CHAPTER XVII
INTO THE LION'S MOUTH
The Lower Fifth was deep in its preparation when Gerry entered the classroom. One or two heads were raised at her entrance, but nobody paid much regard to her as she walked across the room to her desk, which was in the front row. The Lower Fifth was trusted to do its preparation without a mistress's supervision, and, as a rule, this plan worked well enough. There was a certain amount of talking at times, it is true, but not a very great deal, and the little there was did not take place in general until all the more serious work of preparation had been accomplished. To-night the class was in the throes of a stiff bit of translation for Mademoiselle, and nobody felt inclined to break the silence.
Gerry reached her desk, but she did not sit down in it. She hesitated, then opened the desk and took out some books. Still she did not sit down, and once or twice she glanced nervously around the room, as though she were about to speak. But each time her courage failed her.
Her uneasiness communicated itself at length to her next-door neighbour, Margaret Taylor, who, finding the translation more difficult than she had expected, was inclined to be grumpy.
"I wish to goodness you'd sit down, Gerry Wilmott, and not keep fidgeting about like that. You're in my light, and goodness knows this beastly translation is hard enough without having to do it in the dark into the bargain," she snapped.
"I'm sorry," said Gerry. Then, having found her tongue at last, she plunged at once into what she had to say, fearing lest she would never find courage to say it at all if she let this opportunity slip.
"I want to say," she began, "that I'm—I'm awfully sorry, but I'm not going on with the strike any longer."
It was out at last! And Gerry waited in trembling expectation for the storm to burst. It was some while in coming, for the Lower Fifth did not take in quite what she was saying at first.
"What on earth do you mean?" asked Dorothy Pemberton, looking up from her exercise with knitted brows.
"I—I mean the strike about not doing Miss Burton's work," stammered Gerry.
"Well—what about it?" asked Phyllis Tressider menacingly.
"Only that—that I can't go on with it. I—I don't think it's quite fair to Miss Burton," said Gerry, finding the task even harder than she had imagined it would be.
"Do you mean to say that you're not going to stick in with the rest of us—that you are going to back out and do her work? Surely you're not going to be a traitor to the form like that?" cried Dorothy.
Poor Gerry looked acutely miserable. She felt Jack's reproachful eyes upon her, and she knew that if she persisted in her present attitude the friendship which was so precious to her, and which seemed at last to be within her grasp, would be dreadfully endangered. For a moment she felt that she could not go on. Why should she give up everything—Jack's friendship, the good opinion of the girls, the happiness of the last few days, and allow herself to be branded as a hopeless prig—all for the sake of a mistress who had shown her nothing but injustice? Then the memory of the red eyes behind Miss Burton's spectacles, the abject misery of the mistress's attitude when she had opened the door of the room, came back to Gerry's mind. Perhaps one girl couldn't do very much towards making things better for the unpopular mistress, but she could at least refrain from making things worse. The words Muriel had said to her in the passage about the hardest way being nearly always the right one, rang in Gerry's ears. There was no doubt in Gerry's mind as to which was the hardest way! For all her timidity Gerry had a curious moral courage of her own, and it seemed to her now that it would be the height of cowardice to give in just to gain the good opinion of her form-mates. A moment more she hesitated while she met Jack's astonished, reproachful gaze. Then conscience triumphed over even that unutterable longing for Jack's friendship.
"I don't want to be a traitor to the form," she said in a low voice, yet clear and distinct enough for all to hear. "But all the same, I can't go on with the strike. I was in Miss Burton's room just now and she had been crying, and I'm sure it was all about us. Whatever the rest of you are going to do, I, for one, shall do Miss Burton's preparation."
"But why, why, why?" cried Jack, starting up impetuously and coming over to Gerry's side. "Don't be a priggish little donkey, Gerry," she added, not unkindly. "You can't stick out when all the rest of us are in it. Hang on a little bit longer. We'll come out top of this struggle, you just see if we don't!"
