Book II Chapter 7 The Little School-Mothers by L. T. Meade
Mr Durrant’s New Plan
Harriet took Ralph to her own room. There she changed all his things and made him get into her bed until she could fetch some fresh ones for him. He was cold, and shivering a great deal, but Harriet, quite unacquainted with the illnesses of young children, was not in the least alarmed. She ransacked Ralph’s wardrobe for another little drill suit, and he was dressed in new, dry clothes, and all trace of his ducking in the pond was removed before the party returned from their picnic.
Harriet herself had remained much longer than Ralph in her wet things, but she also was in fresh garments when they stood holding each other’s hands ready to welcome the others on their return.
Somehow, that ducking in the pond had quite managed to restore Harriet’s good humour. She and Ralph now held a secret between them, and she was firmly convinced that his friendship for Robina must be seriously weakened thereby.
“Why, Ralph, my little man,” said his father, “you do look well.”
He was pleased to see how bright his little son’s eyes were and what a high colour he had in his cheeks, and never guessed that the brightness of the eyes was caused by slight fever, and that the pretty cheeks were flushed for the same reason. At dinner time. Ralph, of his own accord elected to sit near Harriet, and at intervals during the meal he whispered in her ear:
“None of them knew ’cept you and me I risked my life for you, and you risked your life for me.”
“Yes, yes,” whispered Harriet back; “but none of the others must know. Don’t say those words so loud, Ralph, or they will hear us.”
Ralph snuggled close to Harriet, now in an ecstasy at the thought which the great secret they held between them caused. The rest of the day’s programme was carried out in all its entirety. But towards evening, Ralph’s feverish symptoms had increased. During the picnic tea he was unable to eat anything, and Harriet when questioned had to confess that her throat was sore.
The next day both Harriet and Ralph were ill, but Harriet was much worse than Ralph. To be in bed, to be unable to get up and enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine was a trial very hard for so small a boy as Ralph to bear; but when he was told that Harriet was worse than he, and that the doctor had to be sent for, he submitted to his own illness with a good grace. It was Robina who brought him the tidings.
“Harriet is really ill,” she said; “but Dr Fergusson says that you will very soon be all right again; you have only caught a little cold: I wonder how you managed it.”
“Oh, I know quite well all about it,” said Ralph.
“Do you, dear? then you ought to tell us,” said Robina.
Ralph’s soft brown eyes flashed with anger.
“Does you think I’d be so mean?” he said.
Robina looked at him in surprise. After a long time he made the following remark:
“Harriet is quite the most noble girl in the world. If it was not for Harriet, there’d be no me at all.”
Robina burst into a merry laugh.
“Oh, Ralph; you funny little boy!” she said; “what are you talking about?”
“You don’t understand Harriet,” was Ralph’s next speech, and he looked at Robina without the favour he used to bestow upon her. She was his school-mother and, of course, the one he loved best; but still she had never saved his life.
“I wish I could see my darling Harriet,” he said, after a pause. “I wish I could see her all by my lone self. I want to talk to her. We has a great secret atween us.”
The doctor, however, had forbidden Ralph to leave his bed that day, and certainly Harriet could not leave hers. In consequence, the children did not meet for a few days, and then it was rather a pale little boy who rushed into the arms of a thin, pale girl who, weak from the somewhat severe attack she had gone through, was seated in an easy chair not far from an open window.
“Now go ’way, all of you,” said Ralph, “I want to talk to my ownest school-mother. I has a great secret to talk over with her.”
The others obeyed without any protest. Robina, when she left the room, turned to Jane.
“I am sure of one thing,” she said: “something must have happened that day when Ralph and Harriet were left alone together. They were both quite well even although Harriet was cross when we started on our expedition to the beach; but they both got ill that very night, and since then, Ralph has altered: he is devoted to Harriet.”
“Perhaps he has learned to love Harriet best,” said Jane.
In spite of herself, there was a tone of triumph in her voice, for was not Harriet her friend, and did not every one else adore Robina?
“Would you mind?” she asked, fixing her round black eyes now on Robina’s face.
“Mind?” replied Robina. “Yes,” she said, after a little pause, “I don’t like to own to such a horrid feeling, but I am proud of Ralph’s love.”
