Book II Chapter 6 The Little School-Mothers by L. T. Meade
An Eventful Morning
The tea came to an end without any special adventure and afterwards the children disported themselves to their hearts’ content in the gardens.
The gardens were very extensive. There were paddocks and lawns, and running streams where some of the little mothers declared they could see tiny minnows and other minute fish darting about; and there was a round pond with water-lilies on it and there were many swings, and hammocks in the trees. Besides these delights, there were walled-in fruit gardens, and great glass-houses inside which grew those rarest and most fascinating flowers, orchids.
The children were allowed to explore all the houses on condition that they picked nothing and invariably shut the doors behind them. They all had a great deal to see and to talk over, and even Harriet forgot her jealousy and laughed and joked with the others. Bed-time came all too soon. Eight sleepy little girls went up to their different rooms and laid their heads on their pillow’s, and fell sound asleep, and eight very happy little girls, thoroughly refreshed and full of joyful anticipation, awoke on the following morning.
They awoke to the fact that the sun was shining, that the sky was blue, and that the sea in the distance was one dazzling blaze of sparkling waves and exquisite colour.
At breakfast-time, Mr Durrant arranged that the entire party should ride down to the beach, where those who wished could bathe, and those who did not could play on the sands until it was time for early dinner. Dinner was to be at one o’clock, and this was to be followed by a long drive, which was to terminate in a vast picnic tea, where real tea was to be made, and cakes, bread and butter and other things consumed. The party were to return to Sunshine Lodge rather late, and then Mr Durrant would amuse them with a marvellous magic lantern which he possessed, and would show them, as he expressed it, some of his adventures in South Africa.
“Father doesn’t often do that sort of thing,” whispered Ralph to his school-mother Robina. “He doesn’t even like to talk ’bout his ’ventures, ’cept when he’s special pleased. So you’re all in good luck, I can tell you.”
“Oh, we are just too happy for anything!” said Robina.
“Now then, children,” called Mr Durrant’s voice from the other end of the table; “if you have had sufficient breakfast, will you disperse, please, and shall we all meet in the porch in a quarter of an hour? Our different steeds will be waiting for us, and we can each mount and ride away.”
It was at this moment that Jane cast a fearful, half-admiring, half-beseeching glance at Harriet. Now but for this glance of Jane’s it is quite possible that Harriet might have thought better of her conversation of the previous day, and might have even mounted on her donkey’s back and ridden off, a happy, laughing child to the sea-shore. Harriet adored the sea, having been brought up there when quite a little child. She could bathe; and swim like a little fish; and it did dart through her mind how very superior she would be to her companions when she was swimming about and they had to content themselves with simply ducking up and down in the water. Mr Durrant would be sure to admire her when he saw what a good swimmer she was. Harriet craved more for admiration than for anything else in the world. But now that look of Jane’s recalled her to her remark of the previous evening.
She had vowed that nothing would induce her to mount a donkey. At any sacrifice, therefore, she must keep her word. If Jane thought little of her, the world would indeed be coming to an end.
Accordingly, she sat very still, munching her bread and butter slowly, and looking straight before her. Robina, on the other hand, was in great excitement. She talked openly and, as Harriet said to herself, in the most abominable taste, of the delicious ride she would have on Bo-peep’s back to the sea-shore.
“You will ride with me on Bluefeather; won’t you, Ralph?” she said to the little boy.
“In course I will!” he said.
In his white drill sailor-suit Ralph made the most lovely little picture. Harriet looked up at that moment, and caught his eye. Ralph, quick to perceive when anyone was in trouble, immediately left Robina, and flew to Harriet’s side.
“What can I do for you, naughty school-mother?” he said.
“Look here, Ralph; I won’t be called by that name,” said Harriet. “I dislike it very much. If you think me naughty, you ought not to speak to me.”
“Oh—I—I love you!” said Ralph.
“Then show it in some less unpleasant way,” said Harriet, who now that she had given tongue to some of her grievance, flew in a regular passion; “and,” she added, rising as she spoke, “I don’t know what the rest of you mean to do, but I shan’t ride this morning. I don’t like riding donkeys, so that’s all about it.” She got up and marched from the room. Mr Durrant had already gone. The eyes of the rest of the school-mothers followed her, and Jane’s face grew first white and then pink.
