L.T. Meade (continued 5)

“Who can swim?” she asked.

“I can,” said Frederica.

“And I a little bit,” said Rose Amberley.

“And I can’t,” said Robina; “but all the same, I am going to bathe if the rest of you do.”

“And who said you were not to bathe?” asked Harriet. “It will do you good, I think, for you look so hot and dusty.”

“Yes, I believe it would do me a lot of good,” said Robina, and as she spoke she took off her hat and twisting up her thick hair, knotted it firmly at the back of her head.

The girls then packed their bathing things, and Robina, Harriet and the others prepared to get into the water. Little Ralph, looking prettier than he had ever done before, in a little tight-fitting brown bathing suit, skipped about on the edge of the waves.

“Oh! won’t it be jolly!” he cried; “won’t it be jolly in the water! Come, Harriet.”

On his lips the words were almost bubbling, “You can swim splendid,” but he kept them back.

“Let me hold your hand, Ralph,” said Robina. “We mustn’t go far because your father is not with us, and your father wouldn’t like it.”

“Nonsense!” said Harriet, who was standing up to her knees in the water, which was quite warm, and as still as possible. “Those who are cowards,” she said, “need not come on; but from the little I know of Mr Durrant, I should say that of all things in the world, he would wish Ralph to prove himself a brave boy. Come along with me, Ralph; hold my hand; poor silly Robina can’t swim, you know.”

“Can’t you, Robina? Oh, I forgot,” said Ralph. He looked pityingly at her.

“I can swim quite a little bit,” he said. “Father taught me; only I can’t keep up very long, but leastways I can float. Can’t you even float, Robina? You has to turn on your back—so.”

As Ralph spoke, he suited the action to the words, lying perfectly still on his back, his head slightly lower than his chest. Harriet laughed; put her hand under the said little head, and forced him on to his feet again.

“Why, you are a splendid boy,” she said. “You and I will see together what we can do. The water is quite warm. Now, Ralph, you know the stroke. Come along; I will help you. All of you who can swim, come with me, won’t you. I thought before I got into the water that the current might be a little strong, but I see I am mistaken. We can easily go as far as the entrance to the cove. What fun it will be to look at the outside world from the edge of the cove.”

Harriet began to swim out boldly, and Ralph for a time kept pace with her, laughing as he did so. Suddenly, a girl cried out:

“Don’t go any further, Harriet; there’s a fisherman beckoning to us. Turn back, Harriet; turn back!” Harriet turned quickly. She saw a man on the cliff gesticulating and waving his hand. She looked at Ralph. Ralph was still swimming close to her. The other girls had not even gone out of their depths. Robina, however, with her face white as death, was struggling into deep water.

“No, no!” cried Harriet. “Turn back, turn back, Robina! It’s all right—it really is. Don’t come any further, you’ll be drowned if you do!”

“Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!” pleaded Robina. “Come back to me, come back!”

The little boy looked at her and smiled.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I is all right. I is just going as far as Harriet, and then I’ll swim back to you. It’s lovely in the water, it is so warm and—”

A tiny white curling wave came up to him at that moment as though it were a play-fellow and broke over him as though it were laughing at him, and carried him imperceptibly so far from Harriet that she could no longer reach out her hand to touch him. Oh, still of course he was quite safe. He was nowhere near the entrance to the cove, and even though there was another white wave coming on, he was safe, as safe could be. But why had all the waves in a moment, as it were, got little tiny white crests on them? and why was the sea not quite so blue? and why was there a wind which took the heat out of the water? Why had all these things happened? But of course there was not the slightest danger? Still, perhaps Harriet might as well keep near to Ralph. She wanted him to be in a little bit of danger. She wanted him to cry out to her, and then she wanted to catch him and bring him back, and she wanted the people on the shore to say: “Well done, Harriet! Well done, brave, brave girl! You have saved the little chap’s life!”

So she delayed, trifling just a minute, and now another play-fellow wave—a bigger and a rougher one than the first two, caught the gallant tiny swimmer, and turned him right over this time and suddenly filled his lungs with water. Ralph threw up his arms. There was a sharp scream from the girls on the shore. Harriet saw the fisherman flying down from the cliffs above, and, turning herself, swam as fast as ever she could in Ralph’s direction. But now she was about to test her own foolhardiness, for alas! poor little Ralph had got into the current—one of those terribly dangerous currents which have wrecked not only brave swimmers, but even boats at sea when they got within the neighbourhood of the treacherous Needles.

The little brown head bobbed one minute on the surface of the waves and then disappeared. Harriet gave a frantic cry. She swam after the boy, putting out all her strength. Her hand was stretched out, and when he reappeared, she caught him by his little bathing suit.

By this time, one of the fishermen had got into the water, and a minute or two later, both girl and boy were lying exhausted on the beach.

“You did a mighty silly thing, young folks—daring to go into the water on a day like this!” said the man. “Why, little master was just drownding!”

“O Harriet!” said Frederica; “you were brave!” Harriet heard the words, and then sank away into a swoon. Had she earned her reward? These were the last thoughts she took with her into the world of unconsciousness.

When she came to herself, Mr Durrant was bending over her. Ralph, very pale, but quite well, was seated close to her side and all the other girls were gazing at her from a respectful distance.

“I don’t understand this story at all,” said Mr Durrant. “Sit up, Harriet, my dear. You have received a great shock; you must drink some of this.” He held a cup of hot coffee to her lips. One of the fishermen had brought it from his own cottage near by.

“Now, that’s better,” said Mr Durrant, when the girl had sipped a little and looked round her. “But, my dear Harriet, my last instructions were that none of you were to go into the water. Of course, I know what a dangerous coast this is, and after the storm of last night, you ran the most fearful risk.”

“But she was brave! she was noble! She did, she did try to save me!” said Ralph, clasping Harriet’s hand and fondling it as his brown eyes filled with tears.

“Oh yes; that is quite true,” said Mr Durrant. He spoke quietly. “Still,” he said, “I don’t understand why my message was disobeyed.”

“But we never heard anything about it. We shouldn’t have dreamed of going into the water,” said Frederica, “if we had known that you did not approve.”

“I told Jane that you were none of you to bathe until I came back. Harriet, there is no telegram from your father: you must consider no news as good news.”

“Oh yes,” said Harriet, in a faint voice. She took Ralph’s hand and whispered to him: “Stay close to me. When you are close to me, I won’t be seeing all the time your little head going under the water.”

“We have a great deal to be thankful for,” said Mr Durrant.

“But I cannot understand Jane Bush. She seemed in great distress about you, Harriet, and said that you were fretting terribly about your father. She wanted herself to go back to try and get news from the yacht, but of course I offered to go. Still, I gave implicit directions that you were none of you to bathe. Where is Jane?”

“I think she had a headache,” said Harriet. “Anyhow, she said she would go back and stay near the yacht. She thought, perhaps, one of the boatmen would see her and take her on board.”

“And she never gave you my message?”

“Certainly not,” said Harriet.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr Durrant after a pause, “I am exceedingly sorry that this should have happened; but nevertheless we have much to be thankful for. I have given that poor brave sailor what I hope he will consider a suitable reward. And now, children, I think we will get back to the yacht: the sooner Harriet lies down the better. I can see, my dear, that your own head is aching badly.”

