"...Winifred Barton, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189--, left Christmas, 189--. The youngest pupil who ever obtained honours in Mathematics in the Oxford Local Examinations."

"Elizabeth Charrington, an old pupil of the school, obtained First Cla.s.s in the Honours School of Modern History at Oxford."

"Eleanor Newman, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189--, left Mid., 189--.

Beloved by her fellow-students as the kindest and most loyal of friends, the most unselfish of compet.i.tors. Held in grateful remembrance for the power of her influence and example."

"f.a.n.n.y Elder. For two years Games President of the school. Winner of the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Tournament, 189--. Holder of Edinburgh Golf Cup, 189--. A just and fearless sportswoman..."

The list of names went on indefinitely, but Rhoda had read enough to inflame curiosity, and wheeled eagerly round to confront Kathleen.

"What is it? What does it mean? Who puts them up? Is it just the cleverest girls?--"

"It's the Record Wall!" said Kathleen. "We are very proud of our Record Wall at Hurst. The cost of these tablets is paid by the pupils themselves, and they are put up entirely at their discretion. The teachers have nothing to do with it. If a girl has distinguished herself at work, but is conceited and overbearing, and makes herself disliked, no one wants to put up a tablet to _her_; so it is really a testimony to character, as well as to cleverness. Eleanor Newman was quite stupid, they say. I never knew her. She never pa.s.sed a single examination, nor took a prize nor anything, yet every one loved her.

She was a little, fair thing, with curly hair too short to tie back, and soft, grey eyes. She wasn't a bit goody, but she always seemed waiting to do kind things, and make peace, and cheer the girls when they were home-sick. And no one ever heard her say a cross word, or make an uncharitable remark."

"And did she die?" croaked Rhoda solemnly. A long experience of girls'

stories had taught her that when girls were sweet and fair, and never said an unkind word, they invariably caught a chill, and died of rapid consumption. She expected to hear the same report of Eleanor Newman, but Kathleen replied briskly:

"Die! Not a bit of it. She married, at nineteen, a doctor down in Hampshire, and brought him to see the school on their honeymoon. The Greens escorted her in a body to the Record Wall, and when she saw her own name she covered her face with her hands, and flew for her life.

And her husband looked quite weepy. The girls said he could hardly speak!"

"Ah-h!" sighed Rhoda, and was silent. She felt "weepy" too, filled with a sudden yearning, a sudden realisation of want. Eleanor Newman had risen to heights to which she could never attain. "A little, fair thing, and almost stupid," yet her school-fellows loved her, and immortalised her name in words of grateful loyalty. She sighed again, and yet again, and heard Kathleen's voice cry sharply--

"Oh, I look at that empty s.p.a.ce, and wonder if this time next year I shall read there that I have pa.s.sed first, and won the Scholarship. I wonder if ever, ever there will be a tablet with my name upon it!"

"I expect there will be," said Dorothy. "It's a lovely idea, and I can imagine every girl longing to see her name on the scroll of honour; but for my own part I never shall. Not for this child! There is no hope for me, unless they put me up as `a good little tortoise who never fell asleep.' The worst of it is that in real life the hare keeps awake too, and spoils one's chance. I must be content to bloom, in obscurity--`A violet by a mossy dell, half hidden from the eye'--"

But Rhoda already saw a new tablet twinkling on the empty s.p.a.ce, a tablet recording phenomenal success and distinction, and the name at the head of the inscription was not "Kathleen Murray," but one much more familiar in her ears!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

AN ENCOUNTER.

Sunday afternoon was hopelessly wet; but the fact was less regretted than usual, as from three to four was the time put aside for writing home. So far a postcard to announce safe arrival had been the only word written, and each girl was eager to pour forth her feelings at length, to tell the latest news, and report changes of cla.s.s. The two new- comers had a score of complaints and lamentations to record, and Rhoda, at least, entered unhesitatingly into the recital.

