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Tom and Some Other Girls: A Public School Story

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<h3>Chapter Three.</h3> <h4>Anticipations.</h4> Two days later Mr and Mrs Chester started on their tour of inspection, and Rhoda reflected that she could not employ herself better during their absence than by preparing, so far as might be, for the life ahead. She went upstairs to her own sitting-room, and made a sweeping survey of her treasures. The books in the hanging cases must, of course, be left behind, since they were too numerous to carry. She looked lovingly at their bright gold and leather backs, and took down a special favourite here and there, to dip into its contents. The Waverley novels ran in a long, yellow line across one shelf; Dickens, clad in red, came immediately beneath; and a whole row of poets on the bottom shelf. Wordsworth was a prize from Fraulein, but his pages were still stiff and unread; Longfellow opened of himself at “Hiawatha”; while Tennyson, most beloved of all, held half a dozen markers at favourite passages. His portrait hung close at hand, a copy of that wonderful portrait by Watts, which seems to have immortalised all the power and beauty of the strange, sad face. Rhoda nicked a grain of dust from the glass surface, and carefully straightened the frame against the wall, for this picture was one of her greatest treasures, and respected accordingly. Another case held books of stories, ranging from the fairy tales of childhood to the publications of last year; a third was devoted to bound volumes of magazines, and a fourth to the less showy and interesting school-books. “It’s no use taking you!” said Rhoda scornfully. “I expect you are quite out of date. You can stay here and rest, and when I come back I’ll point out your errors, and send you into the lumber-room to make room for the new ones!” Then she turned her attention to the mantelpiece, on which reposed a quite extraordinary number of miniature jugs. Jugs, jugs everywhere, and nothing but jugs; blue jugs, yellow jugs, brown jugs, red jugs; Worcester jugs with delicate white figures against a background of blue; jugs worth a penny sterling at the village emporium; plain jugs, iridescent jugs; jugs with one handle, with two, with three, with none at all. Their variety was as puzzling as their number, but Rhoda gazed at them with all the pride of the collector. “Jugs”—unrivalled by postcards, stamps, or crests—had been her mania for a year on end, and the result was dear to her heart. To find a new jug to add to the collection had appeared one of the chief objects in travelling; an expedition to town had been a failure or success, according as it discovered jugs or no jugs. In her anxiety for their safety she had even volunteered to dust her own mantelpiece, and now, alas! she must leave them to the tender mercies of Mary and her assistants! It was a painful reflection, and after a moment’s consideration she determined not to risk it, but to store the darlings away in some safe hiding-place until her return. No sooner said than done. Each little jug was wrapped in a separate roll of tissue paper, fitted into a drawer of the writing-table, and securely locked against invasion. The process of “putting away” thus begun extended itself indefinitely. The photographs in their various frames must be arranged and divided; nice relations and very dearest friends, to be taken to school, disagreeable or “middling” relations, and merely “dearest friends,” to be laid aside in another drawer; fragile ornaments to be hidden, in case they were broken; silver and brass in case they tarnished; letters to be destroyed, to be tied up in packets, to be answered before leaving home; pieces of fancy work to be folded away, in case sacrilegious hands should dare to put them to any other use than that for which they were intended. Rhoda set to work with the energy of ten women, and worked away until the once tidy room had become a scene of wildest confusion; until sofa, table, and chairs were alike piled high with bundles. Then of a sudden her energy flagged, she grew tired and discouraged, and wished she had left the stupid old things where she had found them. It occurred to her as a brilliant inspiration that there was no possible hurry, and that sitting under the trees reading a book, and drinking lemon squash, was a much more agreeable method of spending a hot summer’s day than working like a charwoman. She carried her latest book into the garden forthwith, ordered the “squash,” and spent an hour of contented idleness before lunch. The story, however, was not interesting enough to tempt a second reading during the afternoon, for the heroine was a girl of unimpeachable character, who pursued her studies at home under the charge of a daily governess, and such a poor-spirited creature could hardly be expected to commend herself to a girl who had decided for two whole days to go to the newest of all new schools, and already felt herself far removed from such narrow experiences. Rhoda cast about in her mind for the next diversion, and decided to bicycle across the park to call upon the Vicar’s daughter the self-same Ella Mason who had been her informant on so many important points. Ella would be indeed overcome to hear that Rhoda herself was to be a “Hurst” girl, and