Kitobni o'qish: «Turquoise and Ruby»

Chapter One
Great Refusal

“Nora, Nora! Where are you?” called a clear, girlish voice, and Cara Burt dashed headlong into a pretty bedroom all draped in white, where a tall girl was standing by an open window. “Nora!” she cried, “what are you doing up in your room at this hour, when we are all busy in the garden preparing our tableaux? Mrs Hazlitt says that she herself will recite ‘A Dream of Fair Women,’ and by unanimous consent you are to be Helen of Troy. Did any one ever suit the part so well? ‘Divinely tall, and most divinely fair.’ Why, what is the matter, Honora? Why have you that frown between your pretty brows, and why aren’t you just delighted? There is not a girl in the school who does not envy you the part. Why are you staying here, all by yourself, instead of joining in the fun downstairs? It’s a heavenly evening, and Mrs Hazlitt is in the best of humours, and we are all choosing our parts and our dresses for the grand scene. Oh, do come along, they are all calling you! There’s that tiresome little Deborah Duke – Mrs Hazlitt’s right hand, as we call her – shouting your name now, downstairs. Why don’t you come; what is the matter?”

“There is this the matter!” said Honora Beverley, and she turned and flashed two dark brown eyes out of a marvellously fair face full at her companion. “I won’t take the part of Helen of Troy; she was not a good woman, and I will have nothing to do with her. I will be Jephtha’s daughter, or Iphigenia, or anything else you like, but I will not be Helen of Troy.”

“Oh, how tiresome you are, Nora! What does the character of Helen matter? Besides, we are not supposed to know whether she is good or bad. Tennyson speaks of her – oh, so beautifully; and we have just to listen to his words, and the audience won’t know, why should they? All you have to do is just to steal out of the dusky wood and stand for a minute with the limelight falling all over you, and then go back again. It’s the simplest thing in the world, and there’s no one else in the school who can take the part, for there’s no one else tall enough, or fair enough. Now, don’t be a goose; come along, this minute.”

“It’s just because I won’t be a goose that I have determined not to act Helen of Troy,” replied Honora. “Leave me alone, Cara; take the part yourself, if you wish.”

“I?” said Cara, with a laugh. “Just look at me, and see if I should make a worthy Helen of Troy!”

Now, Cara was exceedingly dark, not to say sallow, and was slightly below middle height and also rather thickly built, and even Nora laughed when she saw how unsuited her friend would be to the part.

“Well, I won’t be it, anyhow,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t want to take part in the tableaux, at all.”

“Then you will disappoint Mrs Hazlitt very cruelly,” said Cara, her voice changing. “Ah, and here comes Deborah. Dear old Deb! Now, Deborah, I am going to leave this naughty girl in your hands. She is the most obstreperous person in the entire school, and the most beloved, for that matter. Just say a few words of wisdom to her and bring her down within five minutes to join the rest of us in the garden. I will manage to make an excuse for her non-appearance until then.”

As Cara spoke, she waved her hand lightly towards Nora, who was still standing by the open window, and then vanished from the room as quickly as she had entered it. After she had gone, there was a moment’s silence.

Nora Beverley was close on seventeen years of age. She was practically the head girl of the school of Hazlitt Chase – so-called after its mistress, who was adored by her pupils and was one of the best headmistresses in England. Mrs Hazlitt possessed all the qualifications of a first-rate high-school mistress, with those gentle home attributes and that real understanding of the young, which is given to but few. She had married, and had lost her only child; husband and child had both been taken from her. But she did not mourn as one without hope. Her endeavour was to help girls to be good, and true, and noble in the best sense. Her education was, therefore, threefold, embracing body, mind, and soul. Her school was not an especially large one, never consisting of more than thirty girls, but the time spent at Hazlitt Chase was one unlikely to be forgotten by any of them in after life, so noble was the teaching, so systematic the complete training. Mrs Hazlitt knew quite well that, to make a school really valuable to her young scholars, she must be exceedingly careful with regard to the girls who came there. She admitted no girl within the school under the age of fourteen, and allowed no girl to stay after she had reached eighteen years of age. The girl who came need not necessarily belong to the aristocracy, but she must be a lady by birth, and must have brought from her former schools or teachers the very highest recommendations for honour, probity, and good living. She must, besides, be intellectual above the average. With those recommendations, Mrs Hazlitt – who happened to be exceedingly well off – made the money part a secondary consideration, taking many a girl for almost nominal fees, although, on the other hand, those who could pay were expected to do so generously.