She had never been so miserable in her life. The girls were hateful, domineering, and unfriendly--Miss Bruce had spoken to her three times only--the food was good enough in its way, but so plain that she simply longed for something _nice_; the lessons were difficult, the hours unbearably long.--It took three whole sheets to complete the list of grievances, by which time her hand was so tired that she read it over by way of a rest, with the result that she was quite astonished to discover how miserable she had been! Everything she had said was true, and yet somehow the impression given was of a depth of woe which she could not honestly say she had experienced. Perhaps it was that she had omitted to mention the alleviating circ.u.mstances--Miss Everett's sweetness, Fraulein's praise, hours of relaxation in the grounds, signs of softening on the part of the girls, early hours and regular exercises, which sent her to the simple meals with an appet.i.te she had never known at home. Five days at school, and on the whole there had been as much pleasure as suffering. Then, was it quite fair to send home such a misleading account?

Rhoda drew from her pocket the latest of the five loving letters penned by the maternal hand, and read it through for the dozenth time. Sunday was a lonely day for new-comers, and the period occupied by the sermon in church had been princ.i.p.ally occupied by Rhoda in pressing back the tears which showed a presumptuous desire to roll down her cheeks and splash upon her gloves. It had been a sweet consolation to read over and over again the words which showed that though she might be one of a crowd at "Hurst," she was still the treasured darling of her home.

There was nothing original in the letter; it simply repeated in different words the contents of its four predecessors--sorrow for her absence, prayers for her welfare, anxiety for the first long letter.

"I can hardly wait until Monday morning. I am so longing to know how you are faring!" Rhoda read these words, and looked slowly down upon her own letter. Well! it would arrive, and the butler would place it on the breakfast-table, and her mother would come hurrying into the room, and seize it with a little cry of joy. She would read it over, and then--then she would hand it to her husband, and take out her handkerchief and begin to cry. Mr Chester would pooh-pooh her distress, but she would cry quietly behind the urn, and despite his affectation of indifference he, also, would look worried and troubled; while Harold would declare that every one must go through the same stage before settling down, and that Rhoda might be expected to "make a fuss."

She had been so spoiled at home!

Rhoda dug her pen into the blotting-paper, and frowned uneasily. Five days' experience at school had impressed her with the feebleness of "making a fuss."

"If you are hurt--bear it! If you are teased--look pleasant! If you are blamed--do better next time! If you feel blue--perk up, and don't be a baby!" Such were the Spartan rules of the new life, and an unaccustomed shame rose up in her mind at the realisation of the selfishness and weak betrayal of that first home letter. Was it not possible to represent the truth from the bright side as well as the dark, to dwell on the kindnesses she had received, and leave disagreeables untold? Yes, it _was_ possible; she would do so, and save her dear ones the pain of grieving for her unhappiness. So the thick sheets were torn across with a wrench, which made Thomasina look up from her desk.

As a head girl, "Tom" possessed a study of her own, to which she had prepared to depart earlier in the afternoon, but had been persuaded to stay by the entreaties of her companions.

"Tom, don't go! Don't leave us! It's a wet day, and so dull--do stay with us till tea-time. You might! You might!" urged the suppliant voices, and so Tom sat down to her desk in the house-parlour which was the property of the elder Blues, and indited letters on blue-lined, manly paper, with a manly quill pen.

As her eyes rested on the torn letter and on the clean sheet of paper drawn up for a fresh start, she smiled, a quiet understand-all-about-it smile, which Rhoda chose to consider an impertinent liberty. Then down went her head again, and the sc.r.a.pe, sc.r.a.pe of pens continued until four o'clock, by which time the girls were thankful to fold the sheets in their envelopes and make them ready for post. Rhoda read over her second effort in a glow of virtue, and found it a model of excellence.

No complaints this time, no weak self-pity; but a plain statement of facts without any personal bias. Her father and mother would believe that she was entirely contented; but Harold, having been through the same experiences, would read between the lines and understand the reserve. He would say to himself that he had not expected it of Rhoda, and that she had behaved "like a brick," and Harold's praise was worth receiving.

Altogether it was in a happier frame of mind that Rhoda left her desk and took her place in one of the easy chairs with which the room was supplied. From four to five was a free hour on Sundays, and the girls were allowed to spend it as they liked, without the presence of a teacher.

This afternoon talk was the order of the day, each girl in turn relating the doings of the holidays, and having her adventures capped by the next speaker. Thomasina, however, showed a sleepy tendency, and kept dozing off for a short nap, and then nodding her head so violently that she awoke with a gasp of surprise. In one of these intervals she met Dorothy's eyes fixed upon her with a wondering scrutiny, which seemed to afford her acute satisfaction.

