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CHAPTER I
In the dusk of an October evening, a sensible looking woman of
forty came out through an oaken door to a broad landing on the
first floor of an old English country-house. A braid of her hair
had fallen forward as if she had been stooping over book or pen;
and she stood for a moment to smooth it, and to gaze
contemplatively--not in the least sentimentally--through the
tall,
narrow window. The sun was setting, but its glories were at the
other side of the house; for this window looked eastward, where
the landscape of sheepwalks and pasture land was sobering at the
approach of darkness.
The lady, like one to whom silence and quiet were luxuries,
lingered on the landing for some time. Then she turned towards
another door, on which was inscribed, in white letters, Class
Room No. 6. Arrested by a whispering above, she paused in the
doorway, and looked up the stairs along a broad smooth handrail
that swept round in an unbroken curve at each landing, forming an
inclined plane from the top to the bottom of the house.
A young voice, apparently mimicking someone, now came from above,
saying,
"We will take the Etudes de la Velocite next, if you please,
ladies."
Immediately a girl in a holland dress shot down through space;
whirled round the curve with a fearless centrifugal toss of her
ankle; and vanished into the darkness beneath. She was followed
by a stately girl in green, intently holding her breath as she
flew; and also by a large young woman in black, with her lower
lip grasped between her teeth, and her fine brown eyes protruding
with excitement. Her passage created a miniature tempest which
disarranged anew the hair of the lady on the landing, who waited
in breathless alarm until two light shocks and a thump announced
that the aerial voyagers had landed safely in the hall.
"Oh law!" exclaimed the voice that had spoken before. "Here's
Susan."
"It's a mercy your neck ain't broken," replied some palpitating
female. "I'll tell of you this time, Miss Wylie; indeed I will.
And you, too, Miss Carpenter: I wonder at you not to have more
sense at your age and with your size! Miss Wilson can't help
hearing when you come down with a thump like that. You shake the
whole house."
Oh bother!" said Miss Wylie. "The Lady Abbess takes good care to
shut out all the noise we make. Let us--"
"Girls," said the lady above, calling down quietly, but with
ominous distinctness.
Silence and utter confusion ensued. Then came a reply, in a tone
of honeyed sweetness, from Miss Wylie:
"Did you call us, DEAR Miss Wilson?"
"Yes. Come up here, if you please, all three."
There was some hesitation among them, each offering the other
precedence. At last they went up slowly, in the order, though not
at all in the manner, of their flying descent; followed Miss
Wilson into the class-room; and stood in a row before her,
illumined through three western windows with a glow of ruddy
orange light. Miss Carpenter, the largest of the three, was red
and confused. Her arms hung by her sides, her fingers twisting
the folds of her dress. Miss Gertrude Lindsay, in pale sea-green,
had a small head, delicate complexion, and pearly teeth. She
stood erect, with an expression of cold distaste for reproof of
any sort. The holland dress of the third offender had changed
from yellow to white as she passed from the gray eastern twilight
on the staircase into the warm western glow in the room. Her face
had a bright olive tone, and seemed to have a golden mica in its
composition. Her eyes and hair were hazel-nut color; and her
teeth, the upper row of which she displayed freely, were like
fine Portland stone, and sloped outward enough to have spoilt her
mouth, had they not been supported by a rich under lip, and a
finely curved, impudent chin. Her half cajoling, half mocking
air, and her ready smile, were difficult to confront with
severity; and Miss Wilson knew it; for she would not look at her
even when attracted by a convulsive start and an angry side
glance from Miss Lindsay, who had just been indented between the
ribs by a finger tip.
"You are aware that you have broken the rules," said Miss Wilson
quietly.
"We didn't intend to. We really did not," said the girl in
holland, coaxingly.
"Pray what was your intention then, Miss Wylie?"
Miss Wylie unexpectedly treated this as a smart repartee instead
of a rebuke. She sent up a strange little scream, which exploded
in a cascade of laughter.
"Pray be silent, Agatha," said Miss Wilson severely. Agatha
looked contrite. Miss Wilson turned hastily to the eldest of the
three, and continued:
"I am especially surprised at you, Miss Carpenter. Since you have
no desire to keep faith with me by upholding the rules, of which
you are quite old enough to understand the necessity, I shall not
trouble you with reproaches, or appeals to which I am now
convinced that you would not respond," (here Miss Carpenter, with
an inarticulate protest, burst into tears); "but you should at
least think of the danger into which your juniors are led by your
childishness. How should you feel if Agatha had broken her neck?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Agatha, putting her hand quickly to her neck.
"I didn't think there was any danger," said Miss Carpenter,
struggling with her tears. " Agatha has done it so oft--oh dear!
you have torn me." Miss Wylie had pulled at her schoolfellow's
skirt, and pulled too hard.
