“What did I tell you, my dear!” said Aunt Annie. To refrain from that observation would have been superhuman. But the observation duly made, the old lady also revealed the divine gift of common sense. From all that she had heard the establishment of the Misses Lippincott was immensely desirable. Moreover, she clearly remembered the Bishop, their late father, coming to spend the week-end at the real Bowley, and hearing him preach a singularly moving sermon in the little parish church. Small wonder, then, that the tone of Broadwood House Academy was “exactly right” in every human particular; besides, Aunt Annie had met and approved Miss Priscilla Lippincott on two occasions. Therefore, the old lady promised Aunty Harriet that she herself would see what could be done in the matter.
The first thing Aunt Annie did was to induce the Mayoress, Mrs. Alderman Bradbury, to say a word on the child’s behalf. She promptly followed up this piece of strategy by ordering her state chariot to drive Mistress Mary and herself to Broadwood House Academy.
The child was looking her best. Her carefully-brushed tresses shone like woven sunbeams, her slight, trim form was clothed with taste and elegance, her laughing eyes were frankly unabashed by the demure Miss Priscilla, nay, even by the august Miss Lippincott herself. The effect she made was entirely favorable. Besides, the Mayoress had taken the trouble to call the previous afternoon in order to speak for her, and Miss Sanderson, as the Misses Lippincott knew, was looked up to in Laxton; therefore, out of regard for all the circumstances, a point was waived and little Miss Kelly was reluctantly admitted to Broadwood House Academy.
VI
The Misses Lippincott never had cause to rue their temerity. Little Miss Kelly remained in their care until she was big Miss Kelly, a brilliant and dashing creature with a quite extraordinary length of black stocking. Neither Miss Lippincott nor Miss Priscilla ever regretted her democratic action. In fact, it was a source of jealous remark, even among the most distinguished scholars of Broadwood House Academy, that not one of them could wear the black beaver hat with the purple ribbon and its gold monogram B. H. A., or the blue ulster with gilt buttons, in quite the way that these modish emblems were worn by Mary Kelly.
It greatly annoyed Ethel Cliffe, who lived in The Park, and was a daughter of Sir Joseph, three times Mayor of Laxton, that in looks and popularity she had to yield to the offspring of very much humbler parents, who lived in quite an obscure part of the borough. But it had to be. Year by year the cuckoo that had entered the nest grew in beauty and favor, while the legitimate denizens of Broadwood House could only bite their lips and marvel. In the opinion of Ethel Cliffe and her peers, old Dame Nature must be a perfect idiot not to know her business a bit better.
It was not that Mary Kelly made enemies. Her disposition was open, free, and fearless; her heart was gold. Then, too, in most things, she was amazingly quick. She never made any bones about reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, and so on, she was good at freehand drawing, and the use of the globes, in Swedish drill and ball games, particularly at hockey, she was wonderful, and in music and dancing there was none in the school to compare with her. The only things in which she did not really excel were plain needlework and religious knowledge. These bored her to tears—except that she proudly reserved her tears for matters which seemed of more consequence.
As Mary Kelly’s stockings got longer and longer the supremacy of Ethel Cliffe grew even less secure. Even at Broadwood House Academy it was impossible to subsist entirely on your social eminence. Ethel had openly sneered at the outsider upon her first intrusion in the fold; the only daughter of a very recent knight found it hard to breathe the same air as the offspring of a humble police constable. But Dame Nature, in her ignorant way, bungled the whole thing so miserably, that while Ethel was always very near the bottom of the class, Mary was generally at the top of it; Ethel was heavy and humorless, and inclined to take refuge in her dignity, Mary was bon enfant, with very little in the way of dignity in which to take refuge. And in proof of that, a story was told of her, soon after she passed the age of ten, which ran like wildfire throughout Broadwood House Academy.
It seemed that in the vicinity of Mary’s undistinguished home were certain rude boys. Foremost among them was Mrs. Connor’s Michael, the youngest and not the least vocal of her numerous progeny. And it often happened that Michael was en route from his own seat of learning, where manners did not appear to be in the curriculum, when Mistress Mary was on the way home from Broadwood House Academy, where manners undoubtedly were. In the opinion of Michael’s mother the Connors were quite as good as the Kellys—very much better if it came to that!—and this tradition had been freely imbibed by her youngest hope. The Connors were quite as good as the Kellys, Michael was always careful to inform his peers, but the haughty beauty of Beaconsfield Villas, in her beaver hat and blue ulster with gilt buttons did not share that view. She had simply not so much as a look for Michael and his friends. This aloofness galled them bitterly.
Had she only known such aristocratic indifference was rather cruel. For Michael’s one distinction among his mates, apart from his skill as a marble-player, which was very considerable, was that he lived in the same street as Miss Kelly. She was out and away the most wonderful creature ever seen in that part of Laxton. It was hard to forgive her for carrying her head in the way she did, yet it somehow added still greater piquancy to a personality that simply haunted the manly bosoms of the neighborhood. But her aloofness was felt to be such a reflection upon Michael himself, that at last that warrior was moved to a desperate course.