Book II Chapter 15 The Little School-Mothers by L. T. Meade
Anxious Times
The other girls started when Patience delivered herself of this last remark.
“Jane Bush?” they said, looking at one another as though they thought Patience Chetwold—Patience, the most down-right, matter-of-fact, sensible girl on earth—had suddenly taken leave of her senses. “What do you mean, Patience?” they said, almost in chorus. “What can poor Jane have to do with it?”
“Anyone can see,” remarked Rose, “that Jane is terribly afraid of Harriet, but she herself, poor little thing, has done nothing.”
“Yes, she has,” remarked Patience; “Jane has done a great deal more than any of the rest of you have the least idea of. And now, girls,” she added, “I am going to prove my words.”
As Patience finished speaking, she abruptly left the room. She was only gone a few minutes, and when she came back, she was holding the unwilling hand of poor terrified looking Jane Bush. Jane had said good-night to Harriet, and had gone away to her own room. It so happened that the chamber in which she reposed was nowhere near Harriet’s, which, as Patience remarked, was a good thing on the present occasion; and Harriet being certain that nothing could really happen further to damage her cause, had gone safely and comfortably to bed. Little did she guess that Jane, when in the very act of preparing for her own night’s rest, was forcibly conducted to be cross-questioned by five very determined school-mothers.
As soon as Patience got into the room, she quite calmly locked the door.
“Now,” she said, looking at the others, “we shall be quite undisturbed. Sit down, Jane,” she said; “you need not be frightened, you have only just to tell the truth, and we, between us, will look after you. There is no possible way of shirking the truth, Jane Bush; you may as well out with it, sooner or later. If you tell it without difficulty and at once, you will suffer less than if you struggled to keep it to yourself: you will be less miserable afterwards than you are now, for it is only to look at your face, Jane, to know that you are a thoroughly wretched girl. Well, here you are, quite outside Harriet’s influence for the time being, and here are we five of us, all full of suspicion with regard to you, and I think,” continued Patience, glancing at the rest of the girls,—“that we have got quite as much brains as you, Jane Bush; so five sets of brains against one set of brains must win the victory, mustn’t they? That’s common-sense, isn’t it, Jane? Now then; let us begin. Which amongst us girls will begin to question Jane first?”
“I don’t want any of you to talk to me; I have nothing to say at all: I want to go back to my bed,” said Jane, who was so terribly frightened that she forgot all that remorse which troubled her, her only present desire being to fly from the presence of the dreadful five girls who had entrapped her into their power.
“Come, come,” said Patience; “there’s no good in giving way: it will be all right if you only tell us the truth. Sit down in that chair and make yourself comfy. Now then, you poor little thing, we know quite well that you are the cat’s-paw, and that your poor little paw is dreadfully burnt. But never mind, Janie, you will be out of all this misery if you will take the advice of girls who at least have a shadow of honour in their disposition.”
At these words, Jane stopped crying, raised her head, and looked with her round black eyes full into the faces of all five. It was true what they had said: they were honourable and she, if left to herself, would much rather not walk in deceit’s crooked ways. She gave a sigh deep from her heart. A memory stole over her of the little children who were really all her world—little Miriam, little Bobbie, they thought their own Jane perfect; but if they could look into her heart, would even such tiny children trust her? She shivered, and sat very still.
“You had best do the questioning, Patience,” said Frederica; “you have taken this matter in hand, and you had best pull it through.”
“Very well,” said Patience; “then I will make short work of it. It is this way, Jane. You know quite well that Harriet wants to be elected school-mother to Ralph. She wants to live here and to have all the advantages of the home Mr Durrant means to offer to the girl who is elected to the post. You know that at least, don’t you?”
Jane nodded her head.
“So far, so good,” said Patience. “You will please note on a piece of paper, Frederica, that Jane Bush admits that Harriet is anxious to be Ralph’s school-mother.”
Frederica, seeing that the proceedings were to take such an orderly course, immediately approached the centre-table and wrote down Jane’s reply on a piece of paper.