“Oh Jane,” said Robina, the minute Harriet had gone, “what is the matter now? I am sure I don’t mind riding one of the donkeys and Harriet can have Bo-peep. Do run after her and tell her so; do, please, Jane. It’ll spoil all our fun if she doesn’t come down; please get her to come.”
“But,” said Ralph, “I know father will want you to ride Bo-peep, Robina; for he said so last night. He said he had not seen you yet on Bo-peep, and he was ever so anxious to, and ’sides—your habit wouldn’t fit Harriet: Harriet is much thinner than you.”
“Yes; I never thought of that,” replied Robina. “Well, I do wish she wouldn’t be so troublesome. Shall I go and find her, and try and bring her round to a proper sense of things; it is too hard that she should spoil all the fun.”
“No, don’t; there is no use in it,” said Jane.
“But I will,” said Robina; “she must not be so inconsiderate. Think what dear Mr Durrant will say. Ralph, my darling, come with me and coax poor Harriet. You know she loves you very much.”
“Yes; let’s coax her,” said Ralph.
He took Robina’s hand and they left the dining-room. As they were going upstairs Ralph said, still clinging hard to Robina’s hand:
“I love Harriet, but I love you much, much, much the best.”
“Love us both,” said Robina, “and don’t say which of us you love best.”
“Oh, I can’t help it,” said Ralph. “Harriet’s nice sometimes, but you are nice always, and I am very glad you have got Bo-peep.”
“Well, we must do our very best to make Harriet come with us to-day,” said Robina, and she knocked as she spoke at that young lady’s door.
A sulky voice from within murmured something, and Robina opened the door. Harriet was standing with her back to the door. She was pretending to gaze out of the window. When the knock came, she imagined that it was Jane, coming to expostulate with her. Had this happened, she would probably have given vent to her feelings in no measured language; but when she turned and saw Robina, the smouldering fire in her breast rose to white heat.
“Go away!” she said, just glancing at Robina and Ralph and then resuming her position with her back to them. “I am busy at present: go away.”
“You aren’t busy, Harriet,” said Ralph, laughing; “why, you’re doing nothing at all.”
“Yes I am; I am thinking; go away, both of you, I don’t wish to talk to you.”
“Oh, Harriet!” said Ralph. There was a cry of pain in his voice, and just for a minute Harriet’s resolve to be intensely disagreeable wavered; but Robina’s voice recalled her to her worst self.
“Ralph, I must!” she whispered. Then she said aloud: “I do want you to ride Bo-peep this morning, Harriet. And you can easily wear my habit, although it may be a little big for you. Please, Harriet, do come downstairs and be nice and jolly with us all. You shall ride Bo-peep, and I will ride whichever donkey you have selected. I love riding a donkey, it is such fun.”
“Oh!” said Harriet; “oh!—before I’d demean myself to tell such lies! You love to ride on a donkey, do you? Then ride one, I am sure I don’t care. But as to my demeaning myself by getting on your pony’s back—I may be small, but I’m not as small as all that! No: go, both of you; I hate and detest you both. Ralph, you need not consider me your mother any more. I am not your school-mother—I am nothing at all to you. I am just a very cross, angry girl and oh, do go away, please!”
“Come, Ralph,” said Robina.
She took the little boy to the door. She opened the door; she pushed Ralph outside.
“You are just angry, Harriet,” she said then; “but I know you will be sorry by and by; and indeed, indeed, neither Ralph nor I are what you think us.”
“Oh go—go!” said Harriet; and Robina went.
The moment this happened, Harriet flew to the door, and locked it.
“Now am I to be left in peace?” she thought. She was in a white heat of rage. At that moment, there was no bitter, angry, nor desperate thing she would not say. She knew perfectly well that she had injured her own cause; that now Ralph could never love her. Had she not told him to his face that she hated him?—little Ralph, who had never from his birth had one harsh word addressed to him. Had she not said—oh, with such vehemence, such hot, angry rage, that she detested him, that she could not bear him in her presence? Well, she did not care. She was in too great a fury at present to regret her own words. Robina and Ralph had taken her at her word: they had gone away. There was absolute stillness upstairs. Sunshine Lodge was a big house, and to Harriet’s bedroom not a sound penetrated. She could not even hear the merry voices of the gay cavalcade that must even now be starting for the sea-shore.