She turned away as she spoke. She was going to her own room. In order to reach it, she had to pass the tiny chamber where Ralph slept. She found one of the maid-servants coming out. The woman had in her hand a little white drill suit all soaked through and much stained with the green weed which grows on ponds.
“I have just found this, miss,” she said, “in the cupboard in Master Ralph’s room. I wonder how it came there. Surely, little Master Ralph has not had a ducking in the pond.”
Robina felt the colour rushing into her face. For a minute, a sense of triumph filled her. Then she said, gently:
“Send that suit to the wash, please, Maria; and,” she added, “do not say anything about it.”
“There are stockings too, miss, all sopping, and shoes.”
“You can have the shoes dried, can’t you?” said Robina.
“Oh, yes, miss, certainly.”
“Well, send all the other things to the wash.”
“Yes, miss,” said the girl. “Perhaps,” she added, after a pause, “these things account for little Master Ralph not being well for the last few days.”
“They may or may not, Maria: anyhow, we won’t talk about that,” said Robina.
She went downstairs. Her heart was beating fast. The fierce desire to drag the truth from Harriet at any cost, which had overpowered her for a minute, had passed away. Her face was pale. She sat down on the nearest chair.
“Are you tired, my dear?” said Mr Durrant, approaching her at this minute, and sitting down by her side.
“No; not really tired,” she answered.
“I am glad to find you all by yourself, Robina; there are many things I want to say to you.” Robina waited expectantly. “You and Ralph are capital friends, aren’t you?”
“I hope so, indeed—indeed I love him dearly,” said Robina.
“And so does he love you. I cannot tell you, Robina, how thankful I am that he has made a girl of your sort one of his greatest friends; he might so very easily have chosen otherwise. There is Harriet Lane, for instance. Poor Harriet, I don’t want to speak against her, but she is not your sort, my dear. Now I like an open mind, generous—if you will have it, a manly sort of girl, one with no nonsense in her: one, in short, who will help Ralph to be the sort of man I desire him to be by and by. You, my dear, as far as I can tell, are that sort of girl. You have no fear in you. You have, I think, an open mind and a generous disposition. Compared to Ralph, you are old, although of course in yourself you are very young. I shall have to leave my little boy immediately after the summer holidays. My wish was to send him to school—to Mrs Burton’s school—where he could have had a little discipline, school life, and the companionship of many young people. But I have received a letter from Mrs Burton which obliges me to alter my plans.”
“Oh,” said Robina, speaking quickly, “I am very, very sorry—”
“So am I, dear, more sorry than I can express. I am terribly upset about this letter, and I do not think it wrong to confide my trouble to you.” Here Mr Durrant drew his chair close to Robina’s side.
“You see, my dear child, I treat you as though you were grown-up.”
“Please do, Mr Durrant,” said Robina, “for there is nothing I would not do for you.”
“Well, this is the position,” said Mr Durrant. “Mrs Burton won’t be able to conduct her own school for the next term. She has induced a lady, a great friend of hers, to take the school over, and her hope is that she may be able to return to it herself after Christmas. Even this, however, is doubtful. Mrs Burton’s friend, Miss Stackpole, has had much experience of schools, but she is a maiden lady; and, in short, will not admit dear little Ralph as one of her pupils. Mrs Burton is obliged to spend the next term with her only sister, who is dangerously ill, and must undergo a serious operation. My plans, therefore, for Ralph are completely knocked on the head. I cannot possibly take him with me to South Africa. I have undertaken an expedition to that country which is full of adventure and danger. No young child could accompany me. I cannot bear to send Ralph to the ordinary boys’ school; and, in fact, my dear Robina, it has occurred to me that if I could possibly get a lady, trustworthy, kind, sensible, to keep on this house, I might induce you to stay with her as Ralph’s companion. Were this the case, I would myself undertake all your future education. You should have the best masters, the best mistresses that money could secure, and eventually, if you wish it, you should go to Newnham or Girton. I would see your father, my dear Robina, on the subject, and arrange the matter with him. You would have a right good time, for the lady I have in my mind’s eye is a certain Miss Temple, a cousin of my own, a very gentle and sweet woman, who would do all she could for your comfort and happiness, and would not unduly coerce you. Being Ralph’s school-mother, and the girl he has chosen above all others as his special friend, I doubt not that he would love the arrangement. As to your fees at Mrs Burton’s school, those can, of course, be managed. What do you say, Robina? Are you willing to continue at Sunshine Lodge as my dear little boy’s greatest friend—in fact, as his little school-mother?”
