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Tom and Some Other Girls: A Public School Story

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<h3>Chapter Nineteen.</h3> <h4>School Again.</h4> School again, and no Tom! The house-parlour with no manly figure to lean with its back against the mantelpiece, and jingle chains in its pocket; the dining-hall with no one to make faces at the critical moment when a girl was swallowing her soup, or to nudge her elbow as she lifted a cup to her lips; the cubicle with no magenta dressing-jacket whisking to and fro—it was ghastly! The girls could not reconcile themselves to their loss, and the first fortnight of the term was one of unalloyed depression. No one dared to joke, for if she did her companions instantly accused her of “apeing Tom” and snubbed her for the feebleness of the attempt; no one dared to be cheerful, lest she should be charged with fickleness, and want of heart. And Irene, the beautiful, reigned in Tom’s stead! It would have been a difficult post for any girl to have succeeded Thomasina Bolderston, but, curious though it may appear, Irene’s flaxen locks and regular features were for the time being so many offences in the eyes of her companions. They were accustomed to Tom; Tom had been the Head Girl of their heart, and they resented the “finicking” ways of her successor as an insult to the dear departed. Irene strove by a gentle mildness of demeanour to soften the prejudice against her, and the girls but abused her the more. “Catch Tom saying ‘It didn’t matter’! Imagine Tom pretending she didn’t hear! A nice Head Girl she is! We might as well have Hilary Jervis!” Irene assumed a pretence of firmness; the girls rolled their eyes at each other and tittered audibly. The idea of Irene Grey ordering others about! Plainly, it was time, and time only, which could give any authority to Tom Bolderston’s supplanter! How keenly Rhoda felt her friend’s absence no one guessed but herself. Tom’s attitude towards the result of the late examinations would have given the keynote to that of her companions, and have shielded the poor, smarting victim from much which she now had to endure. The girls were unaffectedly sorry for her, but pity is an offering which a proud spirit finds it hard to accept. It seemed strange to realise that girls cast in such graceful moulds as Dorothy and Irene should be so deficient in tact as to gush over the humiliation of another, and check the rhapsodies of successful candidates by such significant coughings and frownings as must have been obvious to the dullest faculties. Oh, for Tom’s downright acceptance of a situation—her calm taking-for-granted that the sufferer was neither selfish nor cowardly enough to grudge success to others! Rhoda felt, as we have all felt in our time, that she had never thoroughly appreciated her friend until she had departed, and she was one of the most enthusiastic members of the committee organised to arrange about the tablet to be composed in Tom’s honour. Of course, Tom must have a place on the Record Wall! Blues, Reds, Greens, and Yellows were unanimously decided on the point; contributions poured in, and on Sunday afternoon the Blues sat in consultation over the wording of the inscription. “The simpler the better. Tom hated gush!” was the general opinion; but it was astonishing how difficult it was to hit on something simple yet telling. A high-flown rhapsody seemed far easier to accomplish, and at last, in despair, each girl was directed to compose an inscription and to read it aloud for general approval. None were universally approved, but Rhoda’s received the largest number of votes, as being simple yet comprehensive:— “This tablet is erected to the memory of Thomasina Bolderston, the most popular ‘Head Girl’ whom Hurst Manor has ever known. Her companions affectionately record the kindly justice of her rule, and the unfailing cheerfulness which was a stimulus to them in work and play.” “Yes—it’s the best, decidedly the best, but I should like it to have been better still!” said Kathleen thoughtfully. “It is so difficult to describe Tom in three or four lines.” “And it leaves so much unsaid! I should like to describe her a little bit so that future pupils might know what she was like. If they read that, they would imagine her just like anyone else,” objected Bertha, frowning. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to say something about her—er—‘engaging ugliness!’ or some expression like that?” Howls of indignation greeted this audacious proposition, and Bertha was alternately snubbed, reproached, and abused, until she grew sulky and retired from the discussion. Rhoda herself came to the rescue, and with the critical spirit of the true artist acknowledged the defect in her own work. “Bertha is right! What I have written gives no idea of Tom herself. It’s a pity, but I don’t see how it can be helped. What words could describe Tom to anyone who had not seen her? Now, here’s another idea! Why not make a rule that every girl who has had her name inscribed on the Record Wall must present a framed portrait to the school? All the frames would be alike, and they would be hung in rows in the Great Hall, so that future generations of pupils might be able to see what the girls were like, and feel more friendly towards them!” “Rhoda! What a h–eavenly idea!” cried Irene rapturously. “How s–imply lovely! Why in the world have we never thought of that before?” “I never