"Ah!" she cried, sitting up and looking in a trice quite spry and wide- awake. "I know what you are doing! You are admiring me, and wondering what work of nature I most resemble. I can see it in your face. And you came to the conclusion that it was a codfish! No quibbles, please!

Tell me the truth. That was just exactly it, wasn't it?"

"_No_!" cried Dorothy emphatically, but the emphasis expressed rather contrition for a lost opportunity than for a wrongful suspicion. "No, I did not!" it seemed to say, "How stupid not to have thought of it.

You--really--are--extraordinarily like!"

"Humph!" said Thomasina. "Then you are the exception, that's all. All the new-comers say so, and therein they err. It's not a cod at all, it's a pike. I am the staring image of a pike!"

She screwed up her little eyes as she spoke, and pulled back her chin in a wonderful, fish-like grin which awoke a shriek of merriment from the beholders. Even Rhoda laughed with the rest, and reflected that if one were born ugly it was a capital plan to accept the fact, and make it a joke rather than a reproach. Thomasina was the plainest girl she had ever seen, yet she exercised a wonderful attraction, and was infinitely more popular among her companions than Irene Grey, with her big eyes and well-cut features.

"Next time you catch a pike just look at it and see if I'm not right,"

continued Tom easily. "But perhaps you don't fish. I'm a great angler myself. That's the way I spend most of my time during the holidays."

"I don't like fishing, its so wormy," said Irene, with a shudder. "I like lolling about and feeling that there's nothing to do, and no wretched bells jangling every half-hour to send you off to a fresh cla.s.s. `Nerve rest,' that's what _I_ need in my holidays, and I take good care that I get it."

"I don't want rest. I want to fly round the whole day and do nice things," said a bright-eyed girl in a wonderful plaid dress ornamented with countless b.u.t.tons--"lunches, and teas, and dinners, and picnics, and dances, and plays. I like to live in a whirl, and stay in bed to breakfast, and be waited on hand and foot. I don't say I _get_ it, but it's what I would have if I could."

"Well, I'm a nice, good little maid who likes to help her mother and be useful. When I go back I say to her, `Now don't worry any more, dear; leave all to me,' and I run the house and make them all c-ringe before me. Even the cook is afraid of me. She says I have such `masterful ways.'"

The speaker was a tall, fair girl, with a very large pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of an aquiline nose. She looked "masterful"

enough to frighten a dozen cooks, and made a striking contrast to the next speaker, a mouse-like, pinched little creature, with an air of conscious, though unwilling, virtue.

"I spent the last half of these holidays with a clergyman uncle, and helped in the parish. I played the harmonium for the choir practice, and kept the books for the Guilds and Societies. His daughter was ill, and there was no one else to take her place, so, of course, I went at once. It is quite a tiny little country place--Condleton, in Loamshire."

"What!" cried Rhoda, and sat erect in her seat sparkling with animation.

"Condleton! I know it quite well. I often drive over there with my ponies. It is only six miles from our place, and such a pretty drive.

I know the Vicarage quite well, and the Church, and the funny little cross in the High Street!"

She spoke perfectly simply, and without thought of ostentation, for her parents' riches had come when she herself was so young that she had no remembrance of the little house in the manufacturing town, but looked as a matter of course upon the luxuries with which she was surrounded. It never occurred to her mind that any of her remarks could be looked upon as boasting, but there was a universal glancing and smiling round the room, and Thomasina enquired gravely:

"Do you drive the same pair every day?"

"Of ponies? Oh, yes, generally," replied Rhoda innocently. "They are frisky little things, and need exercise. Of course if we go a very long way, I give them a rest next day and drive the cobs, but as a rule they go out regularly."

Thomasina shook her head in solemnest disapproval. "That's a mistake!

You should change _every_ day. The merciful man is merciful to his beast. I can't endure to see people thoughtless in these matters. My stud groom has special orders _never_ to send out the postilions on the same mounts oftener than twice a week!"

There was a moment's pause, and then a shriek of laughter. Girls threw themselves back in their seats, and held their sides with their hands; girls stamped on the floor, and rolled about as though they could not contain their delight; girls mopped their eyes and gasped, "Oh, dear!

oh, dear!" and grew red up to the roots of their hair. And Rhoda's face shone out, pale and fixed, in a white fury of anger.