“It is; I feel queer and rather sick,” said Harriet.

“I have ordered a waggonette to meet us, and we will drive back to Totland Bay: you are all much too tired to walk,” said Mr Durrant; “all except you, you plucky little man,” he added, looking at his little son. “You don’t seem a bit the worse.”

“I wasn’t a bit frighted, father,” said Ralph, speaking with great excitement, “’cause I knew.”

“What did you know, my boy?”

“That Harriet would save me, ’cause she,”—the words came out with a rush—“did it afore!”

Everyone looked at Harriet, who turned very pale. “Is this the second time you have saved Ralph, my dear Harriet?” asked Mr Durrant.

“Ralph?” said Harriet. “You know you ought not to speak—”

“Don’t ask her, father,” said Ralph.

“I ask her nothing. She has saved your life this time, that I can testify. You are a brave girl, Harriet; forgive me for having doubted you. Bravery like yours must be accompanied by other noble traits of character. I will say no more for the present except to add that you ran a terrible risk, and that whatever your good intentions, you could not possibly have saved Ralph but for the aid of that brave sailor who brought you both back to shore.”

The said sailor now appeared on the scene to announce the approach of the carriage which was to convey the party to the yacht. They all got in, and in a short time were back again on board the “Sea-Gull.” The first person they saw when they stood on the deck of the pretty little yacht was Jane, whose white face and anxious eyes would have told too much of her story had not Harriet rushed up to her, squeezed her hand and managed to whisper:

“It is all right; and you have but to say boldly now that you forgot to give me the message about not bathing.”

“Is that you, Jane Bush?” said Mr Durrant at that moment.

“Yes, sir,” said Jane, coming forward.

Harriet gave her fingers a squeeze. That squeeze seemed to say:

“Five pounds will be yours—five beautiful, lovely, golden sovereigns! Don’t lose your courage now.”

“I particularly gave you a message, Jane, when you were so anxious for me to return to the yacht on Harriet’s behalf. Did you forget it?”

“What message, sir?” asked Jane.

“I requested the young people—in fact, I did much more than request, I desired the young people not on any account to go into the water until my return.”

“O, sir—so you did!” said Jane.

“And you never gave the message?”

“No, sir,” said Jane, dropping her head.

“And why not, pray? It was very important.”

“I—I had a headache, sir.”

“You—in fact—forgot?”

“Yes, Mr Durrant, I—I forgot,” said Jane.

“Another time, please remember. You might be an intensely miserable girl now but for the exceeding bravery of a man who happened to see our little party from one of the cliffs. Two lives were in extreme danger—the life of your own special friend, Harriet Lane, and the life of my little son. Harriet was bravest of the brave, and did manage to come to his rescue and to hold his head above water at the critical moment, but neither of the children could have possibly resisted the current had not this man swum into the water in his clothes and brought them back to land. So be more careful in future, Jane, that is all.” Mr Durrant turned away.

“You have earned your five pounds, I am sure and certain of that,” said Harriet to her companion on the evening of that same day.

Book Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Robina’s Decision.

The swimming adventure took place on Friday. Saturday passed without anything special occurring. Sunday was a lovely day, when they all steamed about and enjoyed the fresh breezes, and, as Mr Durrant expressed it, forgot dull Care. Monday also passed without excitement, and on Tuesday, the little party returned in a body to Sunshine Lodge.

Now the crucial moment was close at hand, and what might have occurred but for an unexpected obstacle, no one can quite say; for there is little doubt that Mr Durrant was deeply impressed by Harriet’s conduct. He was such a brave man himself, that he could not but admire bravery in others, and the girl who had risked her life for his son was not to be lightly regarded. He still continued to feel much puzzled about her, and still, in his heart of hearts, much preferred Robina.

But Robina Starling was by no means at her best just now. She looked dull and sad and, notwithstanding every effort, care would sit upon her young brow and visit her frank, although troubled, eyes. Still, the person who really quite upset the whole scheme which had been so carefully planned by Harriet Lane was the one who, under ordinary circumstances, might have been least expected to do so. Her own familiar friend was the obstacle who made matters just in the moment of apparent victory exceedingly difficult.

Jane Bush was supposed to be a very commonplace little girl. In one sense, this was true. She was not particularly clever: she was not at all good-looking: she had few chances in life. She had, however, her good points. She was devoted to the little brother and sister, who, much younger than herself, had none of the advantages which she enjoyed. While Harriet, in her way, was fearless and bold, Jane was a little bit of a coward. Now cowards are extremely useful to wicked, designing people. They are so easily entrapped, and when once they are in the toils, it is almost impossible for them to get out again.

Jane felt herself in the toils as far as Harriet was concerned. Nevertheless, she was very unhappy. Harriet, who must have a confidante, had given Jane a graphic account of what really occurred in the little cove not far from Totland Bay. Jane had listened with her usual, absorbed attention, her round black eyes fixed on her companion’s pale face. In the excitement of the narrative, Harriet had squeezed Jane’s hand, and had said, with passionate emphasis:

“Oh! it was such a near thing! and when I saw him throw up his dear little hands, and when I noticed that his little brown head went under the waves, I thought I should go mad. Your five pounds, my own future, all the happiness that I had planned for myself, seemed to me as nothing at all—as nothing at all at that awful moment.”

“I understand,” said Jane. She spoke in a very low voice. “You don’t know, Harriet,” she said then, “what I felt on board the yacht. They let me on at once, of course, for the second mate saw me and sent a boat to the pier, and I was on deck with nothing to do only just to look at the sea and think. You must have all been in the water at the time, for there came up a cloud, and the sea got quite rough, and I heard the second mate say to one of the officers that there was a squall coming on. Oh! I was nearly mad!”

“Yes; that was about the time,” said Harriet, calmly. “It was a very fearful time. It was then, just then, that I was earning my happy, happy time with Ralph; my splendid future with all my educational expenses paid: and you, you silly Jane, were earning your five pounds. We were getting these things through our pain. I suppose it was worth it.”

“I don’t know,” said Jane, in a listless voice, “perhaps so.”

She got up as she spoke and walked to the other side of the deck. This conversation took place on Monday evening. It was overheard by no one. The other girls were absorbed in their own interests, and Ralph was with his father. Robina was reading by herself.

The week on board the yacht had not been a success as far as she was concerned. Had she listened, as once before she was forced to listen to a conversation between Harriet and Jane, she might have made up her mind to a line of conduct which was now far from her thoughts.

As Jane lay down in her little berth in her pretty state cabin on that last night on board the “Sea-Gull” she could not help thinking over again of Harriet’s graphic narrative; and she could not help reflecting on her own most awful feelings, had anything really happened to Ralph. Had anything really happened! Poor Jane trembled from head to foot. She knew only too well what that “anything” would have been. There would no longer have been in this wide world a little boy called Ralph—a little brown-eyed boy with brown hair, and the sweetest smile in the world, and the most gallant spirit. He would have gone away. No little school-mother would have been needed to look after him. Harriet herself might or might not be dead; but if Ralph had been drowned that time, poor little Jane felt that she would have gone mad. Five pounds! They were not so much after all. She felt dreadful: she could not sleep. In the visions of the night, ugly things seemed to come and visit her. She started up, pressing her hands to her eyes. Could she go on with this? Could she allow a girl like Harriet to be companion, friend, and to a certain extent protector of such a very precious little boy as Ralph. Oh! how in her heart of hearts Jane did admire Robina! How earnestly she wished that it had been her lot to have Robina as her friend!