So great, did the reputation of this school become that girls’ names were on the books often for years before they were old enough to be admitted, and, in after years, to have belonged to that select academic group who walked the old cloisters at Hazlitt Chase and played happily in the ancient grounds was in itself a distinction.

It was now early in June. The school would break-up in about five weeks – for Mrs Hazlitt never kept to the usual high-school dates – and all the girls were deeply interested in those guests who were to assemble to witness the distribution of prizes, to see an old play of the time of Queen Elizabeth acted in the Elizabethan garden, and, in especial, to behold the tableaux of that masterpiece of Tennyson – “A Dream of Fair Women.”

Mrs Hazlitt was remarkable for her gifts as a reciter, and had arranged to tell the story herself in Tennyson’s immortal words and to allow those girls who were best suited to the parts to appear in the tableaux during the recitation.

By common consent, to Nora Beverley was assigned the part of Helen of Troy. Nora had been at the school almost since she was fourteen, and had grown up in its midst a gentle, reserved, dignified girl, who never gave her heart especially to any one particular person, but was admired and respected by all. She was clever, without being ingenious; very beautiful in appearance, and was known to be rich.

Cara Burt was supposed to be her special friend, and was sent to her now on this occasion to desire her to come at once to Mrs Hazlitt, who was seated in the old Elizabethan garden, and was choosing the different girls who were to take part in the coming tableaux. Cara returned somewhat slowly up the box walk and stood before Mrs Hazlitt with downcast eyes.

“Well,” said that good lady; “and where is Honora? You were some time away, Cara; why has she not come with you?”

“I don’t know whether she will come at all,” said Cara. “She seems very – I don’t mean undecided, but decided against taking the part.”

A swift red passed over Mrs Hazlitt’s cheeks. She was evidently quite unaccustomed to the slightest form of insubordination.

“Did you tell Nora that I desired her to be present?” was her remark.

“Yes – of course I did, Mrs Hazlitt. Oh, may I sit near you, Mary?”

Cara seated herself cosily beside Mary L’Estrange.

“I told her, Mrs Hazlitt, that you wanted her immediately, and where we were all to be found, and that she was to be Helen of Troy.”

“Well – and – ?” said Mrs Hazlitt.

“She said she did not want to be Helen of Troy – that Helen of Troy was a wicked woman, and that she would not take the part.”

Again the colour swept across Mrs Hazlitt’s face. “We must regard Helen as visionary,” she said, “a vision of womanly beauty. There is no one in the school who can take her, except Honora, but I override no one’s scruples. I presume, however, that she will be gracious enough to give me an answer.”

The headmistress was too calm ever to allow her real feelings to be seen, but the girls who knew her well, and who clustered round her now in pretty groups, watched her face with anxiety. Jephtha’s daughter did not wish to be deprived of her part, nor did Cleopatra, nor did Fair Rosamond, nor did Iphigenia. How dreadful of Helen of Troy if she upset all the arrangements and made the pretty tableaux impossible!

“Oh, of course she will yield,” said Mary L’Estrange. But Cara Burt shook her head.

“Nobody knows Honora well, do they?” she said, in a semi-whisper to her companion.

“Perhaps not,” replied Mary; “and yet, she has been in the school for years.”

“I consider her exceedingly conceited,” remarked Cara again, dropping her voice. “But, oh! here comes Deborah – dear old Deborah – and no Honora, as I am alive! Now I wonder what is going to happen.”

Deborah Duke was the English teacher and general factotum in the school. All the girls adored her. It was not necessary to worship her. She was the sort of person round whose neck you could hang, whose waist you could clasp, whose cheeks you could kiss, whom you could shake, if you liked, if she were in a bad humour – but, then, Deborah was never in a bad humour – whom you could go to in all sorts of troubles and get to intercede for you. She was plain, and dumpy, and freckled. Nevertheless, she was Deborah, the darling of the school. As to her knowledge of English, it is very much to be doubted whether it was specially extensive; but, at any rate, she knew how to coddle a girl who was not quite well and how to put a bad-tempered girl into a good humour, and how, on all and every occasion, to come between Mrs Hazlitt and the children whom she taught. The girls all owned that they could be afraid of Mrs Hazlitt, but of Deborah – never.

