A harum-scarum schoolgirl Part 29

"Bless her, she _shan't_ go the workhouse!" declared Diana, kissing the small fist that clung round her finger.

There was a wild idea among the girls that the foundling might be kept as a "school baby".

"We're taught gardening, and poultry-keeping, and bee-keeping," said Wendy quite seriously, "so why not the care of children? We could learn to bathe her, and mix her bottle, and do heaps of things for her."

Miss Todd, however, thought otherwise. Theoretical hygiene of infants was all very well as part of the curriculum, but the practical side of it was disturbing to the school. Miss Chadwick had other duties besides that of nursing a baby. Rows of plants needed attention, and young chickens claimed her care.

"If the mother gets a heavy sentence," said Miss Todd, "I think the child would be received into a 'Home for Dest.i.tute Children'. In the meantime----"

"_Not_ the workhouse!" pleaded Diana. "Isn't there anybody in the village who'd take her in?"

"Mrs. Jones would have her, but she would charge twelve and sixpence a week; n.o.body will take in a baby for less now."

"What's that in dollars? About three, isn't it? Dad will fix that up easily. I'll write to him to-night. It's as good as settled."

"Diana," said Miss Todd emphatically, "I shall _not_ allow you to write to your father and ask him for anything more. If you care to give up your pocket-money for the baby's sake that's another matter; but you're getting into a bad habit of expecting your father to pay for every whim that comes into your head. It's cheap charity to suggest something that's to cost _you_ nothing. You want to have all the credit of the generosity at your father's expense."

Diana flushed up to her hair, and down over her neck.

"Do you think me a slacker?" she asked.

"Yes; in this respect I certainly do. If you were prepared to deny yourself anything it would be different, but you're not. You like to call the child _your_ foundling, but personally you've done nothing for her. It's Miss Chadwick who's had the wakeful nights."

Diana did not urge in self-defence that she would willingly have taken the baby to bed with her if she had been allowed; she knew it was useless to offer arguments or excuses. She was busy thinking. Miss Todd's reproaches stung her like a whip. She would let the school see that she was not the pampered, spoilt darling that they imagined. On that score she was determined. Sacrifices! She was quite prepared to make sacrifices if they were necessary. n.o.body should again have the chance of telling her that she did her generosity at other people's expense. An idea swept through her mind, and she set her teeth.

"Does it cost more than twelve and six a week to keep Lady?" she asked.

"Considerably more; though I don't suppose you've ever concerned yourself about the cost," returned Miss Todd sarcastically.

"Might I hand Lady over to the school for the rest of the term, then, and pay for the baby instead? I'd square it up with Father. He wouldn't mind about the riding when I explained."

Miss Todd looked Diana squarely in the face. Pupil and mistress met each other's eyes. The Princ.i.p.al's voice softened when she spoke.

"Yes; if you like to do this, Diana, I could arrange it. We want another school pony. You could take your turn with Lady once a week, the same as the other girls. By the end of the term we should know whether the 'Home' would receive the baby. Meantime, Mrs. Jones would take good care of her."

"Then I guess it's fixed," said Diana rather hoa.r.s.ely.

CHAPTER XIX

Ambitions

The poor little foundling, pending her mother's trial at the a.s.sizes, was boarded out in the village with Mrs. Jones, and Diana had permission to see her twice a week. Miss Todd communicated with the "Home for Dest.i.tute Children", and received the reply that, should the mother be convicted, as seemed only too probable, they would be ready to receive the baby, and would apply to the judge for an order for entire charge, so that it should not be claimed and taken away to a possibly criminal life when the mother's term of penal servitude was over.

For the present, therefore, there was nothing more to be done except take an interest in their protegee. Diana set to work to make her a dress--a really heroic effort, for she hated sewing--and sat st.i.tching at it on those afternoons when the other girls were riding Lady. It was typical of Diana that she would not discuss her arrangement about the pony with anybody, not even Wendy.

"I've done it for reasons of my own, and that's enough!" she said rather crossly. "You've no need to thank me--it wasn't particularly to please _you_! I suppose I can do as I like!"

"Of course you _can_, but you needn't flare up so!" retorted Sadie.

"_Most_ people would _expect_ to be thanked. What a queer girl you are, Diana!"

At which remark Diana grunted and turned away.