“She would have made me strong,” thought poor Jane. “She is never a scrap afraid. Now I am always afraid. Perhaps it will be better for me at school if Harriet is not there. Of course I am fond of Harriet: I ought to be, for she and I are chums; and a girl must be a mean sort to forsake her chum. But still—oh! she does make me feel wicked! I almost wish I had not earned that five pounds. I don’t think it will bring any luck to Bobbie and Miriam.”

Jane tried to force her thoughts to dwell upon the very shabby condition of her little brother and sister; but, notwithstanding all her efforts, she could not manage to do this. Miriam’s lack of nice clothes, and Bobbie’s lack of shoes and socks could not appeal to her, for were not their consciences quite contented and calm and happy? After all, was there anything, anything so nice in the whole world as a contented conscience?

The next day, when all the children went back to Sunshine Lodge, Jane was greeted by a letter from the aunt who had charge of little Miriam and Bobbie. It was a wonderfully cheerful letter. The aunt—Polly by name—assured Jane that the children were particularly well, and that a kind lady had taken a fancy to them and had given them a lot of clothes. These clothes belonged to some of her own children who had outgrown them, but they were of such good quality and so well made that both Bobbie and Miriam looked almost stylish in them. Bobbie had got shoes, and Miriam pretty frocks; and, in short, for a time at least, the little ones wanted for nothing.

Jane felt as she read this letter that she quite hated it. It seemed to take the ground from under her feet. Her five pounds could have been done without. Ralph’s life need not have been risked, and Jane herself need not have been so fearfully deceitful, and need not have told a lie.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she said to herself. Her face looked so comical in its distress that Vivian Amberley, who was standing near, asked her if anything was the matter.

“Oh yes,” said Jane; “I have had a letter about the children.”

“Are they ill?” asked Vivian.

“No, no,” answered Jane. “They never were better; and they have got such a lot of beautiful clothes—oh dear, oh dear!”

She gave a deep sigh, and went away.

“Well,” said Vivian, turning to her companion; “I never heard of such a funny reason as that for Jane to be so dismal. The children are well, and have got a lot of new clothes! What can be up?”

“It’s something to do with Harriet, of that I am sure,” said Frederica.

Vivian lowered her voice. “I can’t make out what is wrong,” she said.

“There is something wrong: we all feel it,” said Patience. “Why, look at Robina.”

Robina was not present, so no one could look at her. Patience went on excitedly:

“From the very first, there has been something up with Robina, and she looks worse than ever now. You know what a thoroughly jolly girl she is. She won’t tell us why, but she is not enjoying herself.”

“I suppose she is excited,” said Frederica, “about Mr Durrant’s decision. He is quite certain sure to choose her as school-mother for Ralph.”

“Quite certain sure?” repeated Patience. “You know very little when you say that. I am equally certain that he won’t choose her. Anyhow, we are all to know to-morrow morning. This is Tuesday: he will tell us what he has decided after breakfast to-morrow. It is exciting, isn’t it?”

“Well,” said Rose, “I do love Mr Durrant, but I think he’ll be an awful goose if he chooses that Harriet to be Ralph’s school-mother.”

“She is very brave, whatever she is,” said Vivian. “She was magnificent that time when she got into the dangerous current and tried to save Ralph. That sailor said it was touch and go, and that although he brought them back to shore, Ralph might have been drowned but for Harriet.”

“Yes, it was brave enough,” said Frederica then; “but somehow I don’t like the state of things. There’s something up with Jane, there’s something up with Harriet. Now I don’t care twopence either for Jane or Harriet, but there’s something up with Robina, and I love Robina.”

“We all love her! Who could help it?” said the others.

“There is one good thing,” said Rose; “if by any chance she is not elected to be Ralph’s school-mother, she will be back with us at Mrs Burton’s school next term. How splendid it would be if Harriet was not always making mischief! How queer Harriet is!”

Just then, Harriet herself appeared. She was walking with Jane by her side. Whether it was her immersion in the sea, and the excitement of Jane through which she had lived, or whether it was that she was really feeling things more than she cared to own, she looked paler than ever, her blue eyes lighter, and the shadows under them more intense: her long straight hair seemed to grow longer and more lanky, and her narrow figure taller. She hardly glanced at the other girls, but went past them, accompanied by Jane.

“There they go,” said Frederica: “they are going to have a big confab now somewhere. Why will Harriet never join the rest of us and be jolly and merry? We are meant to have such a beautiful time at Sunshine Lodge, but she really takes the fun out of things: her queer melancholy face and her odd ways of going on would depress any party. I know Mr Durrant feels it, and that he is dreadfully puzzled what to do.”

“Oh! Here is Robina!”

These words were uttered by two or three of the girls who ran up to Robina at that moment. Robina also was looking ill at ease, but her face by no means wore the expression which characterised either Jane’s or Harriet’s. The frank look could never leave her grey eyes. She always held herself very erect, and her fine young figure, in consequence, showed on every occasion to the best advantage. She wore a pretty white frock now, and her fine brown hair fell in masses far below her waist.

“Dear Robina!” said Rose, running up to her and taking her hand. “Do sit down and be cosy with us all. Isn’t it nice to be back again at Sunshine Lodge! We have ten more happy days to spend here before school begins.”

“I haven’t,” said Robina, gently; “I am going away to-morrow.”

“You are going away to-morrow!” cried several voices; while others said, “What?” and others again exclaimed: “Oh Robina! what do you mean?” and yet others cried, “No, no, we can’t stand this, we are no: going to allow it; we couldn’t live without you, Robina!”

“You are all sweet,” said Robina, “and I love you very much; and perhaps—I am not quite sure what may happen now—but perhaps I may meet you again at Abbeyfield. But that is not the point. I am leaving here to-morrow: I am going home.”

“But Robina, Robina, why? tell us why.”

“There is no special secret,” said Robina. “I did not mean to say anything about it to you—at least, not quite so soon; but as I have met you, I may as well say I have made up my mind—I love Ralph very dearly, but I am not going to be his school-mother. I mean,” she added proudly, “that I shan’t compete. I haven’t the slightest doubt that the decision will be made against me, but now, whether it is made for or against me, I shan’t compete. I am just going to tell Harriet that she need not have any fear, and then I shall speak to Mr Durrant and I will ask him to let me go back to father and mother. I can’t explain any more than that. It—it isn’t exactly my fault: I am puzzled a good deal; and perhaps if I were one of you, I could do differently, but being myself, there is nothing for it but to withdraw.”

“But there is something for it,” said Patience Chetwold. “You are withdrawing because you know something, and because you won’t say it, and is that right or fair either to Mr Durrant or Ralph? Robina, before you leave us, you have got to answer one question, and to answer it truthfully.”

“Well, what is it?” said Robina.

“You have never told a lie, and you know that,” said Patience.

“I don’t think I ever have,” said Robina, thoughtfully. “No, I am sure I never have told even the tiniest little half lie.”

“Very well,” said Patience, in a voice of triumph; “you will tell the truth now.”