They would have to ride quite three miles to that part of Eastbourne where Mr Durrant had arranged that bathing tents were to be erected on the beach. Harriet sat down on the low window-sill, clasped her hands and looked out. Why was she here? She might have been as jolly as the others. Oh, no; of course she could not possibly be merry and gay like the rest of the children; it was not in her nature. Nevertheless, she had looked forward to her time at Sunshine Lodge. She had made a great boast to her brothers and sisters and to her home companions, of the gay and delightful time she was about to have. Well, why was not she having it? The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the distant sea looked, oh! so inviting. The crisp waves were even now coming up on the sands and retreating again with their everlasting ‘I wish, I wish’ sort of sound. There were the donkeys for the contented children to ride, and there was the kindest of all hosts to give them every happiness. Why was she out of it?
“Because I am so mad, and bad!” she thought; and then she covered her face with her hands and burst into angry tears.
Harriet was neither sorry nor repentant, as she had been on that occasion when little Ralph was lost. She was furious at once with herself and with Robina, and even with Ralph. Why did Robina come prying and spying to her room? and why did she dare to bring Ralph with her? and then why did she make that detestable, hypocritical offer to her? Harriet, indeed, to be seen riding Robina’s pony!—the pony given to Robina by Mr Durrant because she had been so kind to his little son! What a martyr Robina would look on one of the donkeys! and what a monster of selfishness she, Harriet, would appear riding on Bo-peep’s back! Oh, yes: Robina wanted to serve her own ends when she would bestow on Harriet the favour of letting her ride her pony.
“She thinks she is not sure of Ralph: she thinks she is not quite sure of Mr Durrant. She meant to clinch matters with both of them by her pretended unselfishness this morning,” thought the furious girl.
“But I have circumvented her: I am glad I have.” However angry one may be; however furious one’s passions may become, it is difficult to keep up the anger and the commotion and the fierce storm within the breast when there is no one to listen, no one to watch, no one, either, to sympathise or to blame. In the stillness of her little room Harriet’s angry heart cooled down. Her cheeks no longer blazed with fury, her eyes no longer flashed. After her time of storm, she felt a sort of reaction which made her cold and dull and miserable. She was not a bit repentant, except in as far as regarded her own pleasure. But she was weary, and came to the conclusion that her life at Sunshine Lodge would not be such a happy one after all.
When she had reached this stage of discomfort and depression, there came a tap at her room door, and one of the maids tried to turn the handle. Harriet then remembered that she had locked the door. She went and opened it. The girl asked with a smiling face if she could arrange the young lady’s room.
“Certainly,” said Harriet. “I am going out.”
She took a big straw hat from a peg on the door and put it on her head.
“I made sure, miss, that you were away to the shore with the others.”
“I did not go with them,” said Harriet.
“I hope, miss,” said the girl, glancing at Harriet, and observing the red rims round her eyes, “I hope that you ain’t ill, miss.”
“No, I am quite well, thank you; but the fact is, I don’t care for donkey rides. I am going out now, so you can arrange my room as soon as you like.”
“Thank you, miss,” replied the girl.
Harriet ran downstairs. The hall door stood wide open: a little gentle breeze came in and fluttered the leaves of some books on the hall table. The air was sun-laden, and Harriet was glad to get out-of-doors. The little place seemed still and undisturbed; but by and by she came to a gardener’s boy, and then to the gardener himself. They both touched their hats to her. She wandered on and on. Presently, she reached the round pond. Here the water-lilies grew in profusion—great yellow cups, and still larger white ones. Harriet felt that desire which comes to almost every child to possess herself of some of the great waxen blossoms. She bent forward and tried to pick one. She could not manage it, however, for the flowers with their thick stems were hard to gather, and she knew that were she to try any harder she might fall into the pond. This she had no wish to do, and contented herself with standing by the bank.
As she was thus standing, wondering what she should do next, she heard a clear little voice say:
“Hallo there!” and Ralph bounded out of a thick undergrowth close by.
