That little impudent thing with the turn-up nose is a Miss St. Ledger. Her pa is a city alderman, and a great patron of Mrs. Rodwell. Meggy calls her "Piggy," because she is always stuffing—hiding in the closets and the box-room, to eat by herself, the things she smuggles into the college. Whenever you meet her in the passages, she cannot speak—her cheeks are crammed so full of goodies. They tell a story against her about the drawing-room piano. It was terribly out of tune, and upon examination was found to be full of orange-peel and peach-stones. The supposition is that Miss St. Ledger had taken the peaches and oranges up with her to be able to eat them on the sly when she was practising, and, being suddenly disturbed, had thrown them inside the lid of the grand piano, so as not to be detected. This greedy girl is extremely rich, and she is always boasting that her papa could buy up a whole street of such poor creatures as Noble and Peacock, who she says, have nothing but debts for a fortune, and a title to pay them of with. At the same time, she flatters them, and tries all she can to get friendly with them; but they only snub her the more. But, Nelly, she dresses so beautifully, always in silks, and her pocket-handkerchiefs are as fine as muslin, and, I'm speaking the truth, trimmed with real Valenciennes! They give you a fever to finger them. Then she has boxes upon boxes full of the most lovely ribbons and belts; whilst Madame La Vautrien makes her bonnets, and charges three guineas apiece for them! But, in spite of all her finery, she is the meanest girl in the school—so stingy and greedy, always borrowing, and never lending—never sharing, never helping any one. I do not like her a bit—nasty, disagreeable thing! if she did not go and pry into my boxes; and I heard her telling the girls "all was cheap and common—only one silk dress, and that a turned one of mamma's." The lady principal is very fond of her (her money, more likely), and is always sending her into the drawing-room to practise (though she can't play a bit), because she is so fat and fine, and has hot-house grapes sent to her.
Miss Plodder is another favorite. She is the "Good Girl." Her nickname is "Preterpluperfect." Poor girl, her face makes you sad to look at it! It seems full of tasks and forfeits. Her fingers are always inky, and her hand is so cold that touching it is as unpleasant as the tearing of silk. My blood runs cold merely to think of it. She never plays or laughs, but is always thumbing her lessons, though what she does with her learning no one can tell, for she is never "up" in class, and is always sent "down" at examinations.
How different is dear Lucy Wilde! She seems to know everything without looking at a book. It comes as naturally to her as eating. Ah! she is clever. The professors pay her such compliments before all the school, and the governesses are afraid of her. The lady principal, however, cannot bear Lucy, because she is idle, and up to fun. She tries to keep her down; but Lucy is like a cork in a pail, she is sure to come to the top again. The more she is pushed under, the more she rises. With all her mad-cap tricks, she is always at the head of the class. How she learns no one can tell, for she is never seen with a book. Meggy says it comes to her in her sleep. Professor Drudge told us last week that if Lucy could only be tamed into studying she could do anything, and I believe it. She writes verses, too—little satirical poems on the mistresses, and Peacock and Noble; and sent off on Tuesday the most beautiful Valentine I think I ever read.
But, Nelly, it is Amy Darling you would love best—a bright, pleasant girl, all sunshine, except when she cries, and she cries immediately any one is hurt. We all run to Amy directly we are in trouble. She is like a young mother to us, and treats us with such tenderness that it is almost a pleasure to be in trouble to be comforted by Amy. She consoles one so beautifully; and I'm sure, if our puddings were taken away, we should miss them far less than the absence of dearest Amy. You should see how the little girls crowd round her in the play hours, and pull her about. She romps with them with the greatest good-humor, and never tires in teaching the little things some new game. She was in bed for three days once, and one would have imagined there was a death in the house; but when she recovered, we made so much noise that the lady principal came down from her boudoir to inquire what was the matter. It's strange! She is not clever, nor altogether pretty, nor even professional (her papa's a coachmaker), and yet, somehow, notwithstanding these tremendous drawbacks, she is the favorite of all the school. Even the masters and schoolmistresses cannot help giving the preference to Amy. Professor Drudge himself, who seems to love nothing in the world but his snuff-box, pats her occasionally on the head, bestowing on her at the same time a grim snuffy smile, that he accords to no one else. She is such a dear, dear love! so sweet—so full of joy and sympathy—that I really believe, Nelly, she was intended for an angel, and was only made a school-girl by mistake. Her sweetness is best shown by the fact that Peacock and Noble never give themselves airs to her, though her father is but a coachmaker. She would shame them out of their vulgarity without retorting a harsh word, and make them blush (if that was possible) by merely reproaching them kindly. It is a wonder for a school, where there are so many girls, that not one of them is jealous of Amy. Such a thing would appear unnatural. It would be like being jealous of your mother, or of a nurse who had tended you through a long illness. We are too grateful to be jealous; for there is not a girl in the school, big or little, but who has some cause to be grateful to her. The little girls she protects, and saves them from being bullied; and the big ones she advises when they are in a mess, besides helping them through their tasks. She is the protectress that all fly to—the peacemaker that all abide by (even those in the wrong); and the general confidante of us all, the poor mistresses included. Meggy calls her our "Sister Confessor;" and really it is terrible to think of the heap of secrets that must be piled up, as high as the boxes on a Margate steamer, upon her honor. When you think, Nelly, it is as much as we can do to keep one secret, I wonder how Amy can breathe with such a load upon her breast! Yet she carries it all as lightly as a fairy does her wand.