“Or be silent,” said Robina.

“Oh well, we will take your silence for what it is worth. Anyhow,” said Patience, “have I the permission of the rest of you girls to ask Robina a question in all our names?”

“Certainly, certainly!” they said; and they crowded round Patience, who placed herself in the middle of the group.

Patience was a tall, fair-haired girl with a great deal of quiet power and dignity in her own way.

“This is a question which appeals to all us school-mothers,” she said. “We all feel ourselves more or less responsible for little Ralph. Mr Durrant put him, as it were, under our charge when he brought him to Abbeyfield School. Ralph chose Harriet to be his favourite school-mother. Then we all know what happened, and Harriet, as we hoped, repented, and we were glad; and you, Robina, were chosen as the real school-mother, and you won the pony, and we were glad of that too. But now things are changed. Still that fact does not alter the other fact that we are still Ralph’s school-mothers, and that we are bound, if necessary, to protect him.

“Mr Durrant is one of the nicest men in all the world, and he has asked us here for love of Ralph, and has given us the most glorious time, and has done all that man could for our pleasure; and is this the return we will make him—to allow him to choose a girl like Harriet to be school-mother to Ralph? for of course we know—and he has said so—that the choice lies between you,—Robina, and Harriet; and now you, just before the moment of decision, back out of the whole thing and say you won’t be Ralph’s school-mother, and that you are going home. The rest of us think that a very cowardly and wrong thing to do: therefore we demand from you, as being ourselves Ralph’s school-mothers, an answer to our question.”

“Yes, yes!” here interrupted the others. “You have put the case very well, Patience; and the question you are about to ask ought to be answered.”

“Our question is this,” said Patience, raising her voice a little. “Are you, or are you not, prepared to say that Harriet, as far as you know, will be a kind and truthful and honourable school-mother to Ralph? Are you happy in giving Ralph up yourself to Harriet’s care? or do you know anything against her?”

“I can’t say, and I won’t say,” replied Robina, turning very red. “There are things that even a girl placed in my position cannot do.”

“Very well,” said Patience, “you have answered. You can go now, Robina, and tell Harriet your decision. But between now and to-morrow morning, when the great decision is publicly made, we, the rest of the school-mothers, will have something to say with regard to the matter.”

Robina immediately left her companions. Her head was aching; her heart was throbbing hard. Nevertheless, her mind was fully made up. She found Jane and Harriet walking side by side in the neighbourhood of the round pond. She approached quite close to them before they heard her. She did not want to listen to their conversation.

“I eavesdropped once,” she thought, “unintentionally of course; nevertheless, I did such a horrid, such a mean, such a despicable thing, and oh! how I have suffered in consequence! But I won’t eavesdrop again—not if I know it.”

Nevertheless, as she came close to the other girls, she had time to look at the pond, and to notice the exact position of that willow bough along whose slender branch little Ralph had crept in order to gather the water-lilies. The water-lilies were there still in great abundance with all their delicate wax-like cups closed, for it was the time of their slumber. The pond, too, looked still and glassy on its surface, except when the duck-weed, and many parasites of the pond threw an unwholesome glamour over its depths. Robina seemed to realise the whole scene that had taken place there—the child who had dropped into the water, the immediate power of the clinging weeds, the impossibility for the little fellow to swim in his clothes. She saw again Harriet rushing to the rescue, and she well guessed the storm of devotion which she had aroused in the heart of the brave little child. But since that scene, which, without its explanation, sounded innocent enough, another had taken place—one that Robina herself had witnessed. Could she ever forget the agony of that moment when, almost out of her depth, she had longed in vain for the power to swim out to save Ralph! Would she at such a moment have thought of any possible reward except that most divine reward of all—that of giving up her very life for his?

Robina shook herself as though from a day-dream, and it was at this instant that Harriet and Jane, turning, saw her standing in the path.

Jane’s round face was quite pale, and there were tears in her black eyes. She had been letting off some of the soreness of her heart to Harriet, and Harriet had been the reverse of sympathising. Harriet had said once or twice:

“All right, Jane: if you don’t want the five pounds, you need not have them. I can assure you it is an immense sacrifice on my part to give you so much money; but when I make a promise, I keep it. You haven’t done much for me, so don’t you think it: but I promised you five pounds. My birthday will be this week: god-mother never forgets me. When the five pound note comes, it will be handed over to you: you can take it or leave it.”

Why was it that the last words of Harriet’s sentence were wafted to Robina’s ears? “When the five pound note comes, you can take it or leave it.” Harriet turned pale and drew herself up abruptly.

“Well,” she said, “have you been eavesdropping again?”

“No,” said Robina, stoutly. “I came to speak to you as I heard that you and Jane were walking in the shrubbery. I did hear your last sentence; I heard you say to Jane, ‘When the five pounds comes, you can take it or leave it.’ I haven’t an idea what that sentence means, nor does it concern me. I want to speak to you, however, Harriet. Will you kindly listen, please.”

“Hadn’t I better go?” said Jane, who felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

“No,” said Robina; “unless Harriet greatly minds, I should prefer you to stay, Jane. You are her special friend, and you ought to witness what I am about to say to her. I don’t think that you, Harriet, and you, Jane, have many secrets from each other.”

The two other girls were silent, but they both felt uncomfortable.

“What I have to say,” continued Robina, “can be said in a very few words indeed. I have just to tell you this, Harriet. I have made up my mind to withdraw from the competition which was set to all the school-girls who came to this house, but which was especially intended to be a competition between you and me. I do not now wish to be Ralph Durrant’s school-mother: you will therefore have no difficulty to-morrow morning, for there will be no one to compete with you. I am now going to tell Mr Durrant what I have decided.”

“But I say,” cried Harriet, “you must have some reason for this!”

“I have my reasons, but those I am not prepared to give,” said Robina.

“I know,” continued Harriet, speaking in great excitement; “you nasty, horrid spitfire! You find that you have utterly failed—that you have not a chance of getting the position that you so covet; therefore you think you will make an imposing appearance if you withdraw from the competition. But let me tell you, that is monstrously unfair! You ought not to withdraw at the eleventh hour.”

“That is my affair,” said Robina. “Even if I were elected school-mother to-morrow, I should not accept the position.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” said Harriet. “It is so fine to hear you talking in that way; you know perfectly well that you would just give your eyes for it.”

“If that is your opinion, you are welcome to keep it,” said Robina. “But anyhow, my mind is quite made up.”

She was turning to go, when Harriet ran after her.

“Robina,” she said, “do you mean—that is, you will go without saying anything?”

“Ask me no questions; when you are made school-mother, I suppose you will be content: and I suppose—at least I hope you will be good to little Ralph.”

Robina’s lips quivered. Before Harriet could utter another word she had pushed her brusquely aside, and disappeared in the direction towards the house.

Book Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Patience Interferes.

It was now early in September, and although the weather was quite warm, the days were of course shortening considerably. Mrs Burton’s school was to re-open on the fifteenth of September. It was now the fourth day of the month; there was, therefore, practically ten days’ holiday still remaining for the girls.