“Here you are, Deborah!” called out Cara. “Take this seat, won’t you? There is plenty of room between Mary and me. Sit down, and tell us when Helen of Troy intends to put in her appearance.”

“Why does not Honora Beverley come when I request her presence?” said Mrs Hazlitt, speaking in that tone of majesty which always impressed the girls.

“Honora is coming in one minute, Mrs Hazlitt, and she will explain matters to you herself. I am very sorry,” continued poor little Deborah, whispering her latter remark to Mary and Cara. “She must have a bee in her bonnet; no one else could object to represent Tennyson’s beautiful lines.”

Just at that moment there came a slow step down the centre walk of the Elizabethan garden. Its edges of box, which were clipped very close and thick, slightly rustled as a white dress trailed against them, and then a very slim girl, with the fairest of fair faces and a head of thick and very pale golden hair stood in their midst. She was taller than all the other girls, and slimmer, and there was a wonderful darkness in her eyes. She was out of the common, for the soft brown of her eyes was rare to find in so fair a face.

“You have sent for me, Mrs Hazlitt,” said Honora, “and I have come.”

“You have been very slow in obeying my summons, Honora,” said Mrs Hazlitt, in her gentlest tones.

“I am sorry,” replied Nora.

She came a step nearer, and stood before her mistress. She slightly lowered her eyes. The girls, who looked on in extreme wonder and interest, hardly breathed while waiting for the conversation which they knew was about to ensue.

“I am very sorry, indeed,” repeated Honora, “but I was detained. I had made up my own mind, but your messenger sought to unmake it.”

“Well, Honora,” said Mrs Hazlitt, briskly, “you know, dear, that we have decided, amongst the other interesting events of the eighth of July, that Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women’ shall be recited by myself, and that, in order to give meaning and depth to the wonderful poem, I mean to present a series of tableaux to our guests. This will be nothing more nor less than that the ‘fair women’ who are represented in the poem shall appear just when their names are mentioned, and, surrounded by limelight and suitably dressed in character, shall give point to my recitation. By unanimous consent, you, Honora, are elected to take the part of Helen of Troy. I have sent for you, dear, to tell you this. I shall study the dress of the period and will write to-night to a friend of mine at the British Museum, in order to be sure of good and suitable costumes. You will have nothing to do but simply to stand before the audience for a few minutes. I think I have got all the other characters, and I have sent for you mainly to express my desire. You, Honora, will be Helen, you understand?”

“I understand what you wish,” replied Honora.

There was a question in her voice, which caused the other girls to look at her attentively. Mrs Hazlitt paused; she did not speak at all for a minute; then she rose slowly.

“Being my scholar,” she said then, “is but to know and to obey. You will be Helen of Troy. Now, girls, I think our pleasant meeting can come to an end, and it is supper time. Deborah, go into the house and see if supper is prepared in the north parlour. Good-night, girls; I may not see any of you again this evening.” But, before Mrs Hazlitt could retire, Honora came a step forward and laid her hand on her arm.

“You are mistaken,” she said. “You must listen. Another girl must be found to take the part of Helen of Troy, for I refuse to act.”

The light was growing dim, for it was getting on to nine o’clock, but again the girls perceived that Mrs Hazlitt’s cheek was flushed, and that her eyes looked almost angry.

“What do you mean?” she said, coldly.

“I don’t like the character, and I won’t appear in the tableau as the character, that is all.”

“But, when I desire you to be the character – ”

“I don’t think you will force me against my conscience. This is a case of conscience: I will not be Helen of Troy.”

“Do you quite know what you are saying?”

“Quite.”

“She spoke to me very explicitly,” said Deborah. “It is, I think, a matter of conscience.”

“She gave me her mind, also,” called out Cara. “Hush, Deborah. Cara; when it is time for you to speak, I will call upon you to do so. Do you clearly understand, Honora, what this means?”

“I don’t know what it means, except that I will not be Helen of Troy.”

“Then who is to be Helen of Troy?”

“Anybody who is sufficiently indifferent to take the part.”

“I want to put things quite clearly before you, Honora. You understand that, on the day when the parents of my pupils arrive here to see their children, when relations and friends cluster in the old garden, it must be a member of the school who takes part in all the tableaux and all the different events.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“Will you have the goodness to point out to me amongst my thirty girls who else could be Helen, ‘divinely tall, and most divinely fair’?”

