to church, and once or twice I had opened it. And n.o.body would ever dream of my pa.s.sing out that way.

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

I had really not made any distinct plan. The only idea clearly in my mind 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 the house in the dull street which had never seemed dull to me! For there, I suddenly remembered, I might find one of our own servants. I recollected Lydia's telling me that cook was probably going to ”engage” with the people who had taken the house. And cook would be sure to know Mrs.