These last few days, as all school-girls know, are very precious: each one, as it arrives, seems more valuable than its predecessor. More and more pleasures seem to crowd into these last hours, more and more things are there to talk about, more and more matters to arrange. There is at once pain and pleasure mingled in each young breast: the pain of parting from the beloved friends who have been with one during the long summer vacation, the pain of giving up pleasure for discipline, of giving up freedom for a certain amount of restraint. But the girl who really longs to do her best in life does not go back to school with unmixed sensations of regret. Healthier feelings than these visit her heart. She will accomplish much in the weeks that lie before her. She will get to the other side of this and that difficulty. She will take an honourable place in the report which is sent to her parents at the end of the term. She will enjoy the healthy life of routine and wholesome discipline.

The young girls who were inmates now of Sunshine Lodge were all of them, with the exception of Harriet Lane and Jane Bush, healthy-minded. They liked their pleasant school life: they were devoted to their parents and guardians: but they were also devoted to Mrs Burton and to the teachers in that delightful home of culture, Abbeyfield School. They therefore talked much of their future as they wandered about now in the dusk before coming in to late supper; and for a time even Robina and Harriet and Jane and little Ralph were forgotten.

Had not Patience to make the very most of her last term at school? and how soon would Cecil Amberley be moved from the third to the sixth form? What would be the big prize to be competed for next Christmas? What would the new French Mademoiselle be like? and would their dear old Fräulein return once more to the school? Such and such questions occupied them: but by-and-by it was time to go indoors to dress for supper, and when they entered the house a shadow seemed to fall over their bright young spirits and they looked one at the other questioningly.

“How selfish I am?” whispered Patience Chetwold to her sister. “I forgot in the excitement of our chat all about poor Robina. Girls, we must stick to our promise and worry out this thing to the very bottom.”

“But if Robina has spoken to Mr Durrant, what is there to be done?” remarked Rose. “Mr Durrant is a very determined man, and hates anything that he considers small and mean: he will not like our interfering. You see,” continued Rose, “we have been out of this matter from the very first; the whole thing has rested between Harriet and Robina.”

“Yes,” said Patience; “and very, very cleverly has Harriet played her cards. Well, all that I can say is that if I can circumvent that horrid sly creature in favour of poor dear true-hearted Robina, I shall do so. But now, let us run upstairs and get tidy for supper. This may be Liberty Hall, girls, but Mr Durrant likes form and ceremony as much as anyone I know; and if the girls of Sunshine Lodge—as he calls us—don’t make a presentable appearance at the last meal in the day, he is always somewhat annoyed.” The different girls went off immediately to their rooms, where they arrayed themselves in pretty evening dress. The shortness of the evenings by no means took from the pleasure of being at Sunshine Lodge; in fact, of late, the evenings had been almost the most delightful part of the day. With such a host as Mr Durrant it was quite impossible to be dull. He was the best story teller and the best comrade in the world. He had a way of making every child with whom he came in contact feel perfectly at home with him. But, at the same time, that child would not dare to take an undue liberty. He expected the child to be happy—very, very happy—but he also expected and insisted on instant obedience.

“When I put my foot down, it is down,” he was heard to say; “when I order a thing to be done, that thing is to be done; there is no walking round it, or squeezing out of it, or circumventing it in any way whatsoever. My object is the pleasure of all these young people; but I am the captain of this ship—if I may be permitted to use the simile—and the general in this battlefield. The captain must be obeyed, or the ship founders; and the general must give his orders, or the battle is lost.”

The girls knew all these things, and the very fact that there was unseen discipline at Sunshine Lodge gave the final zest to their enjoyments. Ralph would not have been the charming boy he was, but for this admirable trait of his father’s. Ralph, from his earliest days had obeyed at a word, at a nod. When he was told to go to bed, he went. He was never heard to plead for one minute or two minutes more. When he was ordered to get up, he rose. When he was expected to attend to his lessons, he did so. All the same, Ralph felt himself free as a little bird in the air, and happy as any child will be who clings to his beloved father’s hand. Even when parted from his father, Ralph had metaphorically clung to that strong brown hand. When he found things difficult in his little life, he remembered it,—how firm it was, how supporting. Even when his father was not present, he did instinctively what that father wished.

The happy little party at Sunshine Lodge came downstairs on this special evening with a certain feeling of expectancy. The Chetwolds and the Amberleys were very much concerned to know if anything decisive had yet taken place; if Robina had met Mr Durrant and had told him her decision, if Harriet knew, and if when they all met—first of all in the pleasant drawing-room and then in the still more delightful dining-room—they would see Robina’s proud calm face looking a little prouder and a little more resolved than usual, and Harriet’s queer pale face somewhat triumphant in its expression and Jane looking queer and frightened and worried as she had always done of late.

But when they all did come downstairs, the first thing they noticed was that although Robina was in the room, and Harriet and Jane, Mr Durrant was absent. Robina was seated in a distant corner where the electric light fell full on the pages of her open book. She wore a white frock, but had not taken otherwise much pains with her appearance. Robina did not even look up when her companions entered the room. Harriet, dressed in all the finery she could lay hands on, was standing by a table talking in a low tone to Jane. Ralph, who, as a rule, never sat up to supper, was also present on this occasion. He was dancing about in that radiant fashion he had, flying excitedly from one object of interest to another.

“Oh, what do you think, Patience?” he said. “I’s got to sit up to supper to-night!”

“Have you, indeed, Ralph?” replied Patience in some surprise, “but it’s rather late for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not at all too late,” said Harriet, just raising her eyes and glancing defiantly at Patience and then turning to Ralph. “In the absence of your father, Ralph, I give you leave to sit up,” she said.

“Sankoo, Harriet,” said Ralph, taking her hand, and giving it a most affectionate squeeze. “Oh! I is glad!” he said. “I feel quite a grown-up person to-night.”

Robina did not take the slightest notice, but Frederica now enquired eagerly if Mr Durrant were really absent.

“Yes,” said Jane; “when we came in, expecting to find him here as usual, we were told that he was obliged to go suddenly to London, but would be back here by a very early train in the morning.”

“John told us,” continued Harriet, “that Mr Durrant will return in time for breakfast; we must spend this evening as best we can without him.”

Here she glanced at Robina. Ralph, who had been pulling excitedly at Harriet’s hand without receiving any attention, now left her and ran up to Robina.

“Is you sad about anything, Robin?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” replied Robina. She laid down her book and looked full at him. He looted full back at her.

“Don’t,” he said suddenly, in a low voice.

“Why did you ask me that?” she responded.

Her tone was dropping to a whisper.

“Your eyes hurt,” said the little fellow; “they go inside me and—and—burn something.”

He touched his little breast. Robina bent forward and without a moment’s warning gave him a quick and passionate kiss.

“Hypocrite!” whispered Harriet under her breath. She called Ralph to her.

“Come here,” she said.

He went slowly and with manifest unwillingness.

“Sit there for a minute,” said Harriet.

She stalked across the room and stood in front of Robina’s chair.

“Did you mean,” she said, in a very low voice, “to do what you said you would just now?”

“Did I mean it?” replied Robina. “Yes; I meant it.”

“But Mr Durrant is away,” continued Harriet.

“Yes.”

“You will see him in the morning, will you not—I mean as soon as he comes back?”

“Yes,” said Robina again.

None of the others could hear this low-voiced conversation, but Harriet went back to the centre of the room with a satisfied expression. Ralph, who had been watching the two girls, now said in a tone of excitement:

“Has you found out what is wrong with Robin?”