It is a funny thing that a burst of self-sacrifice often leaves us in a bad temper. Diana was no model heroine, only a very ordinary and rather spoilt girl. The reaction after giving up her pony had sent her spirits down to zero, and if all her doings are to be faithfully chronicled, it must be confessed that for a day or two she did not display herself at her best. She was snappy even with Loveday, and matters came to an open quarrel with Hilary, who, as prefect, was inclined to be dictatorial. A war of words followed; Hilary threatened to appeal to Miss Todd, and Diana, defeated but unrepentant, retired vowing vengeance.

"I'll pay you out some day; see if I don't!" she declared hotly.

"You're not worth noticing!" retorted Hilary, shrugging her shoulders.

Diana retired to the ivy room, had a thoroughly good cry, and came down with red eyes, but feeling better. She did not speak to Hilary again, however, for days.

Meantime, examinations were drawing near. Although Miss Todd conducted her school on absolutely modern lines, she still clung to examinations as being some test of a girl's attainments. The seniors in especial were anxious to distinguish themselves. It was their last chance before they left, and all, with the exception of Stuart and Ida, who were to remain as gardening students, were leaving at the end of the term. The breaking up of her school-days meant an anxious time for Loveday. When they were alone in the ivy room she sometimes confided her troubles to Diana.

"I don't know what I'm to do next. Uncle Fred has told me plainly that the little sum of money my father left has been nearly all spent on my education, and that he himself can't do anything for me. I'd like to go and take a proper training for something--kindergarten, or horticulture, or domestic economy. But how can I when there's nothing to do it on? I suppose it'll end in my going out as a nursery governess."

"Oh, Loveday!"

"Well, what else can I do? I daresay I'd love the children, and be quite happy in a way, but the worst of it is, it's such a blind alley, and leads to nothing. It's all very well to be a nursery governess when you're eighteen, but I'd like to be something better at thirty-six. If you want to get anything decent in the way of a post you have to train."

Diana, to whom all these ideas were fresh and bewildering, was trying to adjust her brains to the new problems. She wrenched her mind from the near present, and took a mental review of Loveday's far future.

"But aren't you going to get married?" was the result of her cogitations.

Loveday, busy plying her hair-brush, shook her long flaxen mane dolefully.

"I don't say I wouldn't _like_ to. But I don't think it's at all likely.

I'm not an attractive kind of girl; I know that well enough. I'm so shy.

I never know what to say to people when they begin to talk to me. They must think me a silly goose. You should see my cousin Dorothy; she's always the very life and soul of a party. If I were like _that_ now! I don't suppose anybody'll ever trouble to look at me twice. I'm sure Auntie thinks so. No; I expect I've just got to make up my mind to be a nursery governess for the rest of my days."

Diana, still in a state of mental bewilderment, looked at pretty Loveday sitting on the bed brus.h.i.+ng out her silky fair hair, and her memory switched itself back suddenly to the last evening of their motor trip.

She had been sitting in the lounge of the hotel, and through the open door could see Giles standing in the hall. Loveday had come running downstairs. Diana would never forget the look that for an instant flashed across Giles's face. It contained something that she had not yet altogether grasped or realized.

"I wouldn't make up my mind too soon if I were you," she said slowly.

"You might change it some day."

Whatever the future might hold in store, the present was the most immediate concern. Loveday wished to take back a good report to her uncle and aunt, and studied hard so as to obtain a fair place in the examination lists. She had just a faint hope that if they thought she showed any intellectual promise they might consider it worth while to have her trained. They had never made much of her attainments, but if she could come out third or fourth in the school she felt they would be pleased. It would be impossible to overstep Geraldine or Hilary, but her work was tolerably on a level with Ida's and Stuart's, and certainly above Nesta's.

It was just at this crisis that Miss Todd offered a prize for the best essay on "The Reconstruction of England after the Great War, and its Special Application to Women's Labour and Social Problems".

It was rather an ambitious topic for girls to tackle, but the seniors attacked it with the crude courage of seventeen. It is often easier at that age to state our opinions than later, when our minds wobble with first-hand experience of the world. At any rate, it gives a force and style to an essay to be absolutely sure that what you write in it is the final thing to be said on the subject. The girls scribbled away, tore up many sheets, showed bits to admiring friends, and felt themselves budding auth.o.r.esses. Public opinion, surging round the school, had already fixed the laurel wreath on the head of Hilary. Hilary exhibited decided literary ability; she had quite a clever knack of writing, and had composed several short stories. When she read these aloud--in bed--her thrilled listeners decided that they were worthy of appearing in print.

"Why don't you send them to a magazine?" urged Peggy, who slept in Dormitory 4.

"Perhaps I may some day--but please don't tell anybody a word about it,"

said Hilary, putting the cherished stories away again inside her dispatch-case.