“I think she is afraid of you.” Margaret spoke slowly, and she turned her head a little so that her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, instead of on her companion’s face. “It is possible she thinks you know something about her that is not to her credit, and she is fearing you will talk about it, so she thinks it is wise to be first at the character-wrecking business. You had better have as little to do with her as you decently can.”
“Trust me for that; but even avoiding her does not seem very effectual in stopping her from spreading slanders,” Dorothy said with a wry smile.
“Fires die out that are not tended,” replied Margaret with a great air of wisdom. “There goes the bell. Well, I am not sorry the evening is over because of my beastly headache. I hope you have had a nice time?”
“Yes—no,” said Dorothy, and then would say no more.
CHAPTER VII
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.