THE ENROLLING OF THE CANDIDATES
The September sunshine was streaming in through the big stained-glass windows of the lecture hall next morning when, at eleven o’clock, the girls came trooping in from their Form-rooms, and took their places facing the dais. The Head was seated there in company with Mr. Melrose, who acted as governor of the Lamb Bursary, and two other gentlemen, who also had something to do with the bequest which meant so much to the Compton School for Girls.
When they were all in their places, Mr. Melrose stood up, and coming to the edge of the dais, made a little speech to the girls about Miss Lamb, who had been educated at the Compton Schools. “Agnes Lamb came to be educated here because her father, an officer, was at that time stationed at Beckworth Camp,” he said in a pleasant, conversational tone, which held the interest even of those girls who had heard the story several times before. “She was in residence for three years, during which time she made many friendships, and formed close ties in the school. It was while she was being educated here that her father died suddenly, and Miss Lamb, already motherless, was adopted by an uncle who was very rich, and who at once removed her from the school. Although surrounded by every luxury, the poor girl seemed to have left happiness behind her when she left the school. Her desire had been for higher education. Her uncle did not believe in the higher education of women: all the poor girl’s efforts after more knowledge were frowned upon, and set aside. She might have clothes in prodigal abundance, she might wear a whole milliner’s shop on her head, and her uncle would not have complained; but when she wanted lessons, or even books, she was reminded that but for his charity she would be a beggar: and, indeed, I think many beggars had greater possibilities of happiness. The years went on. Miss Lamb, always a gentle soul, lacked the courage and enterprise to break away from her prison, and continued to languish under the iron rule of her uncle. Her youth passed in close attendance on the crabbed old man, who had become a confirmed invalid. She had her romance, too: there was a man who loved her, and she cared for him; but here again her uncle’s will came between her and her happiness. The sour old man reminded her that he had kept her for so many years—that he had provided her with dainty food, and clothed her in costly array: now, when he was old and suffering, it would be base ingratitude for her to leave him, especially as the doctors told him he had not long to live. Because she was so meek and gentle, so easily cowed, and so good at heart, Miss Lamb sent her lover away to wait until she should be free to take her happiness with him. But the old uncle lingered on for several years. The man, who was only human, got tired of waiting, and on the very day when the death of the old uncle set Miss Lamb free he was married to a woman for whom he did not particularly care, just because he had grown tired of waiting for the happiness that tarried so long. Miss Lamb never really recovered from that blow. She lived only a few years longer, but she filled those years with as much work for her fellows as it was possible to get into the time. When she died, and her will was read, it was found that her thoughts must have lingered very much on the happy time she had spent within these walls, for the bulk of her property came for the enrichment of the Compton Girls’ School. In addition to this she left a sum of money which should, year by year, entitle one girl to the chance of a higher education.”
Mr. Melrose was interrupted at this point by a tremendous outburst of cheering; indeed, it seemed as if the sixty girls must have throats lined with tin, from the noise they contrived to make.
Mr. Melrose did not check them; he merely stood and waited with a smile on his face, wondering, as he looked at the wildly cheering mob, if any one of them would have been as meek under burdens as had been the gentle soul whose memory they were so vigorously honouring.
The cheering died to silence, and then he began to speak again. “I have finished the story of how it was that Miss Lamb came to leave so much money to the school, and now I am going to ask Mr. Grimshaw to read the rules for the enrolment of candidates for the Lamb Bursary. You will please follow that reading very carefully, making up your minds as he proceeds, as to whether you individually can fulfil the terms of the bequest.”
Mr. Grimshaw was an elderly gentleman of nervous aspect, with a thin, squeaky voice which would have upset the risibles of the whole school at any ordinary time; but the girls for the most part listened to him with gravely decorous faces, although one irrepressible Fourth Form kid rippled into gurgling laughter, that was instantly changed to a strangled cough.