heard of anything so splendid!” cried the girls in chorus, while Rhoda sat beaming with gratified smiles. Well, if her own name would never be printed in that roll of honour, at least she had composed the inscription of one of the most important tablets, and had suggested a new idea which bade fair to be as much appreciated as the Wall itself! Already the girls were debating eagerly together as to its inauguration, and deciding that the different “Heads” should be deputed to write to those old members of each house who had been honoured with tablets, to ask for portraits taken as nearly as possible about the date of leaving school. Irene, of course, would communicate with Tom to inform her of the step about to be taken by her companions, and to direct her to be photographed at the first possible moment. “And—er—you might just drop a hint about her attire!” said Rhoda, anxiously, as a remembrance of the dress and coiffure of Erley Chase rose before her. Nothing more likely than that Tom would elect to do honour to her companions by putting on her very best clothes for their benefit, and imagine the horror of the Blues at seeing their old Head decked out in such fashion! “We should like best to see her as she used to look here.” “She must wear the old blue dress, and stand with her back to the fireplace, with her hands in her pockets,” cried Kathleen firmly. “We don’t want to see Tom lying in a hammock against a background of palms, or smirking over a fan—not much! It’s the genuine article we want, and no make-up. What will she say, I wonder, when she hears she is going to have a tablet? Will she be pleased or vexed?” “She must be pleased—who could help it?—but she will pretend she is not. Mark my words, she’ll write back and say it’s a piece of ridiculous nonsense.” So prophesied Irene; but the result proved that she was wrong, for Tom, as usual, refused to be anticipated. Instead of protesting that she had done nothing worthy of such an honour, and beseeching her companions not to make themselves ridiculous, she dismissed the subject in a couple of lines, in which she declared the proposed scheme to be “most laudable,” and calmly volunteered to contribute half-a-crown! The Blues agreed among themselves that such behaviour came perilously near “callousness,” but Rhoda recalled that last peep through the bars of the station gate, and could not join in the decision. She believed that Tom would be profoundly touched by the honour, so touched and so proud that she dared not trust herself to approach the subject from a serious view. And she was right, for if imagination could have carried her old companions to the study where Tom was then domiciled, they would have seen her chalking an immense red cross on her calendar against the date when Irene’s letter had arrived, and mentally recording it as the proudest day of her life. No mention was made of the photograph, but in due time it arrived, so life-like and speaking in its well-known attitude, that the more sentimental of the girls shed tears of joy at beholding it. Closely following it came other contributions to the gallery, which the new-comers examined with keenest interest, feeling more able to understand the enthusiasm of their seniors, now that the well-known names were attached to definite personalities. About this time, too, arrived a full report of the examination, and, as had been expected, Rhoda was found to have failed in arithmetic. In other subjects she had done well, gaining the longed-for distinction in German and French, so that if only— Oh! that little “If!” How much it meant! That terrible mountainous “If,” which made all the difference between failure and success! If it had been a dark morning and she had slept on! If she had given way to temptation, and dozed off in the middle of her work! If she had listened to Evie’s words of warning!—If but one of those possible Ifs had been accomplished, she would have been among the happy crowd to-day, and not standing miserably apart, the only girl in the house who had failed to pass. The wild grief of the first few days swept back like a wave and threatened to overwhelm her, but she clung to the remembrance of Tom’s words, and told herself passionately that she would not “whine”! She would not pose as a martyr! Even on that great occasion when the certificates were presented in Great Hall, and the school burst into ecstatic repetitions of “See the Conquering Hero Comes!” as each fresh girl walked up to the platform, even through that dread ordeal did Rhoda retain her self-possession, attempting—poor child—to add a trembling note to the chorus. She never knew, nor guessed, that the girls honoured her more in that moment than if she had won a dozen distinctions. She did not see the kindly glances bent upon her by the teachers, for they were careful to turn aside when she looked in their direction; and if she had seen, she would never have believed it was admiration, and not pity, which those looks expressed. In her estimation the occasion was one of pure, unalloyed humiliation, and when she reached the shelter of her cubicle she seized the hand-glass and examined her ruddy head anxiously beneath the electric globe. “It isn’t true!” she exclaimed. “The ghost stories tell lies. I don’t believe now that anyone’s head ever turned white in a night. I can’t see a single grey hair.” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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