“Oh, I should like it!” said Robina. “But does it not depend on Ralph?” she continued.
Mr Durrant moved rather impatiently. “I have never coerced Ralph in the least,” he answered. “My endeavour has been from his birth to allow my dear little boy to choose for himself. I believe in the young, clear judgment of extreme youth. I think that little children can penetrate far. Of all your school-fellows he chose you, Robina; and who, my dear child, could have been more worthy?”
“But I am full of faults,” said Robina, tears springing to her eyes; “you don’t really know me. At home I am often blamed. My Aunt Felicia doesn’t think highly of me. You ought to go to my home and ask my own people what they really think with regard to me.”
“It is my intention to do so. I must talk to your father and mother about this plan; but somehow, I do not think they will disappoint me, and as a matter of fact I do not believe any little girl could better help my little son than you can.”
“Only suppose—suppose,” said Robina, “that he prefers Harriet.”
“Harriet?” cried Mr Durrant; “but there is surely no chance of that?”
“I don’t know, I am not sure. He likes Harriet certainly next best after me; he may even like her better.”
“I think not: you are without doubt the favoured one. Robina, we are all alone now. Harriet Lane is your schoolfellow. Tell me honestly what you think about her.”
Robina sprang to her feet.
“As her schoolfellow,” she said, hastily, “I cannot tell you anything about her; please don’t ask me. This, Mr Durrant, is a very serious matter, and I—I would rather not say.”
“You have answered me, my child,” said Mr Durrant, “and as I thought you would. Now, we will talk no more on the matter.”
Robina left him, and went into the grounds. The happy summer days were slipping by. Why is it that summer days will rush past one so quickly on such swift wings, that almost before we know it, they have all gone—never, never to return?
The eight little school-mothers at Sunshine Lodge wanted no one good thing that could add to the joys of life. From morning till night, their cup of bliss seemed to overflow. In addition to all the pleasures provided for them, they had perfect weather, for that summer was long to be remembered in England—that summer when day by day the sun shone in the midst of a cloudless sky, and the warm, mellow air was a delight even to breathe.
While on this occasion Mr Durrant was having a long talk with Robina and giving her to understand what he really wished with regard to the future of his little son, that same little son was pouring out his heart to Harriet.
“You is better, isn’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Harriet, who had resolved to make the very most of things. “But I was ill, very ill indeed: I don’t think the doctor expected me to live.”
“And you’d have died—you’d have become deaded for me?” said Ralph.
“Yes,” answered Harriet, patting the little brown hand. “But I am all right now,” she added; “I am only weak.”
“I love you like anything,” said Ralph.
“Of course you do, Ralph,” answered Harriet.
“There is nothing at all I wouldn’t do for you.”
Harriet longed to say: “Love me better than Robina, and I will have obtained my heart’s desire.” But she did not think the time for this speech had come yet; and as, in reality, notwithstanding her affection for Ralph, she found herself from time to time rather worried by his presence, she now requested him to leave her, and the little boy ran downstairs and out into the open air.
There the first person he saw was his father.
“Oh, dad!” said the boy, dancing up to his parent, and putting his little hand in his.
“Well Ralph, old man,” said the great traveller, lifting the boy to his shoulder, “and how are you this afternoon?”
“Werry well,” said Ralph, “nearly quite well,” he added.
“And how is our other invalid, Harriet Lane?”
“She is better, father. Dear Harriet has been awfu’ bad. Did you guess, father, how bad she was?”
“No, my son: and I don’t think she was as bad as all that, for the doctor did not tell me so.”
“But she telled me her own self. She wouldn’t tell a lie, would Harriet.”
“Only, Ralph, when people are ill, they imagine they are much worse than they really are. That was the case with Harriet. She will be all right now in a day or two, and you can enjoy yourself as soon as possible.”
“Oh yes; oh yes!” said Ralph. He clasped one arm round his father’s neck. “Why has you got such a big brown neck?”
“Because, I suppose, I am a big brown man.”
“I love brown men ever so,” said Ralph.
“That is right.”