The reading began with a tangle of legal terms and phrases as to the receiving of the money, and the way in which it was to be laid out, and then the document stated the requirements looked for in the candidate:—
“Each candidate offering herself for the winning of the Lamb Bursary must be in the Sixth Form of the Compton Girls’ School. She must be of respectable parentage, which is to say, that neither of her parents shall have been in prison. She herself must have a high moral character. No girl known to have cheated, or to have robbed her fellows in any way, is eligible as a candidate. It is furthermore required that each candidate shall take all the general subjects taught in the school, and no candidate shall be allowed to specialize on any particular subject; but each one to be judged on the all-round character of her learning. Candidates must be enrolled for three terms, the judging being on the marks made in that time. Each girl offering herself as a candidate will, with right hand upraised, declare solemnly, that she is a fit person to be enrolled as a candidate, and that she individually fulfils the conditions laid down in this document.”
The squeaky voice ceased, and Mr. Grimshaw with some creaking of immaculate boots sat down, while a profound hush settled over the rows of bright-faced girls. A robin just outside one of the open windows sang blithely, and away in the distance a bugle sounded.
There was a stir in the long row of Sixth Form girls. Hazel rose to her feet, her face rather white and set, for she was the first to enroll, and the situation gripped her strangely; but her voice rang clearly through the hall as, with right hand raised, she said,—
“I, Hazel Dring, offer myself as a candidate for the Lamb Bursary. I promise to abide by the conditions laid down, and I declare myself a fit person to be enrolled.”
Mr. Melrose looked at the Head, who bowed slightly, then he said to Hazel, “Will you please come on to the dais and be enrolled.”
She went forward, and the gentleman who had not spoken proceeded to spread a paper before her, which she had to sign. Meanwhile Margaret stood up, and raising her right hand, made the affirmation in the same way, and she was followed by Daisy Goatby.
Dorothy was thrilled to the very centre of her being. She rose to her feet, she lifted her right hand, while her voice rang out vibrant with all sorts of emotions.
“I, Dorothy Sedgewick, offer myself as a candidate for the Lamb Bursary. I promise to abide by the conditions laid down, and I declare myself a fit person to be enrolled.”
Again the Head bowed in response to the inquiring look of Mr. Melrose, who asked Dorothy to join the others on the dais, and she went forward, feeling as if she was treading on air. It seemed such a solemn ceremony, and there was the same sensation of awe in her heart that she felt when she was in church.
She was in the midst of writing her name when she heard the stir of another girl rising and then the words:—
“I, Rhoda Fleming, offer myself——”
Dorothy paused with her pen suspended, and her face went ashen white, as the glib tongue of Rhoda repeated the declaration that she was a fit person to be enrolled. Oh, how could she do it? Was it possible that Tom was right, and the average girl had no sense at all of honour, or moral obligation?
“Will you finish your signature, if you please, Miss Sedgewick.” It was the quiet voice of the gentleman taking the signatures that broke in upon Dorothy’s confused senses. Murmuring an apology, she finished writing her name, and went across to sit beside Daisy Goatby, while Rhoda came up to the dais to sign the enrollment paper. Joan Fletcher was the next, and she was followed by Jessie Wayne. Dora Selwyn, the head girl, did not compete; she was specializing in botany and geology, and did not want to be compelled to give her time to other subjects. There were seven candidates this year: last year there had been four, and the year before there had been eight. As Miss Groome, the Form-mistress remarked, seven was a good workable number, sufficient to make competition keen, but not too many to crowd each other in the race.
At the conclusion of the little ceremony the girls rose to their feet to sing “Auld Lang Syne,” and then with a rousing three-times-three—the first for Miss Lamb of evergreen memory, the second for the school, and the third for the newly-enrolled—they swarmed out to the grounds, for the rest of the day was to be holiday. They were to have a tennis tournament among themselves, with a box of chocolates for first prize, and an ounce of the strongest peppermints to be bought in Sowergate as consolation to the one who should score the least.
The three gentlemen stayed to lunch, and sat at the high table in the dining-room with the Head and such of the staff as were not at the lower tables carving.
The seven candidates had been decorated with huge white rosettes, in recognition of their position, and the talk at table was chiefly about Miss Lamb and her unfortunate love story.