Honora’s dark eyes seemed to sweep her companions for a moment. Then she said, slowly:

“That is for you to discover; not for me.”

“It means this, then,” said Mrs Hazlitt, very slowly. “That because you pretend to know more than I know, we are to give up the tableaux altogether, for there is no one else in the school to take the part.”

Honora shrugged her shoulders.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“You won’t yield?”

“I will not.”

“You have displeased me extremely. You talk of this as a case of conscience. I declare that it is nothing of the sort. Helen of Troy was the symbol of all that is beautiful in woman. Her name has come down through the ages because of her loveliness and gracious character. When a schoolgirl like you attempts to override her mistress’ maturer judgment, she acts with wilfulness and ungraciousness, to say the least of it.”

“I am sorry,” said Honora.

She turned aside. There was a lump in her throat. After a minute, she continued:

“But I will not act Helen of Troy.”

“That being the case, girls,” said Mrs Hazlitt, who had quite resumed her usual calm of manner, “we must forego the tableaux – that is unless a suitable Helen of Troy can be found within twenty-four hours. I will now wish you good-night. I am disappointed in you, Honora, very much disappointed.”

Chapter Two
For Helen of Troy

The excitement of the school knew no bounds. Hazlitt Chase was not a house divided against itself. All the girls loved all the other girls. Hitherto, there had never been a split in the camp. This was partly caused by the fact that there were no really very young girls in the school. A girl must have passed her fourteenth birthday before she was admitted. Thus it was easy to enlist the sympathies, to ensure the devotion of the young scholars. They worked for an aim; that aim was to please Mrs Hazlitt. She wanted to prepare them for the larger school of life. She took pains to assure them that the sole and real object of education was this. Mere accomplishments were nothing in her eyes, but she desired her girls to find a place among the good women of the future. They must not be slatternly; they must not be vain, worldly-minded, but they must be beautiful – that is, as beautiful as circumstances would permit. Each gift was to be polished like a weapon for use in the combat which lay before them; for the battle they had to fight was this: they had, in their day and generation, to resist the evil and choose the good.

Now, Mrs Hazlitt very wisely chose heroes and heroines from the past to set before her girls, and she felt very much annoyed now that Nora Beverley should object to take the part of Helen of Troy – Helen, who, belonging to her day and generation, had been much tried amongst beautiful women, badly treated, harshly used; sighed for, longed for, fought over, died for by thousands. That this Helen, so marvellous, so – in some senses of the word – divine, should be criticised by a mere schoolgirl and considered unworthy to be represented by her, even for a few minutes, was, to the headmistress, nothing short of ridiculous. Nevertheless, she was the last person to wound any one’s conscience.

She retired to her private sitting-room, and then quite resolved to give up “A Dream of Fair Women,” and to substitute some other tableaux for the pleasure of her guests.

Meanwhile, in the school, there was great excitement. Cleopatra, Jephtha’s daughter, the gracious Queen Eleanor, and the other characters represented by Tennyson in that dim wood before the dawn, were exceedingly distressed at not being allowed to take their parts.

“I have written home about it, already,” said Mary L’Estrange. “I have asked my father – who knows a great deal about antiquity, and the Greek story in particular – to send me sketches of the most suitable dress for Iphigenia. I have no scruples whatever in taking the part, and I cannot see why Nora should. Oh, Nora, there you are – won’t you change your mind?”

“My mind is my own, and I won’t alter it for any one living,” said Nora. “Now, don’t disturb me, please, Mary; I want to recite over the first six stanzas of ‘In Memoriam’ before I go to bed.”

She began whispering to herself, a volume of Tennyson lying concealed in her lap. Mary shrugged her shoulders and went to another part of the school-room. Here was to be found a girl of the name of Penelope. She was a comparatively new comer, and had not entered the school until just before her sixteenth birthday. Some pressure had been brought to bear to secure her admission, and the girls were none of them sure whether they liked her or not. Mrs Hazlitt, however, took a good deal of notice of her, was specially kind to her, and often invited her to have supper with herself in the old summer parlour, where Queen Elizabeth was said, at one time, to have feasted.

Penelope Carlton was not at all a pretty girl, but she was fair, with very light blue eyes, and an insipid face. Now, as Cara and Mary looked at her, it seemed to dart simultaneously into both their brains that, rather than lose the tableaux altogether, they might persuade Penelope to take the part of Helen. Penelope was not especially an easily persuaded young woman; she was somewhat dour of temper, and could be very disagreeable when she liked. Honora was a universal favourite, but no one specially cared for Penelope. Some of her greatest friends were the younger girls in the school, over whom she seemed to have an uncanny influence.