"Miss Wylie," said Miss Wilson, flushing slightly, "I must ask
you to leave the room."
"Oh, no," exclaimed Agatha, clasping her hands in distress.
"Please don't, dear Miss Wilson. I am so sorry. I beg your
pardon."
"Since you will not do what I ask, I must go myself," said Miss
Wilson sternly. "Come with me to my study," she added to the two
other girls. "If you attempt to follow, Miss Wylie, I shall
regard it as an intrusion."
"But I will go away if you wish it. I didn't mean to diso--"
"I shall not trouble you now. Come, girls."
The three went out; and Miss Wylie, left behind in disgrace, made
a surpassing grimace at Miss Lindsay, who glanced back at her.
When she was alone, her vivacity subsided. She went slowly to the
window, and gazed disparagingly at the landscape. Once, when a
sound of voices above reached her, her eyes brightened, and her
ready lip moved; but the next silent moment she relapsed into
moody indifference, which was not relieved until her two
companions, looking very serious, re-entered.
"Well," she said gaily, "has moral force been applied? Are you
going to the Recording Angel?"
"Hush, Agatha," said Miss Carpenter. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."
"No, but you ought, you goose. A nice row you have got me into!"
"It was your own fault. You tore my dress."
"Yes, when you were blurting out that I sometimes slide down the
banisters."
"Oh!" said Miss Carpenter slowly, as if this reason had not
occurred to her before. "Was that why you pulled me?"
"Dear me! It has actually dawned upon you. You are a most awfully
silly girl, Jane. What did the Lady Abbess say?"
Miss Carpenter again gave her tears way, and could not reply.
"She is disgusted with us, and no wonder," said Miss Lindsay.
"She said it was all your fault," sobbed Miss Carpenter.
"Well, never mind, dear," said Agatha soothingly. "Put it in the
Recording Angel."
"I won't write a word in the Recording Angel unless you do so
first," said Miss Lindsay angrily. "You are more in fault than we
are."
"Certainly, my dear," replied Agatha. "A whole page, if you
wish."
"I b-believe you LIKE writing in the Recording Angel," said Miss
Carpenter spitefully.
"Yes, Jane. It is the best fun the place affords."
"It may be fun to you," said Miss Lindsay sharply; "but it is not
very creditable to me, as Miss Wilson said just now, to take a
prize in moral science and then have to write down that I don't
know how to behave myself. Besides, I do not like to be told that
I am ill-bred!"
Agatha laughed. "What a deep old thing she is! She knows all our
weaknesses, and stabs at us through them. Catch her telling me,
or Jane there, that we are ill-bred!"
"I don't understand you," said Miss Lindsay, haughtily.
"Of course not. That's because you don't know as much moral
science as I, though I never took a prize in it."
"You never took a prize in anything," said Miss Carpenter.
"And I hope I never shall," said Agatha. "I would as soon
scramble for hot pennies in the snow, like the street boys, as
scramble to see who can answer most questions. Dr. Watts is
enough moral science for me. Now for the Recording Angel."
She went to a shelf and took down a heavy quarto, bound in black
leather, and inscribed, in red letters, MY FAULTS. This she threw
irreverently on a desk, and tossed its pages over until she came
to one only partly covered with manuscript confessions.
"For a wonder," she said, "here are two entries that are not
mine. Sarah Gerram! What has she been confessing?"
"Don't read it," said Miss Lindsay quickly. "You know that it is
the most dishonorable thing any of us can do."
"Poch! Our little sins are not worth making such a fuss about. I
always like to have my entries read: it makes me feel like an
author; and so in Christian duty I always read other people's.
Listen to poor Sarah's tale of guilt. '1st October. I am very
sorry that I slapped Miss Chambers in the lavatory this morning,
and knocked out one of her teeth. This was very wicked; but it
was coming out by itself; and she has forgiven me because a new
one will come in its place; and she was only pretending when she
said she swallowed it. Sarah Gerram."'
"Little fool!" said Miss Lindsay. "The idea of our having to
record in the same book with brats like that!"
"Here is a touching revelation. '4th October. Helen Plantagenet
is deeply grieved to have to confess that I took the first place
in algebra yesterday unfairly. Miss Lindsay prompted me;' and--"
"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Lindsay, reddening. "That is how she thanks
me for prompting her, is it? How dare she confess my faults in
the Recording Angel?"
"Serves you right for prompting her," said Miss Carpenter. "She
was always a double-faced cat; and you ought to have known
better."
"Oh, I assure you it was not for her sake that I did it," replied
Miss Lindsay. "It was to prevent that Jackson girl from getting
first place. I don't like Helen Plantagenet; but at least she is
a lady.'
