The Youngest Girl in the School Part 5

'Oh, never mind. Don't cry, whatever you do; I've got such a headache,'

said Christopher, hastily.

'I'm n--not crying; I never cry,' stammered Barbara, in a shaky voice.

'I--I want to do something for you, only you won't tell me what to do.'

Kit answered her with a violent struggle for breath, and the child felt more helpless than ever. It was just as she was making a feeble attempt to raise him in his chair that Jill came in.

'You poor fellow!' she exclaimed, taking in the whole scene at once.

'Here, Babs, give me that piece of brown paper, and run and fetch his medicine, will you? Poor boy! Poor Kit!'

She knelt beside him and supported him with her arm, while she wafted a smouldering tuft of brown paper in front of him. 'Now, fetch some cushions out of the drawing-room,' she commanded, when Barbara returned with the medicine; and, delighted at being given something to do, the child sped away on her errand. When she came back with her arms full of cushions, Jill had a delightful plan to unfold.

'Ring the bell for the lamp, Babs,' she said, in her soft voice, which was already soothing Christopher's nerves; 'and we'll have tea together before you go. Shall we, Kit, dear?'

'It's awfully good of you,' he answered weakly. The attack was pa.s.sing off, and he was visibly cheering up. By the time tea was brought in, he was sufficiently recovered to take the lead in his usual determined manner; and Jill humoured him by giving in to him meekly, even consenting, under his guidance, to toast slices of plum-cake at the end of a penknife.

'It's very extravagant, when it's Auntie Anna's plum-cake instead of the stale stuff cook used to make; but as it's the Babe's last evening we may be extravagant, mayn't we, Jill?' argued Christopher. 'Now, Babs, you melt the b.u.t.ter; and for goodness' sake do remember you're not at home, and don't smash the plate.'

His reminder did not wholly make the desired effect upon Babs, for when the boys returned from the farm in a noisy tribe, flushed with the glory of slaying, they found the 'adopted kid' scrubbing her gown with a clean handkerchief, while Babs hung over her, covered with confusion.

'Don't worry yourself, child,' Jill was saying consolingly. 'A lump of b.u.t.ter, more or less, doesn't make any difference to a frock I've worn all the winter.'

'It just slid off the plate when I wasn't looking,' said Barbara, penitently. 'I can't think why it didn't slide on to my frock instead of yours.'

A chorus of merriment rang from behind.

'You ridiculous Babe!' shouted Peter. 'Why, the b.u.t.ter is _tired_ of being spilled down your frock.'

Jill jumped to her feet, and blushed a little. As Kit had predicted, she found it much easier to get on with her cousins when she took them 'separately, or in pairs'; and she was not used yet to facing them all at once. The sound of wheels outside gave her an excuse for escape, and she put her arm hurriedly round Babs.

'Come upstairs and put on your hat,' she suggested, and the two girls hastened out of the room.

Auntie Anna saw to it that the farewells were not prolonged, and Barbara found herself whirled into the covered wagonette with her last words only half said. Kit was allowed time to whisper a gruff apology for being cross with her before tea, but the others had to follow her to the front door to shout their good-byes after her.

'Don't get the blues because _we_ are not there!' cried Wilfred.

'I'll write great lots of times,' declared Robin, who was in tears. 'I won't even wait for the lines to be ruled, Babs dear. You won't mind the spelling, will you? 'Cause it saves so much time if you don't.'

'Cheer up!' was all Egbert said; and Barbara wondered if she was very hard-hearted, because she was not half so wretched as they all expected her to be. Peter even made her laugh outright, as he sprang on the step of the carriage, and went a little way down the drive with them.

'Don't funk it, old girl!' he shouted through the window. 'And just send for us, if anything goes wrong!'

'Be off with you!' said Auntie Anna, shutting up the window; and that was the last that the Babe of the Berkeley family saw of the boys who had been her only companions through life.

She had plenty to think about in her long drive in the dark; and Auntie Anna was wise enough to leave her alone most of the time. A little more than an hour later, however, when the carriage made a sharp turn and drove through some gates, the old lady roused her by a touch on the arm.

'We are just there, little woman,' she said in her quick, abrupt way. 'Not afraid, eh?'

'Oh no!' answered Barbara, smiling. 'I--I'm just excited.'

Mrs. Crofton kissed the eager little face, on which the light shone as they approached the house.

'That's right,' she said, looking pleased. 'Always be a truthful little girl, and don't mind if you find you are not like other people.'

Then the horses stopped, and a blaze of light shone down a flight of steps to the carriage door; and Babs, feeling suddenly very small and unimportant, in spite of the extra inch or two on her new serge frock, followed the old lady into the great wide hall of Wootton Beeches.

Her dream was coming true at last.

CHAPTER IV

HOW IT CAME TRUE

Half an hour later, Barbara was being led across the hall by Miss Finlayson, to be introduced to her school-fellows in the playroom. It puzzled her a little to see how calm and unconcerned the head-mistress was looking. Did she not know what a thrilling moment this was to her little new pupil, who tripped along by her side? As Babs was puzzling over it, they reached the baize door on the opposite side of the hall, and Miss Finlayson stooped and fastened it back, disclosing a long pa.s.sage beyond. At the end of the pa.s.sage was another door; and through this other door the murmur and hum of many voices drifted to the ears of the excited child. She could hardly contain her impatience; and she wondered why Miss Finlayson did not go on, instead of being so particular about the fastening of the baize door. She even took a step forward in her eagerness; but a hand was suddenly placed on her shoulder, and Barbara glanced up and met the half-amused gaze of the lady who had just seemed so indifferent to her.