“Listen, Penelope,” said Mary, on this occasion. “You were in the arbour just now?”

“Yes,” said Penelope; “I was.”

“And you heard what Nora said?”

“Not being stone-deaf, I heard what she said,” responded Penelope.

“You thought her, perhaps, a little goose?” said Cara. “Well,” said Penelope, “I don’t know that I specially applied that epithet to her. I suppose she had her reasons. I think, on the whole, I respected her. Few girls would give up the chance of taking the foremost position and looking remarkably pretty, just for the sake of a scruple.”

“And such a scruple!” cried Cara. “For, of course, Helen was visionary – nothing else.”

Penelope shrugged her shoulders.

“I have not studied the character,” she said. “I have purposely avoided learning anything about Greek heroines. I know about Jephtha’s daughter; for I happen to have read the Book of Judges; and I also know the story of our Queen Eleanor; for I was slapped so often by my governess when I was learning that part of English history that I’m not likely to forget it. The great Queen Eleanor and going to bed supperless are associated in my mind together. Well, what do you want, girls? ‘A Dream of Fair Women’ is at an end, is it not? I suppose we’ll have something else – ‘Blue Beard,’ or scenes from ‘Jane Eyre.’ Oh dear – I wish there was not such a fuss about breaking-up day; you are all in such ludicrous spirits!”

“And are not you?” said Mary L’Estrange, colouring slightly.

“I?” said Penelope. “Why should I be? I stay on here all alone. Deborah sometimes stays with me, or sometimes it’s Mademoiselle, or sometimes Fräulein. When it’s Deborah, I get her to read foolish stories aloud to me by the yard. When it’s Mademoiselle, she insists on chattering French to me, and, perforce, I learn a few phrases; and when it’s Fräulein, I equally benefit by the German tongue. But you don’t suppose it’s anything but triste.”

“You must long for the time when you will leave school,” said Cara. “It is very selfish of me,” she added, “but I have such delightful holidays, and I do look forward to them so. Picture to yourself a great place, and many brothers and sisters and cousins of all sorts and degrees, and uncles and aunts; and father and mother, and grandfather and grandmother; and great-grandfather and great-grandmother; and we take expeditions to one place and another every day; and sometimes great-grandfather hires a hotel by the sea and takes every one of us there for a week. That’s my sort of holiday,” continued Cara, “and the days fly, and when night comes I am so sleepy that they are all too short. Oh dear! but how I do run on! I am sorry for you, of course, Penelope.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Penelope; “I am not sorry for myself: I don’t want the days to fly; for, when I have passed my eighteenth birthday, I must leave here and go somewhere to teach. It entirely depends on what sort of a character Mrs Hazlitt gives me whether I get a good position or not. But, up to the present, I have managed to please her, and I always take the little ones, who will do anything for me, off her hands. By the way, I have promised to play with Juliet and Agnes this evening. They ought to be in bed, but they are sitting up because I have promised them one wild game of hide-and-seek in the garden. I must go and fulfil my promise now.”

As Penelope spoke, she rose.

“She’s not so very short, after all,” thought Cara. “But how plain she is,” thought Mary.

“She’s wonderfully fair, all things considered,” pursued Cara, in her own mind. “She might do – she could never be like Honora, who is ideal – but she might do.”

Aloud she said:

“You can’t go to the children for a minute, or, rather, you had better let Deborah go, and tell them that you will play with them to-morrow night.”

“What do you mean?”

Penelope’s dull, pale blue eyes stared with an ugly sort of glimmer. Then they resumed their usual, apathetic expression.

“I don’t like to break my word to children,” she said. Mary jumped up and came towards her.

“You know what is happening,” she said. “Our wonderful, beautiful tableaux are in danger of coming to grief. They will fall to the ground completely, unless we can get some girl belonging to the school to take the part of Helen.”

“Well, Nora Beverley refuses; I don’t know who else can do it.”

“You can do it, Penelope.”

“And you must!” exclaimed Mary. “Deborah, go and tell those silly children to get into bed.”