“Ralph?” said Harriet. She felt herself colouring. Shame absolutely filled her eyes. She did not want to look at the boy, and yet, in spite of every effort, her heart bounded with delight at seeing him.
“Did you want some of those?” said Ralph, eagerly.
“I will pick them for you. I know quite well how I can manage. See,” he added eagerly, “do you notice that willow tree growing right over the pond? I will climb along that branch, just where it dips so near the water, and I’ll put my hand out, and cut off some of the beautiful blossoms for you. Aren’t they just lovely?”
“Yes,” said Harriet, “but I don’t want them. Don’t endanger your precious life for me, Ralph, it isn’t worth while.”
As Harriet spoke, she turned away, marching with her head in the air in the opposite direction. She heard a cry, or fancied she heard one; and a minute afterwards, eager steps followed her.
“Harriet,” said Ralph’s little voice. He slipped his hand inside her arm. “What has I done? Why do you hate me, Harriet? What has I done?”
Harriet looked round. Then for a minute she stood quite still. Then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell; they fell until they reached the brown beseeching eyes of Ralph. Over her whole heart there rushed such a sensation of love for the boy that she could not restrain herself another moment.
“Oh, Ralph!” she said, with a sob. “I am about the nastiest girl in all the world. But I do, I do love you! Oh Ralph, Ralph!”
She flung her arms around him, dropping on her knees to come nearer to him. Just for a minute, she gave him a fierce kiss; then she let him go.
“It is Robina I hate,” she said; “it is not you.” Ralph gave a sigh.
“I am glad you don’t hate me,” he said, “’cause you see I love you.”
“And why aren’t you with the others?” said Harriet, suddenly.
“Couldn’t,” said Ralph, shaking his head. “Stayed a-hint ’cause of you; wanted to be with you—couldn’t go.”
“Then you do really love me?”
“I has said so,” answered Ralph.
A warm glow such as a fire might make entered Harriet’s heart. She sank down on the mossy turf and drew Ralph to sit near her.
“You are very nice,” she said. “I am very, very glad you stayed. But what did your father—what did he do?”
“Father?” said Ralph, in a surprised tone. “Nothing, in course.”
“But he wanted you to go, surely?”
“I said to father I must stay home this morning ’cause of one of my school-mothers.”
“And then?” said Harriet.
“Father—he said, ‘Send Bluefeather back to the stables.’”
“Then, Ralph?—and was that all?” asked Harriet.
“’Course,” said Ralph. “Father don’t question ’less at something very naughty.”
“Oh,” answered Harriet. After a pause, she said: “He didn’t ask you which of your school-mothers?”
“No,” said Ralph. “Think he guessed, though.”
“Did your father go with the others to the sea-shore?”
“Oh, yes: he went in the governess cart. He drove the donkey that drew the governess cart his own self.”
“You must have been very sorry to give up your fun,” said Harriet.
“’Course,” said Ralph.
“But you did it for me?”
“’Course,” said Ralph again. He concealed nothing, denied nothing. He looked full now into Harriet’s face.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“You said you hated Robina and me; then you said afterwards that you did not hate me—you loved me, but you hated Robina. I want you to love us both. By the time Robina comes back, I want you to be a-loving of her as hard as you’re a-loving of me.”
“Well, I can’t do that,” said Harriet, “so there is no use wishing it.”
Ralph sighed. “She is very, very good,” he said. “Ralph,” said Harriet, suddenly; “there are some things I cannot bear.”
“What?” asked the little boy.
“I love you, and I can’t bear you to be fondest of Robina.”
“Very sorry,” said Ralph, shaking his curly head.
“Don’t you think,” said Harriet, drawing him close to her and fondling his chubby hand, “that you could manage to love me best? I want your love more than Robina does.”
“Sorry,” said Ralph again.
“Then you do love her best?”
“’Course,” said Ralph, “much best.”
Harriet pushed him away.
“Then I don’t want to sit with you,” she said, “nor talk to you. Go to Robina altogether. I—I suppose I am jealous; it is a horrid thing to be, but I suppose I am. You needn’t have stayed at home for me this morning. I don’t hate you; I was in a passion when I said I did; I love you very much but—I can’t stand a love like yours, the greater part of which is given to Robina.”