“And I love you best of all; and—and Harriet, and Robina. I has got three very great special friends—you, and Harriet, and Robina.”
“Why do you put them like that, Ralph?” answered his father, a certain uneasiness in his tone. “You mean it this way: you love father first—that is quite right—then comes Robina, then Harriet.”
“It used to be like that,” said Ralph, in a very low tone.
“And it is still, my son; it is still.”
Ralph fidgetted, and was silent. After a time he said:
“Put me down please, father.”
Mr Durrant obeyed.
“Take my hand, father,” said Ralph, “I want to lead you somewhere.”
Mr Durrant took the little hand. Ralph conducted his father to the edge of the round pond.
“Does you see the water over there?” said Ralph, “just over there where the lilies grow?”
“Of course, my dear boy.”
“And does you see the branch of the willow tree?”
“Well, yes, Ralph; having eyes, I see both the lilies and the willow tree.”
“Could you make a great, great guess, father, about how deep the water is there?”
“Roughly speaking,” said Mr Durrant, “I should say the water in that part was from seven to eight feet deep.”
Ralph straightened himself and looked full up at his father.
“I isn’t eight feet high, is I?”
Mr Durrant laughed.
“You little man,” he said, “you are not four feet yet.”
“Then if I was to stand bolt upright in that water where the lilies grow, I’d be drownded dead as dead could be?”
“Were such a thing to happen, you would be.”
“But if somebody swimmed out, somebody very, very brave, and clutched me, and brought me back to shore, I wouldn’t be a drownded boy; I’d be a saved boy,” said Ralph.
“That is true.”
“I’d most likely,” continued Ralph, “love that person very much.”
“It would be a brave thing to do, certainly,” said Mr Durrant. “But then it has not happened, Ralph, so don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
“No father,” said Ralph; “I won’t let my ’magination run ’way with me. I don’t quite know what it means, father; but—I won’t let it,—’cause then I shouldn’t be close to you, father; and I love you best, and then Harriet, and then Robina.”
“Robina is a very fine girl,” said his parent. “I like her very much; I am glad she is your friend.”
“So does I like her: she was my school-mother. I like Harriet too, father: I like her awfu’ much. I mustn’t tell you nothing at all, but I like Harriet best of all my school-mothers.”
Mr Durrant thought for a short time over Ralph’s little speech to him. It puzzled the good man not a little. He did not, however, lay it deeply to heart. The boy was under the influence of Harriet, and, truth to tell, Mr Durrant did not take to that young lady. He was, however, sufficiently interested in her to pay her a visit that same evening in her own room.
She was a good deal startled and somewhat nonplussed when he first knocked at the door, then bent his tall head and entered the room.
“Well, Harriet,” he said, “I thought I would find out for myself how you are. I hope you are progressing well, and will soon be able to join the rest of us. It was strange how you and Ralph both caught cold the same day: it was very unlucky. How are you to-night, my dear girl?”
“Better,” said Harriet, changing colour as she spoke, for she was rather weak from her illness and was much excited by Mr Durrant’s visit. “I am better,” she continued; “I hope to be quite well by next week.”
“So do I hope you will be quite well, for time is speeding very fast, Harriet: the summer holidays go almost before we know they are with us. Now I have many expeditions in my mind’s eye—expeditions in which I want you and Ralph to join. This is Saturday night. To-morrow is Sunday. To-morrow, I am going to leave home for a day or two, but on Monday I shall be back again. I hope by then to find you quite well and enjoying yourself with the rest of your school-fellows. Everything that man can do will be done for your pleasure, and I trust I shall find my little party without any invalids amongst them waiting to welcome me back on Monday evening at the latest.”
“And what is going to happen on Tuesday?” asked Harriet, whose eyes began to sparkle now, for she had suddenly lost her fear of Mr Durrant.
“The weather is so fine at present,” was his reply, “that I have chartered a yacht and am going to take you all for a cruise. What do you say to that? You are not likely to be sea-sick, are you?”
“Never was sea-sick in the whole course of my life,” said Harriet, dimpling all over her face now with anticipation.
“I thought I’d discovered something to please you. The sea breezes will put colour into those pale cheeks. Ponies, donkeys, governess carts will all be left behind, and for one long perfect week we shall coast round the Isle of Wight, and other parts of this perfect country. What do you say? I have already mentioned the matter to the others, and I find that they are, without a single exception, good sailors.”