"I'm sorry," repeated Gerry miserably, "but I can't, Jack. It—it isn't fair to Miss Burton."
"But who wants to be fair to her?" cried Jack impatiently. "Was she fair to you the other morning when she accused you of whispering in class and stuck you in the corner like a baby? Was she fair over taking that chestnut business up to the Head? Don't be a silly little fool, Gerry. Chuck your lot in with the rest of us, and let's get rid of this rotten mistress if we can."
"I'm sorry, Jack, but—but I can't," said Gerry again.
"Oh, Gerry, you can——" began Jack remonstratingly. But Dorothy Pemberton broke in upon her persuasions with an impatient exclamation.
"Oh, let German Gerry alone!" she said cuttingly. "Of course she won't stick in with us! She's far too much of a sneak, and far too much of a coward to risk a row with Miss Oakley. What's the good of arguing with a coward!"
"Look here, if we're not all going to be in it, I'm coming out too," exclaimed Hilda Burns suddenly. "It was all very well striking when we were all hanging together, but it's quite a different thing if some of them are going to back out. You can take me off the list of strikers too."
"Are you going to be a coward as well?" said Dorothy sneeringly. But it was too late. The defection started by Gerry spread rapidly. Since the morning, the strike, which had at first seemed to be merely a more or less harmless rag, had begun to appear in its right light, and the hearts of the Lower Fifth were no longer in the business. Several members of the form were glad to find an excuse for backing out of their contract, and soon some nine or ten of the girls had retracted their vows of defiance.
"Oh, well, of course, if you're all going to funk it, it's no good going on with it at all," said Dorothy sulkily. "We've all got to hang together or, of course, it's no use. I should have thought you'd have been ashamed to follow the example of a German Gerry, though!" she added, with biting sarcasm, as she cast a look of malevolence at Gerry.
Then her eyes fell upon Jack, who was still lingering hesitatingly by Gerry's desk, and the sight spurred her on to make one more spiteful thrust at Gerry.
"There's one thing, Gerry Wilmott, you may as well understand right away. You're not going to gain anything by what you've done to-night. You may have broken our strike,—no strike can stand out against a blackleg,—but all the same, you'll wish you'd stayed in with us before you've finished. I don't know what those rabbits are going to do," with a contemptuous glance towards Hilda and the other girls who had seceded, "but I think I can answer for the rest of the form all right. No decent girl in the Lower Fifth will ever speak to you again, if they can help it."
She turned to Jack.
"Surely you won't have anything more to do with such a rotten coward, Jack?" she said contemptuously.
Jack looked down at Gerry. But Gerry's eyes were fixed miserably upon her desk, and she did not see the questioning look upon the face of the girl with whom she most longed to be friends. And while Jack still lingered, Phyllis Tressider clinched matters.
"She's not only a coward—she's a sneak as well!" she said, glad to see her enemy in such disgrace again. "I bet she let those chestnuts drop out of her pocket yesterday on purpose to get you and Nita into a row."
"Oh, Phyllis, I didn't! Jack, it isn't true; I didn't do it on purpose!" cried Gerry, dismayed at such a motive being attributed to her.
But the shaft had gone home. Against her own better judgment, Jack had felt all along that Gerry had been unnecessarily careless over that chestnut affair. In her heart of hearts she had not been able to help blaming her a little for the row that had followed. And now Phyllis's unjust accusation went home to roost. Jack's better moment, in which she had been half-inclined to stand by Gerry, passed. Dorothy's taunts and jeers and Phyllis's malicious suggestions achieved their end. No, of course she couldn't be friends with a girl who was a coward and a sneak! And all unaware of the tremendous courage it had needed for Gerry to make her stand, Jack turned away and went back to her own desk.
And so the momentary break in Gerry's sky was over. The clouds were back again, as thick as they were before—thicker this time, if possible!
Truly, some ill-luck seemed to dog the steps of the unfortunate occupant of Cubicle Thirteen!