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Tom and Some Other Girls: A Public School Story

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<h3>Chapter Seventeen.</h3> <h4>Failed!</h4> First Class, Second Class, and still no sign of the familiar number. Third Class—it was not there! Rhoda gave a little gulp, and began again from the very beginning. She had been too quick, too eager. It was so easy to miss a number. One by one she conned them over, but it was not there. The long Pass List lay below, and she looked at it with dreary indifference. To scramble through with the rabble was a sorry attainment, or it seemed so for one moment, but at the next it became, suddenly, a wild, impossible dream, for—the number was not there! No fear of overlooking this time, for the figures stood out as if printed in fire, and burned themselves into her brain. The number was not in the First Class, nor the Second, nor the Third; it was not in the Pass List, it was not mentioned at all. If she had ever permitted herself to anticipate such a situation, which she had not, Rhoda would have pictured herself flying into a paroxysm of despair; but in reality she felt icy cold, and it was in a tone almost of indifference that she announced: “I am plucked! I have not passed at all.” “Never mind, dear; you did your best, and the work matters more than the result. Very uncertain tests, these examinations—I never cared about them,” said her father kindly, and Mrs Chester smiled in her usual placid fashion, and murmured, “Oh, I expect it’s a mistake. It’s so easy to make a mistake in printing figures. You will find it is all right, darling, later on. Have some jam!” They were absolutely placid; absolutely calm; absolutely unconscious of the storm of emotion raging beneath that quiet exterior; but Harold glanced at his sister with the handsome eyes which looked so sleepy, but which were in reality so remarkably wide-awake, and said slowly: “I think Rhoda has finished, mother. You don’t want any jam, do you, Ro? Come into the garden with me instead. I want a stroll.” He walked out through the French window, and Rhoda followed with much the same feeling of relief as that with which a captive escapes from the prison which seems to be on the point of suffocating him, mentally and physically. Brother and sister paced in silence down the path leading to the rose garden. Harold was full of sympathy, but, man-like, found it difficult to put his thoughts into words, and Rhoda, after all, was the first to speak. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the path, and confronted him with shining eyes. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “Harold, I—have—failed! I am plucked. I have not passed at all—not even a common pass.” “No? I’m uncommonly sorry, but—” “But do you realise it; do you understand what it means? I think I do, but I don’t. If I did, I should not be here talking quietly to you. I should go mad! I should want to kill myself. I should be desperate!” “Don’t be silly now, Ro. It’s a big disappointment, and I’m sorry for you, but it’s not a bit of use working yourself into hysterics. Face the thing quietly, and see—” “All that it means—. It means a good deal, Harold; more than you can understand. I think I’d rather be alone, please. You are very kind, but I can’t stand consolation just yet. I’ll sit in the arbour.” “Just as you please. I don’t want to force myself, but I’d like to help you, old girl. Is there nothing else I can do?” “Yes; keep mother away! Don’t let her come near me until lunch. I am best left alone, and she doesn’t understand—no one understands except those who have been at school, and know how—how hard—” The girl’s voice trembled, and broke off suddenly, and she walked away in the direction of the summer-house, while Harold thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked the pebbles on the gravel path. He was very fond of his impetuous young sister, and the quivering sob which had strangled her last word echoed painfully in his ears. He realised as neither father nor mother could do what such a failure meant to a proud, ambitious girl, and how far-reaching would be its consequences. It was not to-day nor to-morrow that would exhaust this trouble; the bitterest part was yet to come when she returned to school, and received the condolences of her more successful companions; when she sat apart and saw them receive their reward. Harold longed to be able to help, but there was nothing to do but persuade his parents to leave the girl alone, and to return at intervals to satisfy himself that she was still in her retreat, and not attempting to drown her sorrows in the lake. Three times over he paced the path, and saw the white-robed figure sitting immovable, with elbows planted on the table, and falling locks hiding the face from view. So still she sat that he retired silently, hoping that she had fallen asleep, but on the fourth visit he was no longer alone, but accompanied by a graceful, girlish figure, and they did not halt until they stood on the very threshold of the arbour itself. “Rhoda!” he cried, then, “look up! I have brought someone to you. Someone you will be glad to see.” The flaxen mane was tossed back, and a flushed face raised in protest. “I don’t—” began Rhoda, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and stretched out her arms. “Oh, Evie—Evie! You have come. Oh, I wanted you—I wanted you so badly!” Miss Everett stepped forward and drew the girl to her side, and Harold waited just long enough to see the fair head and the dark nestle together, and then took himself off to the house, satisfied that comfort had come at last. “I have failed, Evie!” cried Rhoda, clasping her friend’s hands, and staring at her with the same expression of incredulous horror with which she had