'"That's my good child," said mamma, patting my head approvingly. "And remember, there are always the holidays to look forward to. How you will enjoy them!"
'But the holidays seemed too far off for me to have much pleasure as yet in looking forward to them; and I crept away, in extremely low spirits, to tell Oliver of the fate that was in store for me.
'I need not tell minutely of all the days which followed before the time of my departure arrived. They seemed to me to be few enough, and to fly past with a rapidity that was quite dreadful. I spent most of them in visiting all my favourite spots in the park and garden—in saying good-bye to everybody, high and low, around Horsemandown—and in giving Oliver minute directions as to the health and treatment of my many pets. I will leave you to imagine my farewells, and take up my story six months after my arrival at that dreaded school, where happened all the adventures which make my history worth hearing.'
CHAPTER III.
LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY (CONTINUED).
The Maids of Taunton.
Madame St. Aubert's young ladies were in the schoolroom one bright June morning, putting away books, inkstands, samplers, etc., with great energy and despatch; for both the clock of the old parish church, and the sun-dial on the terrace walk beneath the schoolroom windows, announced that morning lesson hours were over. That hour of freedom before dinner-time was always eagerly welcomed by us. But it had been longed for even more than usual this morning, for there was something new to be talked over amongst us to-day,—something which, in our opinion, was exciting and mysterious to a very high degree. In the first place, Madame St. Aubert had been called out of the room in the middle of a French lesson by one of the maids, and we were sure that some extremely interesting piece of news must have been imparted to her outside the door; for we could hear her exclamations of surprise and (as we fancied) alarm quite distinctly at first, though afterwards they sank into a much lower key. Then a buzz of voices was heard on the stairs: the quick, decided tones of our old vicar, Dr. Power, and the rather shrill and plaintive ones of little Monsieur Guillemard, from whom Madame St. Aubert's young ladies learned the gavotte, coranto, and many other stiff, elaborate dances that were fashionable at the court in those days. This was not the time for Monsieur Guillemard's lesson, nor was Dr. Power in the habit of calling so early. Something out of the common way must, doubtless, have happened; and there were we, obliged to sit demurely at our desks, with closed lips, only able to exchange eager glances of curiosity, and listen with straining ears to the subdued murmur on the staircase. Pauline, Madame St. Aubert's daughter, and Mrs. Fortescue, a lady next in command to Madame herself, were evidently no less curious than we were; for the former opened her black eyes very wide indeed, and arched her eyebrows significantly; while the latter frowned, bit her lips, and took up the French lesson where Madame had broken off, raising her voice meanwhile, and pretending not to hear the buzz outside the door, though she could not help casting from time to time an anxious glance in that direction. Presently Madame St. Aubert came back, looking much flushed and excited, but she only remarked to her daughter something about Dr. Power having wished to wait upon her for a few moments; and then the morning studies went on in their usual course, without further interruption. You will not wonder after this, that scarcely a third of the usual time was spent in putting the schoolroom in order. When this task was accomplished at last, we poured out into the garden, and settled down like a flock of sparrows on the soft turf under the lime tree; for the sun was very hot that morning, and the pleasantest spot in the garden was beneath the shade of those widely-spreading, pale green branches. A most unusual thing it was to have anything approaching to an event about which to puzzle our curious brains; for time used to go on very monotonously at Madame St. Aubert's,—monotonously, but at the same time not in the least slowly or heavily. There were too many of us, and we were too busy all day to be dull. Nevertheless, we were quite ready to catch at any fresh little piece of excitement that chanced to break in upon the sameness of the day. So there we sat, under the lime tree, and discussed the mystery, as we called it, of the morning. But though we chattered to our hearts' content, no conclusion could be reached concerning it. There was something against every suggestion offered. Agnes Blount thought that Madame must have heard of the death of some of her French relations; but if so, why should she only look excited and startled—not in the least melancholy or tearful? And Madames' tears were well known to be ready, and abundant, too, on the smallest possible occasion. Lucy Fordyce was of opinion that she might have lost some large sum of money,—perhaps all her fortune,—and that Dr. Power had come to break the news to her. There was the same objection, however, to this as to Agnes's idea about the French relations. Besides, Monsieur Guillemard was not a likely person to bring tidings of such a misfortune. Bessie Davenant was sure that the King must be dead; but this notion was instantly scouted as more improbable than any, for Madame would of course have proclaimed that piece of news on the spot, and ordered us to impress the date of such an important historical fact on our minds, as she had done when King Charles died, four months since—February 6th 1685. I never forgot that date to the last day of my life. How I longed to prompt Robin when Miss Gregory asked him one day on the stairs to tell her when King Charles II. died, and he couldn't answer! Well! we were still making conjectures, each one more wild and improbable than the last, when Pauline St. Aubert was seen tripping down the steps of the terrace. Now, Pauline was a great favourite among her pupils, especially the elder girls, some of whom were but little younger than herself; and as she was the very essence of good nature, and had never been known to keep a secret for more than half an hour at the utmost, we no sooner caught sight of her trim, graceful little figure approaching the lime tree, than we felt sure that the news, whatever it might be, was already ours.
'"Pauline! Pauline! The person above all others that we wanted!" cried Bessie Davenant, one of the bosom friends who were allowed to call Mademoiselle St. Aubert by her Christian name. Only three of us enjoyed that privilege, and these were Henrietta Sidney, Bessie Davenant, and Eleanor Page. We younger ones only ventured upon "Mademoiselle!" In a moment we were all upon our feet and gathered round Pauline; but, to our dismay, she had nothing to tell us, after all. Not that she had been seized with a sudden fit of discretion, but she was evidently perfectly ignorant of the matter, and quite as curious and as much perplexed about it as we were ourselves.
'"Indeed I am not a whit wiser than the rest of you," she said, laughing. "Mamma has not taken me into her confidence, I assure you. I did just venture to ask her whether it was ill news that had brought Dr. Power so early in the day, but she only chid me for being curious about what was no business of mine, and said that Dr. Power had come to take counsel with her on some matter that needed not my help."
'"How very strange!" cried Bessie, much aggrieved and disappointed. "But something is going on, Pauline. There can be no doubt about that, and I shall never rest till we have found out what it is."