A wave of astonished colour swept over Penelope Carlton’s cheeks. She had been seated, but now she rose. She walked restlessly towards the window. There was within her breast undeveloped, but very strong, ambition. She saw herself quite truly, for she was not the sort of girl to be self-deceived. But she had always hoped that her opportunity might come. She had always known that she possessed possibilities. She was young; she was clever. That she was born plain, she admitted with scathing frankness. She called herself hideous and took little pains with her appearance. She hoped that her brain, however, might bring her laurels. She was strong, and young, and certainly clever. Against these advantages lay the disadvantages of extreme poverty, absolute friendlessness, and of a very plain face. There is, perhaps, no plainer woman than a very fair woman when she is plain, for she seems to have nothing to relieve the insipidity of her appearance. This was Penelope’s case. But now, all of a sudden, a chance was given to her. She – Helen of Troy! It would be taking her out of her place. She would not be able to do the part at all. Nevertheless, there was such a thing as a make-up, and that could be employed in her behalf. She looked eagerly at the three girls and said, in a low voice:

“Do send Deborah to the children: I will play with them another night; and tell her to take them some chocolates from the school store and to give them my love, and let us go into the garden.”

It took but a few minutes to fulfil all these requests, and Penelope, Mary, and Cara were soon pacing up and down on the front lawn. Other girls were also walking about in groups. The one subject of conversation was Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women.” It was so interesting, so beautiful, so suited to the school. It seemed so ridiculous and unreasonable of the one girl who could be Helen of Troy not to take the part.

“Well,” said Mary, eagerly, to her companion – “will you, or will you not?”

“But I am so ugly,” began Penelope.

“Yes – there is no doubt of it, you are very plain,” said Cara.

“Poor and ugly,” quoted Penelope, half under her breath. “What possible chance have I? Then I am not even tall; I am just fair – that is all.”

“Your height can be magnified by your coming a little more forward,” said Cara, “and, of course, Mrs Hazlitt manages the dresses. Yours will be severity itself, and it won’t matter whether you have a good figure or not. Oh, surely you can do it; you have got the main characteristic – great fairness.”

Penelope laughed.

”‘A daughter of the gods’!” she quoted.

The other girls also laughed.

“Why do you want me to do this thing?” said Penelope, glancing around. “You have never taken any special notice of me until now. Why are you, all of a sudden, so – so – civil? I don’t understand.”

“We had best be frank,” said Cara.

“Tea, of course, that is what I wish. In the world, no one will be frank; each person will disguise his or her true feelings; but at school one expects frankness. So say what you like.”

“Well,” said Cara, “we do not want to give up our own parts, and, next to Nora, you are the fairest girl in the school. In fact, all the others are mediocre, except the dark ones.”

“I am very dark,” said Mary, “and the part allotted to me is that of Jephtha’s daughter.”

“Who will be Fair Rosamond?” suddenly asked Penelope.

“Oh, we’ve got a girl for her – Annie Leicester. She is nothing remarkable, but can be done up for the occasion. But, you see, Helen comes first of all the fair women, and the lines about her are far more beautiful than about anybody else. Special pains must be taken with regard to her entrance on the scene. You will do all right: I don’t pretend that you will be as good as Honora, but as she refuses – if you only would consent – ”

“You want this very much, indeed,” said Penelope, her eyes sparkling once again with that queer, by no means pleasant, light in them.

“You will consent,” said Mary. “We have to let Mrs Hazlitt know within twenty-four hours, and the sooner she is acquainted with the fact that we have found a Helen of Troy, the better.”

“Oh, I can’t consent all in a hurry,” replied Penelope. “I must take the night to think it over. This is exceedingly important to both of you – that I can see – and I have few, very few, chances. I must make the most of all that come in my way. I think I know just what you want. Good-night, girls.”

She went slowly back into the house. Mary and Cara looked at each other.

“Do I like her?” said Cara, suddenly.

Mary gave a laugh.

“I detest her,” she said. “I never could understand why she came amongst us. Honora Beverley has her cranks, but she is aboveboard, and honest to the core. I don’t believe this girl is honest – I mean, I don’t think, in her heart of hearts, she would mind a dishonourable action. From the very first she has been different from the rest of us: I often wish she had never come to the school.”

“Why so?” asked Cara. “She doesn’t interfere with you.”

“But she interferes with Molly, my younger sister. Molly is devoted to her – most of the fourteen-year-old girls are. I can’t imagine why a woman like Mrs Hazlitt should have such a girl in the school.”