A Modern Tomboy Part 1

A Modern Tomboy.

by L. T. Meade.

CHAPTER I.

OPENING THE SCHOOL.

Mrs. Merriman and Lucy were standing at the white gates of Sunnyside, waiting for the arrival of the girls. Mrs. Merriman had soft brown hair, soft brown eyes to match, and a kindly, gentle face. Lucy was somewhat prim, very neat in her person, with thick fair hair which she wore in two long plaits far below her waist, a face full of intensity and determination, and a slightly set and formal way of speaking.

"Aren't you at all excited about their arrival?" said Mrs. Merriman, turning to her daughter as she spoke. "It will make a great change in the house, will it not?"

"How many of them are there, mother?" was Lucy's response.

"Oh, my dear child, how often I have explained all to you! There's Laura Everett, my dear friend Lady Everett's only daughter; then there is Annie Millar, whom I do not know anything about--but she is a friend of Laura's, and that alone is recommendation enough."

"Laura Everett, Annie Millar," quoted Lucy in a low tone. "Have you seen either of them, mother?"

"No, dear, of course not."

"Has father ever seen them?"

"No. But my dear friend Lady Everett----"

"Oh, mother darling, when have you seen your dear friend?"

"Not since we were girls. But it is so nice to think she should trust her daughter to me."

"Well, yes, mother, I suppose so. I suppose I must be quite satisfied.

Well, that means two--Laura and Annie. How old are they, mother?"

"They are both fourteen."

"Then the others, mother?"

"Rosamund Cunliffe. I did meet her mother a year ago, who told me she was very pretty. I remember that. Then there is Phyllis Flower. Think of any one with such a dear name--Phyllis and Flower! The whole name is too sweet! I told your father that I knew I should fall in love with Phyllis."

"Mother dear, you really mustn't make favorites," said Lucy in a reproving tone. "If these girls must come to us and form the beginning of a school, why, we must behave accordingly. You are not half as steady as I am, mother, and I am fifteen, and you are----"

"Forty-five," said Mrs. Merriman; "but then I only feel twenty, and I am very happy about all this. The house is perfectly arranged, everything in apple-pie order, and they will have such a good time, dear girls!

Well, now, let us count them over. Laura Everett, fourteen; Annie Millar, ditto; Rosamund Cunliffe, fifteen; and Phyllis Flower, thirteen.

Then there is Jane Denton. Well, I know nothing whatever about her except that her mother says she is a good girl, and does her utmost to learn, and she is sure will be absolutely obedient. Then comes Agnes Sparkes. I quite expect she will be the witty one. Altogether that makes six girls, and you, my dear, are the seventh--the perfect number, you know."

"And the whole house turned topsy-turvy!" said Lucy. "Really and truly, mother, I wish we had thought it over before we did anything so queer."

"We could not help it, love. Your father's health is very bad, and he cannot continue his work as a professor. There is no other manner in which to earn money. Why not take the whole thing cheerfully, Lucy?

Remember, you will have your education practically free."

"I don't suppose I'd mind the girls so very much," said Lucy, "if it were not for the horrid governesses. To think of having a creature like Mademoiselle Omont living in the house! And then, I am not specially in love with Miss Archer. But there, I suppose we must make the best of it."

"We must, and will, and can," said Mrs. Merriman in her cheery voice.

She had scarcely said the words before a wagonette was seen driving down the summer lane. Girls in different-colored dresses, with bright faces, eager eyes, suddenly appeared in view. The wagonette drew up at the gate, and Mrs. Merriman, to Lucy's disgust, went impulsively forward.

"Here you all are, dears!" she said. "Oh, I am so glad to welcome you!

Now, you must tell me who's who. Won't you get down? It will be nice to stretch your legs in walking up the avenue. Your luggage, of course, is coming in the cart which was sent to meet the train.--Tell me, my love, are you Laura Everett?"

Mrs. Merriman darted forward and took the somewhat irresponsive hand of a tall, pale girl, who replied languidly that her name was Jane Denton.

"I beg your pardon, dear--I do truly. Then which is Laura? For I want to welcome the dear child of a very dear friend of my youth."