“There is nothing whatever wrong with her: don’t be a goose, Ralph,” said Harriet.

But Ralph’s longing brown eyes went straight to the sorrowful girl seated by herself in the distant corner. His little child fancy returned to her in her trouble. Harriet, however, who felt now quite sure of her own position, was not going to permit Ralph to forsake her. She sat down in a chair and called him to her side.

“Who allowed you to sit up to supper?”

“Why, you, in course, Harriet.”

“Which of the school-mothers do you love best?”

“Harriet,” said Ralph, glancing again at Robina’s bowed head: “I has said it so often.”

“All right, say it once more, or you go to bed.”

“I love you,” said the child.

“Put your arms tight around me, and kiss me, as you did round Robina just now.”

“No,” said Ralph. He put both his little hands to his sides, standing still very near Harriet, but not touching her.

“If you refuse, you go to bed.”

“All wight, Harriet,” replied the little chap.

“Then you won’t kiss me—you, who love me so dearly—you won’t kiss the Harriet who saved your life?”

“Oh—’course I love you,” said Ralph, “does you want me to kiss you like that? I only kiss when I—I—can’t help it. I am not a sort of kissing boy at all. I am like father—I think just a look is enough, and a sort of smile now and then, and a sort of feel—oh, you know it—down—deep, deep here. I doesn’t kiss father much; he doesn’t think it man-like for boys to kiss.”

“Kiss me the way you kissed Robina, and do it at once,” said Harriet, “or you go to bed.”

“No,” said Ralph again.

The other girls were scarcely listening, but this little scene between the two was drawing general attention. Patience, in particular, guessed that there was some struggle going on between Harriet and Ralph, and although she pretended to talk to her companions, she could not help listening.

“Kiss me,” repeated Harriet, guessing that she was drawing the attention of the room, and getting excited in her determination to win the victory. “Kiss me, or you go to bed!”

“No,” said Ralph again. Then he added, now putting his two hands behind him, “I won’t ever kiss you, Harriet, because you threat me—that isn’t me at all. I wouldn’t be a man-like boy if I did things ’cause o’ threats.”

“Well,” said Harriet, who was terribly afraid of not scoring the victory in this encounter, and being forced therefore to change her tactics, “kiss me because twice I risked my life for you and because I want your kiss. Do you remember when you went down beneath the soft wave and when you came up again and I caught you and—and—saved you?”

“Yes, yes!” said Ralph in a ferment of admiration. “Dear Harriet!” His arms went tightly round her neck. He kissed her twice. “And now I’s going to bed,” he said.

“What in the world do you mean by that, you little silly?”

“’Cause you said I was to go to bed if I didn’t kiss you. I didn’t kiss you ’cause of your threat; I kissed you ’cause you ’minded me of the great thing you had done. But I is going to bed, all the same.”

“No, you sit up because I order it; now don’t be a goose, and don’t paw me any more.”

Harriet stood up, yawning as she did so. Ralph sunk on to the next chair. He felt very despondent, he knew not why. Again he could not help glancing at Robina and wishing that she would not keep on reading. He found himself watching her. What a long time she was before she turned a page. Ralph thought he would count the seconds. He knew the clock, and glanced at it. Five whole minutes passed. Still Robina sat with her head of thick hair bent and without a page being turned. Ralph would have given worlds to say: “Is that a very difficult book, Robina, and can’t you read it any quicker than I can read my ‘Reading without Tears’ book?” But somehow or other, Harriet’s presence prevented his approaching Robina.

The next minute, there came the welcome relief of hearing that supper was served, and all the girls trooped into the dining-room.

Ralph had a high chair close to Harriet’s side; who told him at once carelessly that he might eat anything he liked for supper, and then devoted herself to telling amusing stories to two of the Amberleys and to Jane. But Ralph was not hungry. He was sleepy, and really wanted his bed. He was thinking very hard of his father. If only father were at home, things would be quite different. He would have said good-night long ago, and father would have come just before going downstairs, and would have kissed him, and would have said, “Good-night Ralph, old boy, sleep well, and dream good dreams, and remember to-morrow morning that you are some hours older than when you went to sleep, and ought to be some hours wiser.” And then father would go away, and Ralph would whisper to himself the old childish charm which his nurse had taught him—his nurse who died long ago, and which he had never forgotten:

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John Bless the bed I lie on. Four corners to my bed: Five angels be there spread. Two at my head: Two at my feet: One at my heart, my soul to keep...”

And then in a few minutes he would have been sound asleep. He nodded his head once or twice now, and finally upset a cup of chocolate which had been placed by his side. Some of the chocolate streamed over Harriet’s white dress. She did not possess many clothes, and was consequently exceedingly angry. She tried to keep in her anger as best she could, but showed it notwithstanding all her efforts, by the colour in her cheeks and the way her pale blue eyes flashed.

“Oh Ralph, how careless and awkward you are! Really, you must not do this sort of thing again.”

“I is seepy: I really want to go to bed,” said Ralph. “I am awfu’ sorry, Harriet, and when you saved my life and all! Oh, let me sop it up.”

He took his own table-napkin and tried to repair the mischief, but Harriet pulled her dress roughly out of his hands and, telling the other girls that she must go away to wash the stains out, left the room.

“Now, Ralph,” said Patience, when this had happened; “if I were you I would go straight off to my by-by downy nest; you know you are just longing to be in it.”

“I is,” said Ralph, “but I mustn’t go, must I, Robina?”

He looked straight at Robina for guidance.

“I don’t know,” replied Robina, just glancing at him, and then looking away.

“But Robina, do tell him to go,” said Patience. “If any two people at the present moment are supposed to have authority over Ralph, you and Harriet are those individuals. Harriet has gone away to mop her dress, and Ralph looks quite white with fatigue.”

“I cannot interfere,” said Robina.

“Very well,” said Patience; “then I will: I am a school-mother too. This sort of thing has got to end. Come, Ralph, I shall take you to bed.”

“But won’t Harriet be—be—angry?” said the little fellow, his lips quivering.

“You leave the matter to me,” said Patience. She looked strong and determined. “Your father would wish it,” she said; and at these words and at the cool feel of her hand, Ralph yielded to his own inclinations and left the room with her.

When they got upstairs, however, he asked her once or twice rather piteously if she thought Harriet would mind.

“I will see that she doesn’t,” said Patience. “You leave it to me, Ralph.”

“Oh but,” said Ralph, as he got into his little pyjamas, “she has been so awfully brave, you know—saved my life, you know.”

“Yes, I know all that,” said Patience, “and I know of course that you are very grateful to her; but I do wonder something, Ralph.”

“What is that?” asked the child.

“If you understand the difference between very grateful to a person and loving a person very dearly?” Ralph looked immensely puzzled.

“I mean this,” said Patience, wondering at her own audacity. “You say that Harriet saved your life.”

“Yes,” said Ralph, with great determination. “Her did.”

“But before she saved your life, you didn’t care for her so very, very much, did you?”

“Not so awfully as all that,” said Ralph, considering his words.

“But afterwards?” continued Patience.

“Couldn’t help it arterards,” said Ralph. “Her did it twice, you know.”

Patience did not know, but she was determined to treasure up the information given unwittingly by Ralph.