confronted her brother a couple of hours earlier. “Yes, darling. I know.” “And what are you going to say to me, then?” “Nothing, I think, for the moment, but that I love you dearly, and felt that I must come to be with you. Aren’t you surprised to see me, Rhoda?” “No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel anything. I wanted you, and then—there you were! It seemed quite natural.” “But it was rather peculiar all the same. I have been staying with Tom, and we were both asked down to D— for a four days’ visit. That is only half an hour’s rail from here, as you know; so this morning when I saw the list in the paper I thought at once—‘I must see Rhoda! I will go down and chance finding her at home!’” “Yes!” “So I came, and am so glad to be with you, dear. I have seen your mother, and have promised to stay to lunch. I need not go back until four o’clock.” “Oh, that’s nice. I like to have you. Evie, I believe it was the arithmetic. I was so ill, I could hardly think. You might as well know all now. It was my own doing. I had been working every morning before getting up, and that day I began at four. I tired myself out before the gong rang.” “I guessed as much. Dorothy told me that she heard someone turning over leaves!” “Why don’t you say, ‘I told you so!’ then, and tell me that it’s my own fault?” “I—don’t—know! Perhaps because I do so many foolish things myself; perhaps because I haven’t the heart to scold you just now, you poor dear.” Rhoda’s face quivered, but she pressed her lips together, and said with a gulp: “I suppose—it’s a childish trouble! I suppose—when I am old—and sensible—I shall look back on to-day, and laugh to think how I worried myself over such an unimportant trial.” “I am sure you will do nothing of the kind. You will be very, very sorry for yourself, and very pitiful, and very proud, too, if you can remember that you bore it bravely and uncomplainingly.” “But I can’t! I can’t bear it at all. It gets worse every moment. I keep remembering things that I had forgotten. Miss Bruce preaching, and Miss Mott staring through her spectacles—the girls all saying they are sorry, and the—the Record Wall, where I wanted to see my name! I can’t bear it, it’s no use.” “But you will have to bear it, Rhoda. It is a fact, and nothing that you can do will alter it now. You will have to bear it; but you can bear it in two ways, as you make up your mind to-day. You can cry and fret, and make yourself ill, and everyone else miserable, or you can brace yourself up to bear it bravely, and make everyone love and admire you more than they have ever done before. Which are you going to do?” “I am going to be cross and horrid. I couldn’t be good if I tried. I’m soured for life!” said Rhoda stoutly, but even as she spoke a smile struggled with her tears, and Evie laughed aloud—her sweet, ringing laugh. “Poor, dear old thing! She looks so like it! I know better, and am not a bit afraid of you. You will be good and plucky, and rejoice unaffectedly in Kathleen’s success.” “Has Kathleen—Oh! Is Kathleen first?” “She has won the Scholarship. Yes, it will be such a joy. She needed it so badly, and has worked so hard.” “I hate her!” “She was always kind to you. I remember the very first day she took you round the grounds. You were very good friends.” “I hate her, I tell you! I detest her name.” “I am sure you will write and congratulate her. Imagine if your parents were poor, and you saw them harassed and anxious, how thankful you would feel to be able to help! Kathleen had a harder time than any of you, for she could take none of the nice, interesting ‘Extras.’ I think all her friends will be glad that she has won.” “I shall be glad, too, in about ten years. If I said I was glad now I should be a hypocrite, for I wanted it myself. I suppose Irene is all right, and Bertha, and all the Head girls? Has—has Dorothy—” “Yes, Dorothy has passed too.” Rhoda cried aloud in bitter distress. “Oh, Evie—oh! Dorothy passed, and I have failed! Oh it is cruel—unjust. I am cleverer than she! You can’t deny it. I worked harder. I was before her always, in every class, in every exam. Oh, it’s mean, it’s mean that they should have put her before me!” The tears streamed down her face, for this was perhaps the bitterest moment she had known. To be beaten by Kathleen, and Irene, was bearable, but—Dorothy! Easy-going, mediocre Dorothy, who had so little ambition that she could laugh at her own shortcomings, and contentedly call herself a “tortoise.” Well, the tortoise had come off victor once more, and the poor, beaten hare sat quivering with mortified grief. Miss Everett looked at her with perplexed, anxious eyes. “You will probably find when the full report comes out that you have done better in most respects, but that it is the preliminaries which have caused your failure. But Rhoda, Rhoda, how would it help you to know that another poor girl had failed, and was as miserable as yourself? Would you be glad to hear that Dorothy was sitting crying at home, and Kathleen bearing her parents’ grief as well as her own? You could not possibly be so selfish. I know you too well. You are far too kind and generous.” “I’m a pig!” said Rhoda contritely, and the tears trickled dismally off the end of her nose, and splashed on to the wooden table. “I should like to be a saint, and resigned, and rejoice in the good fortunes of my companions like the girls in books, but I can’t. I just feel sore, and mad, and aching, and as if they were all in conspiracy against me to make my failure more bitter. You had better give it up, Evie, and leave me to fight it out alone. I’ll come to my senses in time, and write pretty, gushing letters to say how charmed I am—and make funny little jokes at the end about my own collapse. This is Monday—perhaps by Wednesday or Thursday—” “I