Miss Finlayson had a way of looking at a girl that generally made a friend of her at once. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of blue-grey that gave them, as a rule, a cold expression; but they were also capable of a glimpse of humour that completely altered and softened them, and it was the discovery of this quality in them that changed Barbara's impatience all at once to curiosity.

'One moment, little girl, before you go through that door over there,'

began Miss Finlayson, and her face was still grave in spite of the betraying twinkle in her eyes. 'Tell me, have you ever known any girls before?'

'Only Jill,' answered Barbara, wondering why she was being asked such an odd question.

'Ah!' said Miss Finlayson. The child caught the change in her tone, and went on quickly.

'I know Jill didn't approve of me at first,' she said, in her small, anxious voice; 'but she does now, I think. Besides, Jill is grown-up, you see; and I don't think it counts if you are grown-up, does it? I've never met any real, nice, friendly girls before, who don't tease you, or bully you, or anything like that. That's why I wanted to come to school.'

'Ah!' said Miss Finlayson again. Then she put out her hand and patted the cheek of her little new pupil. 'Do not be unhappy if you find you are not like the other girls,' she said, just as Auntie Anna had done; 'and come to me, if everything else fails and you cannot stand by yourself.

Only, remember--you are not in the nursery any longer: you have come here to learn how to grow up straight and strong and healthy, just as a plant learns; and I am only the gardener to give you a prop, when you have been in too great a hurry and are trying to grow too fast. Do you think you understand?' Her voice changed again, and a laugh came into it as she added brightly: 'Come along now, and be a happy little girl. You will find that most of us are happy in this house.'

She took Babs by the hand, and raced her along the pa.s.sage to the door at the end, then turned the handle and pushed the child gently into the room.

'Girls,' said the head-mistress, in the sudden lull that followed her entrance, 'here is a new schoolfellow for you.'

Then all the voices broke out again, and Miss Finlayson nodded to Barbara, and went away. It was one of Miss Finlayson's theories, that a new girl should be left to fight her way by herself; but as she retreated slowly along the pa.s.sage this evening, she could not help feeling a little anxious about the child with the small, eager face, whom she had just launched into a strange and unfriendly world.

Barbara took two quick steps forward, as the door closed behind her, and stood there waiting. She had acted this scene over and over again in her mind, and she had always made her entrance like this; after which a girl, whose face was plump and ordinary, and whose legs were of the right proportions, and whose hair was smooth and under proper control, had always come towards her with a welcoming smile and had led her up to the other girls, who all had welcoming smiles too. And everybody had listened to her while she talked about her home and her father and the boys; and n.o.body had laughed and n.o.body had teased, and n.o.body had told her to 'shut up.' It had been a very favourite scene in her dream of school, and she waited eagerly for the other actors in it to come forward and do their part. But no one moved.

The room in which she found herself was certainly not like the one she had imagined. It was long and low and prettily shaped, with two wide bow-windows thrown out on one side of it, and a great square fireplace taking up most of the wall that faced the doorway. Next to the fireplace was a curtained archway, which evidently formed the entrance into another room, judging by the buzz of laughter and conversation from beyond that the thick red curtain failed to stifle. The bookshelves on the two remaining walls were made of plain oak; so were the desks and chairs that stood neatly arranged round the room in rows. There were also plain oak benches in the warm chimney-corners, and plain oak window-seats in the bowed recesses, while the floor was made of the same wood and was left quite bare, except for a rug in front of the hearth. A pot or two of chrysanthemums, some blue china on the over-mantel, and one or two hammered metal lamps that hung from the beams in the ceiling, were the only ornaments in the room; and the whole effect was so simple and so clean that Barbara, fresh from the dingy old schoolroom in which she had pa.s.sed her life until now, was obliged to forget everything else for the moment and just stare round her. Then her eyes rested again on the girls who were scattered in groups about the room, and the expectant look on her face became a little wistful.

There seemed to be thirty or forty of them all together; and from the noise on the other side of the curtain Babs concluded that there were as many, or more, in the room beyond. They all talked without ceasing,--all at once, it seemed to Barbara,--about their Christmas holidays and their Christmas presents, about the parties they had been to and the pantomimes they had seen, about the girls who were not back and the girls who were, about everything, in fact, except the child by the door, who had been waiting all her life for this moment. What did it matter to them that she should go through a few seconds of embarra.s.sment? They had all been through the same, in their time; and it was not to be supposed that they should make things any easier for future generations of new girls. So they went on babbling about their own affairs, and Barbara went on expecting some one to come and put an end to her discomfort. But n.o.body came.

Slowly, she began to feel conscious, just as she had done when she first met Jill, that there was something odd about her appearance. In spite of the extra inch or two on the bottom hem of her frock, and the temporary smoothness that a vigorous application of a wet brush had produced on her hair, Babs saw with a kind of dismay that she was not made in the same pattern as the crowd of neatly dressed girls before her.

None of them wore her hair loose and curly like her own, and none of them looked as though she did not know what to do with her hands. If only she could have held on to something, Barbara felt sure she would not have felt so shy or so helpless. There was a chair only two yards off; but something kept her standing where she was, and she did not even reach out her hand to it.

The girls continued their conversation, and forgot all about the new-comer that Miss Finlayson had brought in. Most of them stood facing the fire and had not even looked at her; and the others, who glanced now and then towards the door, only shrugged their shoulders and wondered why the stupid child did not sit down, instead of standing still in that purposeless manner. They did not mean to be unkind, but how were they to know that she was fighting through her first disillusionment?