“That is statement one,” continued Patience. “Now statement two is this: another girl equally wishes for the post, and that girl is Robina Starling. You admit that also, don’t you, Jane?”
“Yes,” said Jane.
“Note it down, please, Frederica,” said Patience. “Now, Jane,” continued Patience, “we come to the really important part. For some extraordinary reason Robina, who is admirably suited to become Ralph’s school-mother is likely—more than likely—to be worsted in this conflict by Harriet, who is not suitable at all. Now, there is not the slightest doubt in the minds of us five girls that there is foul play in this matter: yes, Jane, foul play. Is there foul play or is there not?”
Jane grew scarlet and fidgetted in her chair.
“Is there foul play?” repeated Patience.
“I am not going to say,” remarked Jane.
“Note that down, please, Frederica,” said Patience.
Frederica did so.
“Can you state now,” continued Patience, very solemnly, “can you as a Christian child who has been baptised and has gone to church every Sunday and who hopes to be confirmed next year—can you state solemnly that to your certain knowledge there is no foul play in this matter? If, after careful consideration, you will tell us that, we shall be inclined to believe you. But pause a minute first,” continued Patience; “we want you to consider very carefully what such a statement on your part means. It means that Harriet, who is unsuited in every respect to look after Ralph, will be elected as his school-mother, and it means, if you state a false thing, that you can never, never, as long as you live, be a truly happy girl again. Now, tell us the truth. We promise to believe you as far as we can. Yes or no, Jane? yes or no?”
“You frighten me,” said Jane.
“That is not the point. What do you mean to say?”
“I—I can’t—” Jane wriggled.
“Look up,” said Patience. “You are not a coward by nature. Can you positively declare that there is no foul play?”
“I can’t,” said Jane then; and at these words she subsided into her seat sobbing, not loudly, but in the most heart-broken and terrible manner, swaying from side to side, bemoaning her own lot, and then suddenly springing up and confronting the five girls.
“Oh, you are cruel!” she said. “You persecute me! You have not got a little Bobbie and a little Miriam waiting and wanting—waiting and wanting all you can get for them.”
“You poor child!” said Patience. Her tone changed. She went straight up to the culprit and put her arms round her neck. “Come along here, Janie,” she said. “You are a weak sort, but when all is said and done, you are not half bad. You have had the misfortune since you came to school to choose a friend who worked on your worst not your best feelings. Now, suppose Vivian and Rose and Cecil and Frederica and I take the place of Harriet Lane in your friendship; don’t you think you will do fifty times better?”
“Oh, but you can’t be my friends,” said Jane, wonderfully comforted in spite of herself. “You can’t, for you don’t know me. You don’t know half nor quarter how bad I am, nor,—nor—what I have done nor how—how I was tempted, nor—nor—the half nor the quarter of what has happened.”
“Look here,” said Patience. “I tell you what I personally know. I know this; that on the day when we all landed at Totland Bay, you were seen by me talking very earnestly with Harriet. I also saw you run away from the rest of the party and meet Mr Durrant, who was coming to join us in the little bay where we were all to bathe. I could not hear what you said to him; but you said something, and he went back to the yacht instead of joining us. You also went back yourself: you did not appear again that day, and when we saw you afterwards you seemed to us to be a most miserable little girl. Now, what occurred between you and Mr Durrant will have to be explained to-morrow morning when the great decision is come to; for we girls don’t mean Robina to have no innings in this matter. You need not tell us anything about it now, all we want you to do is to proclaim the simple truth to-morrow morning. Of course there are other things, for doubtless you know the whole matter from beginning to end; but if you tell what really occurred between you and Mr Durrant that will probably save the situation and secure the post of Ralph’s school-mother for Robina.”
“But—Harriet—what will she think of me?” said Jane.