“Well,” she said after a minute’s pause, “I understand of course quite well that you are awfully obliged to her and all that, and that perhaps you do love her. But you don’t love her better than your father, do you?”

“Better nor father?” said Ralph. “In course not?”

“But did he ever save your life?”

“No,” said Ralph; “but then he is father.”

“I see quite well, my wise little man,” said Patience, tucking him up and kissing him. “Now Robina never saved your life: but you—you love her notwithstanding that?”

“Awful much!” said Ralph.

“I saw you kiss her to-night,” said Patience.

“Cause I love her so much,” said Ralph.

“Good-night now, Ralph. Sleep very sound.”

“Wait till I say my ‘Matthew, Mark,’” said Ralph.

He closed his eyes, repeated the old song rapidly and, before the last words had come to an end, was asleep.

Patience went downstairs. By this time Harriet had returned. She had been forced to remove the poor chocolate-stained white frock and to put on another, which did not make her look half so well dressed. She was still feeling cross and sore. As soon as she entered the room, her first exclamation was, “Where is Ralph?”

“Gone to bed,” said Frederica Chetwold.

“Gone to bed?” said Harriet. “Who has given Ralph leave to go to bed?”

“Patience took him to bed. You had better not interfere about it,” said Frederica: “for if you do,” she continued, “we’ll all tell Mr Durrant in the morning. You are not school-mother yet, so don’t be over sure of things.”

At that moment, Robina got up and left the room. Harriet sank down in a chair. She was trembling with suppressed passion.

“I wonder,” she said, after a pause, “why you all dislike me as you do. Of course,” she added, “there can be but one explanation, and that is, jealousy.”

“Not at all,” said Patience. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe there is a girl amongst us who would change with you; for to change with you, Harriet Lane, would be to possess your nature, and that is what none of us wish for. But we are quite determined to see justice done to Ralph.”

“Justice done to Ralph?” said Harriet.

“Yes: and to Robina. We know what has happened to-night, for Robina told us.”

“Oh, she told you!” said Harriet. “That is so like her.”

“Yes; she said she was not going to compete. Now, she must have a reason for that, and Frederica and I and Rose and Cecil and Vivian are all absolutely resolved to find out what that reason is. We have been invited to this house and have been given this happy time, because in a sort of way we also are Ralph’s school-mothers. You expect a great triumph in the morning, Harriet. Well all I can say is this: look out for storms.”

“It is that horrid, horrid Robina! There is no spiteful thing she would not do against me,” said Harriet. “But Ralph loves me best. I don’t pretend that I don’t want the post: I do want it. I haven’t a happy home like most of you: and to be Ralph’s school-mother, and to live here would be of great moment to me. It would mean all my future being assured. You can’t think what it would mean; for you don’t any of you know what it is to be—oh—poor!” Harriet’s face turned very pale.

“Ralph does love me, and why should not he? and if Mr Durrant is contented to choose me, and Robina doesn’t want to be school-mother—”

“Robina doesn’t want to be school-mother!” interrupted Patience. “You are either a goose or a liar, Harriet; for you know that in her heart of hearts, Robina is dying to be school-mother to little Ralph—and not for your horrid worldly reasons, but because she—she loves him! Oh, we did think that you repented that time at school, but your conduct since you came here has puzzled us dreadfully.”

Harriet, however, had now recovered herself. This attack on the part of her school-fellows was unexpected, and at first she was almost thrown off her usual balance of mind. Her customary self-possession very nearly deserted her, but now she recovered it.

“After all,” she said, “you may think what you please. By this time to-morrow I shall be established in my position, and I don’t think either Ralph or his father will regret it. As you, Patience, have taken it upon you to order Ralph to bed—a thing which I imagine you will never have the power to do again—I shall not disturb him to-night: but when I am his school-mother, he will do what I wish, please understand: he will have passed out of your life, Patience, and out of the lives of all the rest of you, and you need not call yourselves by the ridiculous name of school-mothers any longer. You will be back to your horrid school life, and I wish you joy of it. I shall stay here, and be happy. I wish, however, to say one thing. I think it exceedingly shabby of Robina to give up the contest at the eleventh hour. It shows that notwithstanding your high opinion of her she is a coward at heart. She is so certain that she will be beaten, that she won’t wait to witness her own discomfiture. Ralph choose Robina, indeed! There never was any chance of that.”

“No,” said Patience, “and that brings us to another thing. Dear little Ralph told me that you saved his life—”

“Good gracious!” said Harriet: “didn’t you all see me do it?”

“Yes, but he said you saved his life twice. When was the first occasion?”

Harriet bit her lips.

“Children exaggerate things,” she said after a pause. “I did risk my own life for Ralph at Totland Bay, and the dear little man got confused.”

“I don’t think so,” said Patience; “he is never confused about things. Well, at any rate, Harriet, we should like you to explain that remark of Ralph’s to-morrow to Mr Durrant before the great decision is finally come to.”

“Your likings or not likings, Patience Chetwold, will probably not be of the slightest consequence,” said Harriet, leaving the room as she spoke with her head in the air.

The moment she had gone, the rest of the girls drew close together.

“Now listen,” said Patience. “I have talked to that poor child. In his heart of hearts he doesn’t really love Harriet. She would be a cruel and dreadful girl to leave him with. Didn’t you watch her to-night, and didn’t you see how she was forcing him to do something, and how he was refusing, and how she was making him do it in the end? and didn’t you notice the way he hugged Robina? Oh! it’s Robina he loves in his heart of hearts: he doesn’t care for Harriet, but she has got the poor little darling into her power, and he is such a brave pet, and is so impressed by his sense of gratitude to her, he will do anything for her. Now, girls, we have a great deal to do between now and eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. We have to get our evidence together.”

“Oh what, Patience, what?” asked Rose: while the others clustered round her.

“Let me see,” said Patience. “You, of course, Frederica, and you three Amberley girls will help me. There are five of us in all. Robina must not lose this chance: Harriet must not get the victory. The person to approach on the subject is Jane Bush.”

Book Two—Chapter Fifteen.

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!”

Book Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Jane Confesses.

At eleven o’clock sharp, all the girls, with the exception of Robina, were assembled in Mr Durrant’s study. He had asked them to meet him there, and they had come. Ralph was also present. The absence of Robina was noticed. The thought of Robina was in every heart, and the words: “Where is she? Can she really have gone away? Has she really told Mr Durrant?” were framing themselves on all lips. But the words were not uttered aloud, and the thoughts in the hearts were unspoken.

Mr Durrant looked very pale and grave. Amongst the girls who had entered the room was Jane Bush. But there was something extraordinary about Jane which Harriet—could she have time to think of anything at such a crucial moment except herself—must have remarked. In the first place Jane, who was never noticed at all by the older girls of the third form, was now practically in Patience Chetwold’s pocket. Frederica Chetwold was at her other side, and behind her were the three Amberleys. Jane’s face was terribly disfigured by crying, and she looked altogether a most woe-begone little spectacle.