“I expect she was afraid if she had married the man her uncle would have cut her out of his will, and so she would have been poor,” said Rhoda, who was very bright and gay.
Dorothy shivered a little. Rhoda’s voice made her feel bad just then. It was to her a most awful thing that a girl who knew herself guilty of deliberate theft should rise and affirm with uplifted hand that she was morally fit to compete for the Lamb Bursary.
“Perhaps she didn’t care over-much for him,” said Daisy Goatby with a windy sigh. “Getting married must be an awful fag. She could look forward to being free when the old man died; but if she had married, she might never have been free, don’t you see.”
“I think she was a martyr, poor dear.” Dorothy had the same vibrant sound in her voice as when she rose to affirm, and the other girls dropped silent to listen to what she had to say.
“Why do you think she was a martyr?” asked Margaret softly, seeing that Dorothy paused.
“Because she sacrificed everything to a principle.” Dorothy flushed a little as she spoke; she was too new to her surroundings to feel at ease in making her standpoints clear, and she was oppressed also by Rhoda’s bravado in affirming, in spite of that damaging incident at Sharman and Song’s.
“There was no principle involved that I can see,” grumbled Joan Fletcher with wrinkled brows. “There was self-sacrifice if you like, although, to my way of thinking, even that was uncalled for, seeing that the old man had the money to pay for any service he might require. I am not going to grumble at her for putting aside her happiness, because if I win the bursary I shall be so much the better off in consequence of her deciding to sacrifice herself for her uncle.”
“I think Dorothy is right,” chimed in Hazel crisply. “Miss Lamb made a principle out of her duty, real or supposed, to her uncle: she gave up her chance of married happiness because her sense of what was right would have been outraged if she had not.”
“Then she was a martyr!” exclaimed Jessie Wayne. “I shall see her as a picture in my mind next time we sing ‘The martyr first whose eagle eye.’ ”
“I dare say you will, goosey”—Dora Selwyn leaned forward past Dorothy to speak to Jessie, who sat at the end of the table—“meanwhile, you will please get on your feet, for the Head is rising.”
Jessie scrambled up in a great hurry, punting into Daisy Goatby, who sat on the other side of her. Daisy, heavy in all her movements, lurched against a plate standing too near the edge of the table, and brought it to the ground with a crash. But the crash was not heard, for Hazel, who saw it falling, and the gentlemen rising to leave the room at the same moment, swung up her hand for a rousing cheer, and in the burst of acclamation the noise of smashing was entirely lost.
“What a morning it has been!” murmured Dorothy, as she strolled down to the tennis court with Margaret for a little practice at the nets before the serious work of the tournament should begin.
“Yes.” Margaret spoke emphatically. She paused, and then said rather shyly, “I should not have been very happy about it all, though, if it had not been for the talk I had with you last night. Oh! I was worried about that rumour of your depending on helps that are not right for your work. I think I should have fainted, when you made your affirmation, if I had known that there was anything not right about it.”
“I do not expect you would have swooned, however badly you might have felt.” Dorothy’s tone was rather grim as she spoke, for she was thinking of Rhoda. “It is astonishing what we can bear when hard things really come upon us.”
“Perhaps so. Anyhow, I am very glad it was all right,” Margaret sighed happily, and slid her arm in Dorothy’s. “I even had a big struggle with myself when Rhoda Fleming stood up to affirm, and I forgave her again from the bottom of my heart for every snub she has ever handed out to me, for it seemed as if it would make her record sweeter if I did that.”
“I wish I were as good as you.” Dorothy’s tone was a little conscience stricken. There had been no desire in her heart to have Rhoda clean enough to affirm; she had been merely conscious of a great amazement at the girl’s audacity and callousness.
“Oh, rot, I am not good!” jerked out Margaret brusquely; and then, Sixth Form girl though she was, she challenged Dorothy to race to the nets.
It was a neck-and-neck struggle, and the victor was nearly squashed at the goal by the vanquished falling on to her, and they helped each other up, laughing at the figures they must have cut, and the loss of hard-won dignity involved.
It was Dorothy who won, but that was only because she had a longer stride. She knew this right well, and Margaret knew it too.