“I will be well enough, whoever else isn’t,” said Harriet, stoutly. “It’ll be lovely, lovely. You know I have spent all my early days at the seaside.”
“Have you? Then of course you are accustomed to yachting.”
“I am accustomed to going out in the fishing boats: I often did so at Yarmouth: I used to make great friends with the sailors.”
“Then that will be capital, my dear. Now I am leaving early to-morrow. You won’t guess where I am going, will you?”
“How can I guess, Mr Durrant?”
“To no less a place than Robina’s home.”
“Robina’s home,” said Harriet. She felt herself turning red, and one of her hands which had been lying idle on her lap, clenched itself tightly. “Why to Robina’s home?” she asked.
“That is just it. I have a little scheme in my head; why should not I tell you? I have told her—why should not you also be in the secret?”
“Oh, please, please tell me?” said Harriet. “I love secrets,” she added.
“Most girls do. Well, this is the state of things. You know that my first intention was to send Ralph back to Mrs Burton’s school with you and the other school-mothers. He was to be primarily under Robina’s care, and the rest of you were of course to be good to him. Dear, kind Mrs Burton had consented to the arrangement, and everything was going well, when, lo and behold! I was obliged to change my plans.”
“Oh!” said Harriet: “to change your plans—how? why?”
“I will tell you why, dear Harriet, and I am sure you will sympathise with me. I know you have a great regard for my little boy, and I believe he returns your regard; therefore anything connected with his future will be of interest to you. Mrs Burton cannot receive Ralph at her school as she at first promised to do. She will herself give you her reasons for this, but I need not trouble you about them at the present moment. Suffice it to say that Ralph cannot go back to Abbeyfield, and therefore I have to make other arrangements for him.”
“Yes,” said Harriet, in a breathless sort of voice. “Dear Ralph! He is such a sweet little boy. Have you made your arrangements, Mr Durrant?”
“I am going to South Africa early in October,” was his reply, “and cannot take my dear little son with me: he must remain in England. Now, this house is quite to my liking. It is large, and airy and well drained and not far from the seaside. I know a lady, a special friend of mine, who will come to look after Ralph, and he can have the best masters at Eastbourne and a daily tutor who will come out here to instruct him. But all these advantages are not sufficient. He must have a companion. There is in my opinion no companion so suitable for all that Ralph requires as Robina Starling; and I am going to see her father to-morrow in order to make arrangements for her to remain with him.”
“And not go back to Abbeyfield?” said Harriet.
Her voice was low. It was getting dusk too, and Mr Durrant could not very well see her face.
“Robina would not go back to school?” she repeated.
“In that case, no; but she would lose nothing thereby; for I should make it a personal matter, and would see that her education was thoroughly finished at my expense. She is a clever girl, and I can give her not only the very best masters, to develop what talent she possesses, but would eventually send her to Girton, where I understand she greatly longs to go.” Harriet was quite silent. “You approve, don’t you?” said Mr Durrant, scarcely knowing why he asked the question.
Harriet gave a little gasp.
“You are very, very good,” she said: “you have done a great deal for the girl that Ralph likes best. Is the girl who is to stay with him while you are away to be the girl he likes best, or the girl you like best? Hitherto, it has been the girl he likes best. Is that to be the case still?”
“I hope so, indeed I trust that he will like Robina best.”
“Because you do,” said Harriet.
“Yes, Harriet,” said Mr Durrant. “I like her; she is honest, and honourable. She has never, to my knowledge, done an underhand thing: I could not stand underhand ways in the companion who has to be so much in the society of my little son. I love honour before all things—honour and truth: they are the pillars in which the whole character must be raised to any sort of strength or perfection. I believe Robina to be both honourable and truthful.”
“Yes,” said Harriet: “you would not let her have the charge of Ralph if she had not these qualities.”
“Certainly not: but she has. I will wish you good-night now. I hope you will be quite well on Monday evening when I return from my visit to the Brown House.”
Mr Durrant left the room, and Harriet lay back in her deep, easy chair, lost in thought. Once again she said to herself:
“That horrid girl is about to supplant me. I wonder, oh, I wonder!”
She thought long and hard.