expect it will be Tuesday, and not an hour later. You are letting off such an amount of steam that you will calm down more quickly than you think. And now, hadn’t we better go indoors, and bathe those poor red eyes before lunch? Your mother will think I have been scolding you, and I don’t want to be looked upon as a dragon when I’m out of harness, and posing as an innocent, unprofessional visitor. Come, dear, and we’ll talk no more of the horrid old exam., but try to forget it and enjoy ourselves!” Rhoda’s sigh was sepulchral in its intensity, for, of course, happiness must henceforth be a thing of the past, so far as she was concerned; but as she did not appreciate the idea of appearing at lunch with a tear-stained face, she followed meekly to the house, and entering by a side door, led the way upstairs to her own luxurious bedroom. Half an hour of chastened enjoyment followed as she sat sponging her eyes, while Evie strolled round the room, exclaiming with admiration at the sight of each fresh treasure, and showing the keenest interest in the jugs and their histories. She admired Rhoda’s possessions, and Rhoda admired her, watching the graceful figure reflected in the mirrors; the pretty dress, so simple, yet so becoming; the dark hair waving so softly round the winsome face. Evie was certainly one of the prettiest of creatures, and Rhoda felt a sort of reflected glory in taking her downstairs and exhibiting her to her family. If the tear marks had not altogether disappeared, no one appeared to notice them, and despite her own silence, lunch was a cheery meal. Evie chattered away in her gayest manner; Mrs Chester agreed with every word she said, and called her “dear” as if she were a friend of years’ standing. Mr Chester beamed upon her with undisguised, fatherly admiration, and Harold looked more animated than Rhoda had seen him for many a long day. The brisk, bright way in which Evie took up his drawling sentences, and put him right when he was mistaken in a statement, would have made him withdraw into his shell if attempted by a member of the household, but he did not seem in the least annoyed with Evie. He only smiled to himself in amused fashion, and watched her narrowly out of the corners of his eyes. When dessert was put upon the table, Mrs Chester looked wistfully at Rhoda’s white face, lighted into a feeble smile by one of her friend’s sallies, and was seized with a longing to keep this comforter at hand. “I suppose you must go back to D— this afternoon, dear,” she said, “but couldn’t we persuade you to come back and pay us a visit before you leave this part of the world? It would be a great pleasure to Rhoda, and to us all, and any time would suit us. Just fix your own day, and—” “Oh, Evie, do!” cried Rhoda eagerly, and both the men joined in with murmurs of entreaty; but Miss Everett shook her head, and said regretfully: “I’m so sorry, but it’s impossible. I have already been away longer than I intended, and cannot spend another day away from home. My mother is busier than usual, for a sister who used to teach has had a bad illness and is staying with us for six months, to rest and be nursed up. It would not be fair to stay away any longer.” “I should think you might be allowed to rest in your holidays. You work hard enough for the rest of the year, and I need you more than the old aunt, I’m sure I do. You must come, if only for a week!” “I wish I could, Rhoda, but it is not possible. I’ll tell you, however, who I believe could come, and who would do you more good than I, and that is Tom Bolderston! She is in no hurry to return home, and as it is decided that she is not to come back to Hurst Manor, but go on straight to Newnham, it will be your last opportunity of seeing her for some time. You would enjoy having Tom, wouldn’t you, Rhoda?” Rhoda lifted her eyebrows with a comical expression. Tom here; Tom in Erley Chase! Tom sitting opposite to Harold and blinking at him with her little fish eyes—the thought was so comical that she laughed in spite of herself. “I think I should. It would be very funny. If I may ask her, mother—” “Of course, of course, darling! Ask whom you will, for as long as you like,” cried the fond mother instantly. From what she had heard of Tom she had come to the conclusion that she was a very strange, and not entirely sane, young woman; but Rhoda wished it, Rhoda had laughed at the suggestion, and said it would be “funny,” and that settled the question. A letter of invitation was duly written and given into Miss Everett’s hand when the time came for departure, and brother and sister escorted her to the station. Rhoda was insistent in her regrets at parting, and, wonderful to relate, Harold condescended to make still another plea. If it were impossible to arrange a visit, could not Miss Everett spare a few hours at least, come down by an early train, and spend a day on the river with himself and his sister? He urged the project so warmly that Evie flushed with mingled pleasure and embarrassment. “Don’t tempt me! I should love it, but we are here only for four days, and I have been away for one already. It would not be courteous.” “She is so horribly conscientious, that’s the worst of her!” said Rhoda, as she and Harold retraced their steps across the Park. “She is always thinking about other people. A day on the river would have been lovely.” “Yes, it’s a pity. I thought we would ask Ella, and take up lunch and tea.” “Yes, of course, a very good idea. Then we should have been four, and I could have had Evie to myself—” “Y–es!” drawled Harold slowly. Two minutes later Rhoda happened to look at his face, and wondered why in the world he was smiling to himself in that funny, amused fashion! <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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