Meggy says, "poor Mary Owen is in pawn to Mrs. Rodwell," which means that she has been left as security for a debt, as hopeless as any national one.
Years ago (so Meggy tells me) Mary's father—a captain in the army—left her at school, with directions that she was to learn everything, and no expense spared in her education. With the exception of one or two small remittances, nothing has been heard of her father since. Year after year, Mary grows paler and more sad, with not a friend in the world to cling to, but dearest Amy, who treats her more like a sister than anything else, being always by her side, as something told her that if the poor girl hadn't a crutch of some sort to lean upon she would assuredly fall to the ground. The lady principal has lost all hope of Mary being ever claimed, or (worse still) of her bill being ever paid. This makes Mary's position all the more melancholy, for she is pointed to as a kind of living monument to the cardinal virtues of the schoolmistress who keeps her. If there is a little sermon on charity or benevolence, Mary is always chosen as its text. Whenever there is a lecture read about ingratitude, poor Mary is always brought forward as the disgraceful illustration of it. It is the same with dishonesty, taradiddles, fibbing, and the entire category of school vices—Mary serves as the example of them all. It would seem as if the poor girl was kept as a "terrible warning" to the college; and I'm sure in this capacity alone, that her bill has been paid more than twenty times over. It is sad to watch the poor girl while she's being thus publicly pointed at before her school-fellows. She never says a word, nor attempts to defend herself. She sits quietly in her seat, her face growing paler, and her head falling lower with each blow of her accuser; and if you saw her heavy, tearless eye, Nelly, and her lips quite colorless, as I have seen them, you would pity her with all your heart, and long to go up and kiss her, and tell her not to mind it. Often and often have I felt inclined to call out and beg of Mrs. Rodwell to stop such cruelty; but fear has pinched my lips, and I have caught myself crying, and I defy any one to help it. But I don't mean to say that Mrs. Rodwell ill-treats Mary, or is positively unkind, or lifts her hand against her; but she is always taunting her with her misfortune in so sharp a manner, that I would sooner by far be beat outright, or be sent away at once. It is one unceasing tyranny of little petty trifles all day long (a tyranny of pins and needles, Meggy calls it), which I call most cowardly for a woman like Mrs. Rodwell (though she has lost her money) to use against a poor girl who cannot defend herself: just as if Mary wouldn't pay if she could! On such occasions, Amy is kinder to her than ever, and struggles, by dint of affection, and by trying to lead her into play, to make her forget the harshness she has experienced during school hours. I'm not certain that she succeeds very well. Mary tries, in grateful return for so much kindness, to smile and to play; but it isn't smiling nor playing, Nelly; it's working, and hard working at it.
Her dress is the funniest thing you ever saw. When I, say funny, I do not mean it makes you laugh—far from it—but that it is extremely odd and peculiar. At first, Mary used to wear the cast-off things of two Indian girls, who are here and never go home; but since she has grown tall she is packed up in Mrs. R.'s old trumpery finery, and flits about like a thin shadow of what the lady principal was six months previously. No one, however, is cruel enough to quiz Mary. Her sorrow throws a sacred protection over her that is better than any shield, and even Miss St. Ledger (with her pert turn-up nose) forgets the sharpness of her tongue in her presence. Amy, besides, wouldn't allow any one to slight her. They tell me, Nelly, that when "breaking-up day" comes round, and all are skipping about in the wild joy of being fetched home, poor Mary sits silently apart, shunning everybody—avoiding the windows where all the girls are heaped together, watching the arrival of the carriages; and that she almost runs away from dear Amy's caresses, rejecting her loving endeavors to cheer her, as if they were a source of pain to her. Dear Amy always stops the last with her; but, when it comes to her turn to go away, then poor Mary flings herself round her devoted friend's neck, and bursts into one long flood of tears, as if her heart was breaking. May we never know such grief as that, Nelly! Only think, dearest, how cheerless must the holidays be to the poor homeless girl! The reassembling of school, which school-girls dread so much, must come back to her with all the delight of holidays to us.
Once Amy asked for Mary to go home with her, but the lady principal objected to it. It would take too much money and trouble to "get her up." Amy said she should wear her things; but Mrs. Rodwell still objected. She was afraid (Meggy says) to "trust the security of her debt out of sight!" Poor Mary has never left the Princesses' College now for four years, except at such times when she has been out walking with the school!
This is very sad and terrible, Nelly, and we ought to think ourselves very fortunate, that we have such good papas and mammas, and that our positions in life are very different from that of poor Mary Owen! But I have written myself quite miserable, and you too, I am afraid, Nelly; so no more at present, dear, from
Your little stupid
KITTY CLOVER.