there would be an increased interest in hearing afresh those odd pieces of information which had fallen from the cousin’s lips. She felt a thrill of relief on hearing that her friend was at home, and in finding her alone in the morning-room, which looked so bare and colourless to eyes accustomed to the splendours of the Chase. Something of the same contrast existed between the two girls themselves, for while Rhoda sat glowing pink and white after her ride, Ella’s cheeks were as pale as her dress, and her eyes almost as colourless as the washed-out ribbon round her waist. She was not a beauty by any means, but unaffectedly loving and unselfish, rejoicing in her friend’s news, though it would deprive her of a favourite companion, and she was all anxiety to help and encourage. She knitted her brow to remember all that the cousin had said of Hurst Manor, wishing only that she had listened with more attention to those pearls of wisdom. “Yes, she said that they did a great deal of Latin. All the girls learn it, and it seems to be looked on as one of the most important subjects. They translate Horace and Livy and all kinds of learned books.” “Humph! I shan’t!” declared Rhoda coolly. “I don’t approve of Latin for girls. It’s silly. Of course, if you intend to teach, or be a doctor, or anything like that, it may be useful, but for ordinary stop-at-home girls it’s nonsense. What use would Latin be to me, I should like to know? I shall take modern languages instead. I can read and write French fluently, though it doesn’t come quite so easy to speak it, and German, of course, is second nature after jabbering with Fraulein all these years. I should think in German if I would allow myself, but I won’t. I don’t think it is patriotic. There is not very much that any one can teach me of French or German!” “Then what is the use of studying them any more?” inquired Ella, aptly enough; but Rhoda was not a whit discomposed. “My dear, it is ever so much pleasanter doing things that you understand! The first stages are such a grind. Well, what next? What other subjects are important?” “Mathematics. Some of the girls are awfully clever, and are ever so far on in Euclid. I did one book with father; but it worried me so, and I cried so much one day when he altered the letters and put the whole thing out, that he grew tired, and said I could give it up. You didn’t do any with Fraulein, I think?” “No; it’s a nuisance. I wish I did now; but I’ll have to begin at once, that’s all! I’ll get Harold’s old books and cram up before I go, so that I can just bring in an expression now and then, as if I knew all about it. Girls are so patronising if they think you are a beginner... I’m pretty well up in history, and can say reams of poetry, and play, and draw, and paint in water colours—” “Ye–es!” assented Ella feebly. She was afraid to say so much in words, but her conviction was that her friend’s methods of work would seem strangely antiquated when contrasted with the vivid strength of the new régime. She recalled Rhoda’s mild copies of village scenes, with cottages in the foreground, trees to the rear, and a well-regulated flight of swallows on the sky line, and mentally placed them beside her cousin’s vigorous sketches on the Slade system, where two or three lines seemed to do the work of a dozen, and prettiness was a thing abhorred! She remembered the lessons in theory and harmony, and trembled for her friend’s awakening. “Yes,” she repeated. “Oh, of course; and then there are other things besides lessons—a girl can make herself popular by being pleasant and obliging, and the outdoor life is so fascinating. Games every day, just as if you were boys, and each one trying to get into a higher team, and as keen and enthusiastic as she can be. You will enjoy the games, Rhoda!” “Now that’s just one thing I wanted to talk to you about!” cried Rhoda earnestly. “I’m glad you reminded me. Of course, tennis and croquet are all right. I can play a very good set, and beat most ladies at croquet. One time this summer I made five hoops in one turn, and took my partner with me, but of course I don’t do that every day of the week. I’m all right for summer games, but winter is coming on, and I shall have to play that horrid old hockey, and I haven’t the remotest idea how it is done. I’ve never seen a match, but you have, and I want you to tell me all about it, so that I may know what to do, and not make an idiot of myself. You went to the Betham ground when you were staying there, and saw the girls’ team play. Go on! Describe it! Tell me all about it, and everything they did!” Ella drew a deep breath, and looked awed and important. “Well! it was a county match, and one team wore white blouses and the other pink. They had on blue skirts, very short, and awful feet! Some had great pads on each ankle, and some had leggings, and some had nothing at all. I should have swathings of cotton wool a foot wide, for it made my ankles ache just to see the sticks swinging about! It was an icy day; the wind went through us like knives and scissors, and we stood on little planks of wood and shuddered, with furs up to our ears, but they wore no hats or jackets, and their sleeves went flap, flap, as thin as possible. There was only one pretty one among them, all the rest looked—hideous! There was a goal at one end, here, and