“What we five think of you seems more to the point,” said Patience. “Now look here, Janie; you are not going to lose your pluck. You think it very dreadful to betray Harriet, but let me tell you that it is fifty thousand times more dreadful to allow a wicked girl like Harriet to have the control and the guidance of a sweet, dear little boy like Ralph. We ask you for Ralph’s sake, therefore, to be brave in this matter, to confess your own sin, and to throw yourself—first on the mercy of God, who is always willing to forgive us when we repent, and next on the mercy of Mr Durrant and your school-fellows. You have done terribly wrong, of course we know that, but you are not the worst culprit. Harriet won’t confess; we have tried her and she is obdurate; you have therefore got to save the situation. And now, please, you will come and sleep in my room to-night, for I don’t want you to see Harriet again between now and eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Jane. “Oh, I am too miserable and too frightened!”
“I have one last thing to say,” said Patience. “Would you like your own Bobbie to be under the care of Harriet Lane with no chance of getting away from her?”
“No, no! a thousand times no!” cried Jane, her face turning white, and her words trembling on her lips, so great was her anxiety.
“Well, then; if that is the case, you could not be so mean as to subject Ralph to her influence. But come along to bed; you are tired, you poor little thing.” Patience hardly glanced at the other school-mothers but, taking Jane’s hand, went upstairs with her, and popped her into her own bed at once and presently lay down by her side, wondering what the morrow would bring forth, but feeling on the whole that the odds were marvellously once again in favour of Robina.
Now Robina herself little guessed what her school-fellows were doing, for she slept the sleep of one who is tired out and who owns herself defeated. She slept heavily for several hours and when she awoke the sun was shining into the room. She sprang up in bed, and looked at her little watch, which proclaimed the hour of six. So the night had gone by, and the morning had come. Robina pressed her hand to her forehead. Her own future was quite clear to her; but she was not exactly sorry for herself just then; she was thinking all the time of Ralph. Within her heart there had awakened a love, so passionate, so deep, so true, for that little brown-eyed, brown haired boy that her agony at leaving him was the one and sole thought within her. She had no time just then to spare for thoughts of personal loss: she was only thinking of Ralph. She could not betray Harriet: noblesse oblige forbade. She must go, and Ralph must suffer. But she felt that she could not endure to be present when Mr Durrant made his decision. She would tell him in advance that she withdrew from the conflict. He would be home early that morning.
Robina sprang out of bed and dressed. She ran downstairs. There was a servant up who told her that a carriage had been sent to meet Mr Durrant at the railway station, and that he would, in all probability, be back at Sunshine Lodge a little before eight o’clock.
“Then I will go to meet him,” thought Robina. “He must see me alone, for he must make arrangements to send me home to-day. I will just see him and tell him, and then there will be an end, as far as I am concerned. I will ask him to let me go by the very first train, so that I need not say good-bye to the other girls; only I should like just to see Ralph once again.”
Robina thought for a time. It was only a little after seven: she would have time: she ran softly upstairs and swiftly down one of the long corridors until she reached Ralph’s room. Very, very softly she unfastened the door, and very gently did she steal in. Without making a scrap of noise, she knelt down by the little white bed and looked with all her heart in her eyes at the boy as he lay asleep. She gazed on this beautiful little face as though she would impress it on her memory for evermore. Then, bending forward, she pressed a kiss, light as air, on the sleeper’s forehead, whispered “Good-bye, Ralph; God bless you always,” and then she stole away. She had made her entrance into the room and her exit from it without in the least disturbing the little lad who was so happily enjoying himself in Slumberland. But the minute she had left, he began to dream of Robina, and when he awoke some little time afterwards, it was with her name on his lips.
He rubbed his brown eyes and looked around him in a puzzled way and said aloud:
“I thought darling Robina had been turned into an angel and that she had come to kiss me, and help me to become an angel too.”
As he uttered the words, there was Harriet in the room; she had come to dress him; although this was an office she need not have taken upon herself; but it was her object to be exceedingly petting to Ralph on this all-important occasion.
“What are you muttering to yourself?” she said.
“I thought darling Robina was in the room, and that she was turned into an angel,” said Ralph. He looked in a puzzled way at Harriet. “Will you ever be turned into an angel, Harriet?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Harriet. She spoke crossly. “I have enough to do to keep myself a good girl down in this world, without worrying myself about angels,” she continued.
