Augusta was somewhat loth to leave her pillow in the morning, after the night’s unusual dissipation, and was still more reluctant to encounter her lessons and Mrs. Broadbent; and she for the first time remarked to Cicily that she thought she was “quite too old to go to school.” As if the world was not one huge school, wherein the dunces get punished most severely, and even the best and brightest do not escape the rod. But Augusta Ashton, buoyant, blooming, cherished, admired, adored, could not see that her real schooling would begin when Madame Broadbent’s reign ceased.
No doubt Mr. Ashton would have been coaxed into granting an extension of his darling daughter’s Easter holiday, and suffered her to remain at home that Thursday morning, but he was at Whaley-Bridge; and mamma met her request with:—
“No, my dear, you have had quite holiday enough. It would be setting a bad example to infringe Madame Broadbent’s rules. Go, my dear, and go cheerfully. I will send Cicily for you at noon. The streets will be rather rough this week.”
She went, though not cheerfully, and Cicily was duly despatched to bring her home; but neither Cicily nor Miss Ashton had returned when dinner was put upon the table at half-past twelve o’clock. Then Mrs. Ashton recalled her own words respecting the rough streets, and the insult offered as unwelcome tribute to Augusta’s beauty over-night; and, though by no means a nervous woman, the mother grew restless and apprehensive—a lovely daughter who is an only child is so very anxious a charge. As she sat down to her solitary meal, another thought crossed her mind.
“James, ask Mr. Clegg to oblige me by stepping this way.”
Mr. Clegg was with her in an instant: the summons was unusual.
“Jabez, I’ll thank you to ascertain why Miss Ashton has not returned from school at the usual time. Cicily has been gone almost an hour. Should Madame be keeping her in for any breach of etiquette last night, pray offer an apology for me and my daughter also, but at the same time politely insist on Miss Ashton’s immediate return to dinner.”
“I believe I owe Madame Broadbent an apology myself,” answered Jabez, smiling. “I shall be glad of an opportunity to discharge the debt.”
The school-room door was midway down the dark, narrow, arched entry. Groups of girls, with slates and bags in their hands, loitering on the pathway at the entrance and in the passage, made way for him, with curious looks and whispers among themselves (Jabez was not unknown to some of the senior pupils). The school-room door stood ajar: the whole place was in a commotion unprecedented in that precise establishment.