Ralph was standing by his father’s side. He wore that very pretty little brown velveteen suit which made him look something between the prettiest of all brownies and the most beautiful of all boys. His eager, loving eyes travelled from one face to another. They fixed themselves for a minute on Jane with that world of sorrow in them which such eyes as his will always show when their sympathy is fully roused. For Ralph belonged to those heroes who take the sorrows of the world on their shoulders, and live for others, not for themselves. But on this occasion, even little Ralph was absorbed with the thought of what was to happen in the future; and then, he was missing Robina: he was finding out at each moment that it was Robina he really loved. Was she not his dream mother? and was not a dream mother greater even than a school-mother? and had she not seemed like an angel to him when he lay in slumberland that morning, and when she had somehow or other kissed him, not only on his forehead, but on his heart of hearts. He fidgetted, therefore, and looked disconsolate. Mr Durrant, on the contrary, was pale and cold and determined.

Girls, he said, “an extraordinary thing has happened I wish to announce it before I proceed to the little business which forms the subject of this meeting. Robina Starling, by her own express wish, has withdrawn from the contest between herself and Harriet Lane and the rest of you. She declines to become my little son’s school-mother, and she wants to go home at once, and she will go in about half an hour. She would, in fact, have left the house before now, but there was no convenient train. As, by her own express intention, she is not present on this occasion, and as she has already said good-bye to me and does not wish to see anything of you, and as I have made all arrangements with regard to a proper escort to convey her safely to her home, we can dismiss Robina from our minds.”

“But we can’t,” said Ralph, turning very white and facing his father and looking at him with his brown eyes full of intense sorrow.

“But we can, and must, my boy,” said the man.

“There are times in life, and the sooner you learn the lesson the better, Ralph,—when we can and must do most disagreeable things. It is, I am sure, painful to you to give Robina up. I do not profess to understand her. I liked her well, but she has gone out of our lives: we must therefore proceed to the business in hand. Ralph! tears? Are those manly?”

“I will be a man-like boy,” said Ralph. He shook his little head and turned away from the gaze of the rest of the school-mothers, and then all of a sudden a sob, just like the one which he was strangling in his own throat, was heard distinctly to proceed from someone else.

He turned abruptly, and there was Jane Bush, crying very hard. It could not be wrong even for a man-like boy to comfort someone in distress. So without waiting for his father’s permission, he flew to Jane and put his arms round her neck and kissed her many times, and said:

“Don’t, don’t be unhappy! I will love you if you will try not to be unhappy!”

Now there was something exceedingly like Bobbie in the way Ralph kissed Jane, and Jane, to relieve her feelings, gave one sob louder than the rest and turned quickly to Patience Chetwold and said:

“I will do everything you wish.”

Mr Durrant was greatly amazed at this little scene, and Harriet, who was standing alone—for not one of the others wished to have anything to do with her—was a good deal puzzled and disturbed, and made up her mind to give it very soundly to Jane later on for her ridiculous conduct. Mr Durrant paused for a minute at the unexpected interruption caused by Ralph. Then he said, still in that cold, stern voice:

“Come back immediately, and stand by my side, Ralph. Robina Starling, being out of the question, you have got to choose another school-mother. Whom do you love best in this room? Think well, my boy, and don’t allow false ideas even of bravery and of unselfishness to blind your eyes to those still nobler qualities of truth and integrity. A few days ago, the contest seemed to me to rest entirely between Harriet Lane and Robina Starling. But now that Robina has withdrawn, you are at liberty to choose any girl here present. Make your choice freely, my son; choose without fear or compunction, the one who in all respects will help you to be good, to be true, to be honourable.”

“She saved my life twice,” murmured Ralph under his breath, and then he looked full at Harriet and came a step forward. “I don’t quite understand, father,” he said, “all that you said about being very true, and very, very good. But I do know when a girl nearly gets drownded herself to save a boy like me; and I therefore choose—” again he went a step forward.

But just at that moment there came an interruption. It came from Patience Chetwold.

“Before Ralph makes his choice, Mr Durrant, I think that Jane Bush has something to tell you.”

“Jane Bush!” exclaimed Harriet, too amazed at this interruption, just when she was about to reach the pinnacle of all her hopes, to keep silent.

“Never mind,” said Ralph, hotly, “I choose Harriet.” There was a look of disappointment in Harriet’s eyes which fired his very soul. “I think, after all—p’raps I love Robina; but I love Harriet next best—far next best; and she did save me, and I choose her. Yes, Harriet—I choose you.”

“Nevertheless,” said Patience, in a very steadfast voice, “it is absolutely necessary before Mr Durrant confirms your choice, Ralph, that he should hear something Jane Bush has to say. The fact is this, sir,” continued Patience. “Frederica and I and the three Amberleys have not felt at all satisfied for some weeks past at the conduct of Harriet Lane and Robina Starling. We have felt quite absolutely sure, sir, that there was something going on behind the scenes. We were more certain than ever of that when Robina, who loves Ralph so truly, gave up the contest with Harriet last evening.”

“Oh,” said Mr Durrant; “she told you last evening, did she?”

“She did, sir,” said Patience. “She came to us when we were walking in the grounds, and told us what her decision was. Afterwards she went and told Harriet.”

“Oh!” said Mr Durrant. He looked at Harriet, whose face was very white, except where patches of angry colour starred each cheek. “I thought we had done with Robina,” he said, “but still—”

“No, we haven’t done with her,” said Patience; “that is just the point. Now Jane, tell what you have got to tell, and don’t be frightened.”

“It was my fault from the beginning,” began Jane. “Come, speak out, Jane,” said Patience, “and don’t sob any more.”

“You had better not say anything,” interrupted Harriet. “How dare you talk and force yourself on Mr Durrant’s notice? you horrid little sneak!”

“Those are not at all pretty words, Harriet,” said Mr Durrant; “and they absolutely force me to listen to whatever Jane Bush may have to say. What is it, Jane? Speak.”

“Well, sir; it was this,” said Jane. “It was this. Harriet didn’t expect any telegram to be waiting for her on board the ‘Sea-Gull.’”

“What?” said Mr Durrant.

“No, sir: but she told me to go to you and to tell you that there might be one; and it was I that thought of it, sir. I thought of a plan for Harriet to prove to you and to all the world that she was very brave and could save Ralph’s life. She asked me if I could think of a plan, and I thought of that. And you told me to tell the girls not to bathe; and I only told Harriet, and she would not tell the others; she wanted to prove to you, sir, that she was brave and could save Ralph’s life, and—and—I could not bear it any longer, and—and—I went back to the yacht; and oh—oh—she was to give me five pounds, and I don’t want it now—and I am the most awfully miserable girl in all the wide world!”

This story, which came from Jane with bursts of tears and unutterable sobs, at first sounded like mere confusion; but Mr Durrant, who had got a very orderly—indeed, almost lawyer-like mind,—soon put the broken and jagged edges of this queer narrative together; and by slow degrees and careful investigation, the whole naked truth came out. And as is the way with such truths, a great deal more came out than Jane had at first intended to reveal; for the whole incident of the pond, and the willow tree, and Ralph’s fall into the pond, and Harriet’s apparently noble conduct in trying to save him, came also to the fore; and the fact that poor Robina had overheard some of Harriet’s and Jane’s plottings and plannings was also brought to the light of day; so that a very, very ugly story was revealed to the astonished ears of the good man who thought that he was providing so very well for his little son.

Quite early, however, in the narrative, he did a somewhat queer thing. He took Ralph by the hand, and led him to the door.