“Oh, yes!” said Ralph, in a sad little whisper. “Darling Robina.”
“Why do you talk of her like that?” said Harriet, rather frightened at his tone. “It is me you love best, isn’t it?”
“’Course,” said Ralph, a little wearily; “only,” he added, “I don’t see why I am to be saying it every minute. I love Robina too,—awful much!”
After this speech, which was uttered with such heart fervour that Harriet must have been a great fool if she did not guess the real state of Ralph’s heart, the process of dressing became—to say the least of it—contrary.
In the meantime, Robina herself had gone up the avenue to meet Mr Durrant.
He was just about to drive down to Sunshine Lodge when he met a pale girl with those remarkably steadfast and beautiful eyes which had always attracted him and which had always won his heart. She was waiting for him at the gates.
“Why, Robina!” he said.
“I want to speak to you, Mr Durrant, please,” said Robina.
Mr Durrant immediately motioned to the coachman to stop and sprang out of the carriage.
“What is it, dear?” he said. “Is anything wrong? Will you get in and drive down to the house or—what shall we do?”
“I would rather talk to you before we get to the house. I want to see you alone,” said Robina.
“Very well,” said Mr Durrant. He gave his servant directions, and the carriage disappeared towards the stables.
Mr Durrant then took Robina’s hand.
“Now what is it, my dear child?” he said. “You don’t look well, dear. Robina, what is wrong with you?”
“You know what is going to happen to-day, don’t you?” said Robina.
“Yes,” said Mr Durrant. “I have got to choose between you and Harriet. The decision will be forced to rest a good deal with Ralph, but—”
“Listen,” said Robina. “Please don’t say any more. I am awfully sorry, but I want you to believe as long as you live, I want you always to believe that Robina Starling loves you and loves Ralph, and that I can never, never forget your kindness to me; but I cannot be Ralph’s school-mother.”
“My clear child!”
“I can’t—I can’t give you any reason: I want you to let me go away. I have been unhappy about this, and there is nothing for me to do but—but to go away, and I want to go away to-day and not to see Ralph again, nor the other girls again until we meet at school. And please keep Bo-peep, because I don’t think I ought to have him; and forget that you ever knew me, except just keep the one little bit of memory that, although I can’t explain anything, I love you and Ralph just awfully.”
“But Robina—this is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! You accepted the position of standing on trial for this post. I have spoken to your parents; I have practically made up my mind to elect you, unless Ralph himself by his conduct makes it impossible for me to do so. How can you, my dear Robina, give the thing up now, and without a reason of any sort? This is unfair to me; this is unjust to yourself; this is more than unjust to Ralph.”
“I have made up my mind,” said Robina. “I may be right, or I may be wrong; but I have made up my mind; I am not going to compete. There is not only Harriet,” she continued; “there is Patience, and there is Frederica, and there are the three Amberleys—you have other girls to choose from, and I am going out of it. Please let me go home; I cannot be Ralph’s school-mother: I really, really cannot.”
Mr Durrant looked now not only puzzled but annoyed.
“You disappoint me,” he said. “I don’t understand you.”
They had come at this moment to the margin of the round pond, and there were the water-lilies with all their cups of white and gold wide open, the sun shining on them, and there was the water itself glistening in the sunlight; and there was the willow bough. Robina turned away with a sick heart.
“I mean you could not understand,” she said, “and that is the worst thing of all: and I can’t explain, I can’t! Let me go back please, to-day: and as you cannot love me after this, forget me utterly.”
“It must be as you wish, of course,” said Mr Durrant, very coldly. “I will order a carriage, and see that an escort is provided to take you back to the Brown House. As to my disappointment, we won’t speak of it: what must be, must be.”
He had held out his hand as he led her in the direction of the pond. Now, he let that same hand go. They walked together to the house. Robina went up to her room, Mr Durrant to his study.
“I never was so puzzled in all my life,” thought the good man. “Robina Starling, of all people!”