"Stuff, Gertrude," said Agatha, with a touch of earnestness. "One
would think, to hear you talk, that your grandmother was a cook.
Don't be such a snob."
"Miss Wylie," said Gertrude, becoming scarlet: "you are very--oh!
oh! Stop Ag--oh! I will tell Miss--oh!" Agatha had inserted a
steely finger between her ribs, and was tickling her unendurably.
"Sh-sh-sh," whispered Miss Carpenter anxiously. "The door is
open."
"Am I Miss Wylie?" demanded Agatha, relentlessly continuing the
torture. "Am I very--whatever you were going to say? Am I? am I?
am I?"
"No, no," gasped Gertrude, shrinking into a chair, almost in
hysterics. "You are very unkind, Agatha. You have hurt me."
"You deserve it. If you ever get sulky with me again, or call me
Miss Wylie, I will kill you. I will tickle the soles of your feet
with a feather," (Miss Lindsay shuddered, and hid her feet
beneath the chair) "until your hair turns white. And now, if you
are truly repentant, come and record."
"You must record first. It was all your fault."
"But I am the youngest," said Agatha.
"Well, then," said Gertrude, afraid to press the point, but
determined not to record first, "let Jane Carpenter begin. She is
the eldest."
"Oh, of course," said Jane, with whimpering irony. "Let Jane do
all the nasty things first. I think it's very hard. You fancy
that Jane is a fool; but she isn't."
"You are certainly not such a fool as you look, Jane," said
Agatha gravely. "But I will record first, if you like."
"No, you shan't," cried Jane, snatching the pen from her. "I arm
the eldest; and I won't be put out of my place."
She dipped the pen in the ink resolutely, and prepared to write.
Then she paused; considered; looked bewildered; and at last
appealed piteously to Agatha.
"What shall I write?" she said. "You know how to write things
down; and I don't."
"First put the date," said Agatha.
"To be sure," said Jane, writing it quickly. "I forgot that.
Well?"
"Now write, 'I am very sorry that Miss Wilson saw me when I slid
down the banisters this evening. Jane Carpenter.'"
"Is that all?"
"That's all: unless you wish to add something of your own
composition."
"I hope it's all right," said Jane, looking suspiciously at
Agatha. "However, there can't be any harm in it; for it's the
simple truth. Anyhow, if you are playing one of your jokes on me,
you are a nasty mean thing, and I don't care. Now, Gertrude, it's
your turn. Please look at mine, and see whether the spelling is
right."
"It is not my business to teach you to spell," said Gertrude,
taking the pen. And, while Jane was murmuring at her
churlishness, she wrote in a bold hand:
"I have broken the rules by sliding down the banisters to-day
with Miss Carpenter and Miss Wylie. Miss Wylie went first."
"You wretch!" exclaimed Agatha, reading over her shoulder. "And
your father is an admiral!"
"I think it is only fair," said Miss Lindsay, quailing, but
assuming the tone of a moralist. "It is perfectly true."
"All my money was made in trade," said Agatha; "but I should be
ashamed to save myself by shifting blame to your aristocratic
shoulders. You pitiful thing! Here: give me the pen."
"I will strike it out if you wish; but I think "
"No: it shall stay there to witness against you. How see how I
confess my faults." And she wrote, in a fine, rapid hand:
"This evening Gertrude Lindsay and Jane Carpenter met me at the
top of the stairs, and said they wanted to slide down the
banisters and would do it if I went first. I told them that it
was against the rules, but they said that did not matter; and as
they are older than I am, I allowed myself to be persuaded, and
did."
"What do you think of that?" said Agatha, displaying the page.
They read it, and protested clamorously.
"It is perfectly true," said Agatha, solemnly.
"It's beastly mean," said Jane energetically. "The idea of your
finding fault with Gertrude, and then going and being twice as
bad yourself! I never heard of such a thing in my life."
"'Thus bad begins; but worse remains behind,' as the Standard
Elocutionist says," said Agatha, adding another sentence to her
confession.
"But it was all my fault. Also I was rude to Miss Wilson, and
refused to leave the room when she bade me. I was not wilfully
wrong except in sliding down the banisters. I am so fond of a
slide that I could not resist the temptation."
"Be warned by me, Agatha," said Jane impressively. "If you write
cheeky things in that book, you will be expelled."
"Indeed!" replied Agatha significantly. "Wait until Miss Wilson
sees what you have written."
"Gertrude," cried Jane, with sudden misgiving, "has she made me
write anything improper? Agatha, do tell me if--"
Here a gong sounded; and the three girls simultaneously exclaimed
"Grub!" and rushed from the room.
Content of CHAPTER I [George Bernard Shaw's novel: An Unsocial Socialist]
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