“That’s my brave girl! I knew you would be no coward.”
Harold watched his sister with mingled pity and amusement.
“They’ll take it out of her! They’ll take it out of her! Poor little Ro! Won’t she hate it, and won’t it do her good!” he said to himself, shrewdly. “And, after the first, I shouldn’t wonder if she became a prime favourite!”
Rhoda seated herself on a crimson plush chair, and folded her hands on her knees, in an attitude of expectation. She was an impetuous young person, and could brook no delay when once her interest was aroused. School having been mentioned as a possibility of the future, it became imperative to settle the matter off-hand.
Which school? When? Who would take her? What would she have to buy? What were the rules? When were the holidays? How long would they be? Where would she spend them?—One question succeeded another in breathless succession, making Mr Chester smile with indulgent amusement.
“My dear child, how can I tell? So far it is only a suggestion. Nothing is settled. We have not even thought of one school before another—”
“If she goes at all, I should like her to go to Miss Moorby’s, at Bournemouth,” said Mrs Chester quickly. “She only takes ten girls, and I’m told it is just like a home—hot bottles in all the beds, and beef-tea at eleven—”
“Mother!” cried Rhoda, in a tone of deep reproach. Her eyes flashed, and she drew herself up proudly. “No, indeed! If I go at all, I will do the thing properly, and go to a real school, and not a hot-house. I don’t want their old beef-tea and bottles. I want to go to a nice, big, sporty school, where they treat you like boys, and not young ladies, and put you on your honour, and don’t bind you down by a hundred sickening little rules. I want to go to,”—she drew a long breath, and glanced at her mother, as if bracing herself to meet opposition—“to Hurst Manor! There! I’ve read about it in magazines, and Ella Mason had a cousin who had been there, and she said it was—simply mag.! She was Head Girl, and ruled the house, and came out first in the games, and she said she never had such sport in her life, and found the holidays quite fearfully flat and stale in comparison.”
“You don’t become Head Girl all at once,” interposed Harold, drily; while Mrs Chester gave another sob at the idea that home could ever be looked upon in so sad a light.
“Hurst Manor?” she repeated vaguely. “That’s a strange name. I never heard of the place before. What do you know about it that makes you want to go, darling? Are you quite sure it is nice, and what is the Head Mistress like, and how many young la— girls does she take? Not too many, I hope, for I can’t see how they can be properly looked after when there are more than twenty or thirty. I’ve heard terrible stories of delicacy for life arising from neglect. You remember poor, dear Evie Vane! Her glands swelled, and nobody noticed, and—”