A girl with a merry face, bright blue eyes, and fair hair now extricated herself from the group of her companions. "I am Laura," she said, "and this is my friend Annie."

Mrs. Merriman rapturously kissed both girls.

"Welcome to Sunnyside!" she said. "You may be certain I will do my utmost to make you happy. This is my daughter Lucy."

"Can I show you the house, Miss Everett?" said Lucy, speaking stiffly; "and will you come, too, Miss Millar?"

The three girls went on in front.

"I must get to know the rest of you," said Mrs. Merriman, who was too much accustomed to Lucy to mind her ways. "Which is--now let me guess--which is Phyllis Flower? I am longing to know her. And which is Rosamund Cunliffe?--Jane Denton, I shall not forget you, dear. I am so glad to see you."

Here Mrs. Merriman gave Jane's hand an affectionate squeeze.

"And Agnes Sparkes--I have not noticed Agnes Sparkes. I am sure you--whoever you are, but I can't quite make out yet--will be the wit of the school. Ah! you are Agnes Sparkes?" and Mrs. Merriman pounced upon a small, very thin, dark girl, with no beauty whatever about her.

A peal of laughter greeted her ears. "Indeed, I am Phyllis Flower," said the young lady in question; and Mrs. Merriman started back with a look of disappointment. "You thought because I had rather a pretty name that I'd look it," continued the girl. "But I do not--I am neither witty nor beautiful, and I know I am not clever. I have got just nothing but my name. I'd rather like to live up to it; but somehow I don't think I can.

Perhaps I may at Sunnyside. It seems such a novel idea to come to a sort of home school like this, and not to be treated a bit formally. Thank you so much, Mrs. Merriman!" and Phyllis held out a small, neatly gloved hand and clasped Mrs. Merriman's, looking at her all the time with delight beaming in her eyes.

The other girls followed suit. They managed to introduce themselves one by one, and presently Mrs. Merriman was seen trotting contentedly down the avenue, followed by her new pupils. She looked something like a well-groomed pony herself, and the girls were much amused at her way of greeting them, and so thoroughly pleased that peals of laughter reached the displeased ears of Lucy, who was waiting with Annie and Laura in the porch.

"Really," thought Lucy, "poor mother gets worse and worse. What sort of school will this be? Not the slightest vestige of order, and all these girls being spoken to at the gate. Mother has no dignity. It is really terrible. I shall be glad when Miss Archer and Mademoiselle Omont come.

How are we to spend the present evening?"

The girls themselves seemed to arrange that matter. Having lost all shyness with regard to Mrs. Merriman, they were not likely to feel it towards Lucy. They accordingly requested to be taken into the house, and were much pleased with the arrangements made for their comfort. The old house of Sunnyside was one of the prettiest in the southwest of England.

It had s.p.a.cious grounds, beautiful gardens, and the rooms themselves, although somewhat low, were large and numerous. One or two girls had a room each, and the others were arranged two in a room, with a curtain between.

When Mrs. Merriman started the idea of a small school for the special education of special girls, she had spared no expense to have everything done in as thoroughly nice a manner as possible; and the girls themselves were delighted, and showed their appreciation by behaving in a hoydenish and school-girl fashion. They laughed and joked with each other, declaring that Mrs. Merriman was quite too funny for anything, but that she was also an old dear; that Lucy was rather a nuisance, and very prim, but that she shouldn't stand much in their way. And then they paced about in the garden arm-in-arm, and talked to one another, just, as Lucy said afterwards, as though they had lived there all their lives.

Poor Lucy in every respect was her mother's opposite. Neither did she specially take after her gentle, patient father, who was always satisfied to make the best of things, his motto being peace on any terms, and who was surprised now when Lucy ran up to him as he was pacing up and down in the walnut walk at some distance from the house.

"Ah, my little girl!" he said when he saw her approaching. "Why, what is the matter? How flushed your cheeks are!"

"And no wonder, father," answered Lucy. "If you could flush up at anything you'd feel hot and indignant now. Oh, father dear, I wish--I wish we weren't obliged to have those detestable girls!"

"What, Lucy! Have they come?"