another, here.” Ella drew a rough map of the ground on the back of an envelope, and Rhoda looked on with breathless interest. “This team wanted to make a goal here, and the other side tried to prevent them. They whacked with their sticks, and off went the ball, and each side flew after it, trying to send it the way they wanted, and one poor, wretched girl stood before each goal to prevent the enemy’s ball from entering. I expected they would both die of consumption the next day, but I met them out at tea, quite spry and lively, and they said they didn’t feel cold a bit. I didn’t believe them, but that’s nothing. An umpire marched about in leggings, and blew a whistle, and called out ‘Off side! Off side!’” “And what did he mean by that?” Ella hesitated, uncertainly. Her knowledge of the game was of the slightest, but she was anxious to help her friend, and gallantly tried to recall odd explanations. “Oh, well, I think one of the wrong side hit, you know, and there is a rule that you may not send the ball straight forward to one of your own side, but must hit it back to some one behind you.” “But that’s silly! If you want to get on as fast as you can, why on earth must you go back? If they never hit forward, how can they win. Do you mean to say they never send it forwards towards the goal?” “Oh, yes, yes! One girl was splendid. She hit magnificently. She ran like a man, and sent it flying before her, and made three goals herself.” “Then how—why—what—what in the world did you mean by saying that you mustn’t do it?” demanded Rhoda sternly, and Ella made a gesture as of tearing her hair in confusion. “I don’t know! It isn’t easy to understand a game when you see only one match. I was confused myself, but I know each side tries for a different goal, and there are ‘backs’ and ‘half-backs’ and ‘forwards,’ just as at football, and, whatever you do, you must not raise your stick above your waist. It’s a murderous-looking game, anyhow. I wondered that they weren’t all killed; and one girl’s hand was bleeding horribly. I asked her if it was very painful, and she stared and said, ‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed it!’ and mopped it up with her handkerchief. Awfully callous, I call it.” “Oh, I don’t know!” replied Rhoda, airily. “Those flesh wounds don’t hurt. I should never think of taking any notice of a little thing like that. Well, I can’t say I am very much wiser for your instructions, my dear, but I will pump Harold and see what I can get out of him. I have no doubt I could hit all right, for I have a quick eye, and if you can play one or two games it helps you with the rest. But I should be pretty mad if I made a hit and they whistled at me and made me come back. I like to know what I am about.” “You had better be a goal-keeper,” advised Ella, wisely; “you have no running to do until the ball comes your way, and then at it you go, tooth and nail! Stop it somehow—anyhow—with your hands, your feet, your skirt, your stick. I believe there is an etiquette about it, don’t you know, as there is about all those things, and that it’s more swagger to stop it one way than another, but the main thing is to stop it somehow, and that you simply must do!” “Humph! If you can! What happens if you can’t?” “Emigrate to Australia by the first boat! I should think so, at least, to judge by the faces of the other girls when one poor creature did let a ball in. Feerocious, my dear! there was no other word for it. My heart ached for her. But it was a stupid miss, for it looked so easy. I felt sure I could have stopped it.” “It’s all a matter of nerve. If you lose your head you are sure to play the fool at a critical moment. Fraulein was like that. The moment the game went against her she began to hop about, and puff and pant, and work herself into such a fever that she couldn’t even see a ball, much less hit it. I kept calm, and so of course I always won.” It did strike Ella that victory under such circumstances would be easily gained, but she was too loyal to say so, and Rhoda leant back against the cushions of the sofa, and continued to discourse on games in general, and school games in particular, with an air of such intimacy and knowledge that no one would have suspected that the object of her visit had been to listen, rather than to teach. Ella listened meekly to a recital of what her friend intended to do, and be; of the examinations she would pass, the honours she would gain; the influence she would exercise over her fellows; and sighed to think of her own limitations, and the impossibility of such a career ever falling to her lot. And then Rhoda rose, and put on her gloves preparatory to saying good-bye. “I shall come down to see you again, of course, but I shall be very busy. I am going to have a complete new outfit, and everything as nice as possible.” “Ye–es,” said the Vicar’s daughter. “I shall have all my best skirts lined with silk.” “Ah!” sighed Ella, and felt a pang of keenest envy. She had never possessed a silk lining in her life. It seemed to her at times that if she could only hear herself rustle as she walked, there would be nothing left to wish for in life! “They will think you are a Princess!” she said, and Rhoda smiled, and did not attempt to deny the impeachment. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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