“Shall I tell you why I love her?” said Ralph. “’Cause she is strong and good and brave, and she teaches I lots of things; and she lets I look into her face; and she tells stories—wonderful stories!”
“Yes,” said Harriet. She was gazing intently at the child.
“Now you doesn’t,” said Ralph. “You did one day when I was with you, one day when you gave me picnic breakfast and we went to town and bought things for a picnic tea. But Robina does it every day; and I feel that she is strong, and—and—I can’t help it—I have to love her best.”
“I will tell you what I am,” said Harriet; “you had best know me for what I really am. I don’t like Robina just for the simple reason that she is stronger than me, and she can tell better stories, and she has got Bo-peep and I have not; and she is cleverer than me and has taken my place in the form. I was happy enough before she came to school, but I am not happy now.”
“I am so sorry,” said Ralph. “It seems an awfu’ pity, ’cause she can’t help being clever. My father’s clever: he can’t help it. Does you hate him ’cause of his big, big brains?”
“Oh, no, no—it’s quite different. You don’t understand what friendship means, Ralph.”
“Yes, I do: Robina tells me. When your friend isn’t happy, you’re not happy; that’s one thing ’bout friendship. And you would do anything for your friend—anything: that’s another. I heard father once speak of that. He did a wonderful big thing for a friend of his. I am always wanting to do a big thing for Robina, and a big thing for you. I know it isn’t much, but I did stay home for you this morning.”
“So you did; and you are a dear little boy; and I wish I wasn’t such a horror myself,” said Harriet suddenly. “Leave me, now. Ralph: after all, there is nothing you can do for me. I am cross, I suppose, but I’ll be better by-and-by.”
Ralph went away very sadly. He could not understand Harriet. His beautiful morning was wasted. Suddenly, he found himself back again by the round pond. The lilies were looking more lovely than ever in the sun. A dragon fly had just got out of his chrysalis, and Ralph watched him for a moment as he poised for flight.
All of a sudden, the wish to pick some water-lilies for Harriet returned to him. He would show her by this means how truly he loved her. She did want the lilies, he knew it, for he had seen her tugging so hard at one. “And she just lost her balance,” he said to himself. “Poor, poor Harriet: It would have been horrid if she had falled into the pond!”
The thought of getting some lilies for Harriet restored the little boy’s sense of happiness. He was his father’s own son, and knew no fear. Harriet was one of his school-mothers—the school-mother he loved second best. He made up his mind quickly to pluck three yellow lilies for her, and four white ones. That would be seven in all. Someone had told him that seven made a perfect number. He could easily reach the lilies if he climbed the willow tree, and gently pushed himself along that branch which bent over the pond.
No sooner did the thought come than he proceeded to put it into action. The supple bough, however, bent very low beneath his weight. Ralph was but a little boy, however, and the bough would undoubtedly hold him if he did not go too far along its slender stem. He had plucked one lily, and his little hand had grasped a second, when all of a sudden there was an ominous crack at the further end of the bough. It bent so low into the water now that Ralph’s balance was upset, and he found himself struggling in the deep pond. Ralph was not a minute in the water before Harriet, who was really not far off, rushed to the spot. Into the pond she plunged, seized the boy by his collar and dragged him with some slight difficulty to the shore. They were both very wet, but neither of them in the least hurt. Harriet stood by, dripping from head to foot.
“Oh, Ralph, Ralph!” she cried. “Did you do that to show that you loved me?”
“Yes; oh yes;” said Ralph. “Why, I nearly died for you, and you nearly died for me!”
“We must be the best and greatest of friends now,” said Harriet, quick to seize the opportunity. “But come into the house at once; you must get all your things off, or you will catch cold. Oh, and Ralph; promise me one thing—this shall be a secret between you and me. You will never tell anybody that you risked your life to get me the flowers, and I will never tell a soul that I risked mine to save you.”
“Oh—but you are splendid!” said Ralph. “Why, I should be dead now but for you, Harriet.”
“Of course you would, Ralph,” she answered; but she took care not to tell him that she was an excellent swimmer and had not risked her life in the very least when she sprang into the pond to save the little boy.