CHAPTER VII

False Colours

The thunderstorm that had added to the unpleasantness of the girls' adventure at Sandsend seemed to herald a complete change in the weather. The beautiful Indian summer, so warm and genial, so full of kindly sunshine, vanished suddenly, and autumn, cold and bleak, appeared in its place. A sharp frost in a single night worked havoc in the garden, blackening the dahlias, withering the nasturtiums, and reducing all the remaining annuals to a state of blighted ruin, so that what had one day been a flowery paradise was the next a scene of desolation. A strong easterly gale, following the frost, cleared the leaves from the trees before they had any chance of turning to crimson or gold, and stripped the last vestige of beauty from the hedgerows.

After this came days of pouring rain. The lawns and the playing-fields were sodden, the roads were deep in sticky mud, the row of bare elms dripped dismally on to the garden seats below, and the neglected sundial no longer told the hour of day, nor formed a centre for the throng of girls who generally haunted its steps.

"Baldur the Sun God is dead!" said Aldred, looking out of the window one damp afternoon at the cheerless prospect, and recalling Miss Drummond's lesson on Northern Mythology. "Loki has killed him with the piece of mistletoe, and he will never return to Asgard. All the Æsir are weeping for him, and the earth will be given up now to the frost giants and the spirits of the winds."

"Won't he ever come back?" said Mabel, falling in with her friend's humour.

"Just for a little while; but he always has to go in the winter, like Proserpine, who was bound to spend half the year with Pluto in Hades. I suppose there's no country, except the lost Atlantis, where it keeps summer all the year round."

"Why, you sound quite melancholy!"

"So I am."

"But why?"

"I don't know, except that it is so sad to see the summer gone."

Aldred could scarcely explain her attitude of mind, though she was conscious that the change in the world without affected her strongly. She had an extreme love of nature, an intense appreciation of beautiful things. No ancient Greek ever joyed in the sunshine more than she, or took greater pleasure in the scent of the flowers, or the blue of the sea and sky, or the song of the birds in springtime. Her artistic, poetical temperament was highly sensitive to all outward impressions; she was so keenly alive to the great, dramatic human tragedy and comedy that is being enacted around us, so in touch with the wonder and mystery of life, that what would pass unnoticed by many was to her the very essence of being.

Few people had ever sympathized with this side of her disposition. Her father had not realized it, Keith could not understand it, and Aunt Bertha had repressed it sternly. Modern schoolgirls are certainly not sentimental; they are more prone to laugh at poetic fancies than to admire them: and Aldred knew that on this score she would probably meet with ridicule from her form-mates. In consequence, she confined herself in public to the practical and prosaic, and, with the exception of an occasional private confidence to Mabel, kept her reflections locked in her own bosom.

There was certainly nothing in the atmosphere of the Grange to foster any tendency towards morbidness. The days were so fully occupied as to leave no time for dreaming. Though Aldred was clever, it took her whole energies to secure the place that she wished in the school. She was determined to be head of her Form, and, holding that object in view, toiled with a vigour such as nothing else would have wrung from her, and which would have caused unfeigned amazement to her former governess. It was not all plain sailing, for Ursula Bramley and Agnes Maxwell were also good workers; and even Mabel, though not specially bright, was very plodding and conscientious. Aldred soon found that she had to revise entirely her old method--that a careless German exercise could completely cancel a brilliant score in history, and that she must give equal attention to every subject if she wished to chronicle a record. The little tricks she had practised on Miss Perkins were not equally successful at Birkwood: she had tried reeling off her lessons very fast, so as to gloss over mistakes, but Miss Bardsley would allow her to finish, and then say: "Yes; now you may repeat it again, slowly. I did not quite catch the second person plural;" and Aldred, to her disgust, would be compelled to reveal her ignorance in a more deliberate fashion, and take the bad mark that ensued. She was at first a venturesome guesser, till her many bad shots drew scathing comments from her teachers and smiles from the rest of the Form.

"Even Lorna Hallam knows that Sir Philip Sidney didn't write the _Faerie Queene_, and she's supposed to be our champion bungler!" observed Ursula Bramley sarcastically, on one occasion. "As for history, you muddle up Thomas Cromwell with Oliver Cromwell! You'd better get an elementary book, and learn a few simple facts."

The girls would not tolerate Aldred's conceit. She quickly discovered that if she wished to be popular, it was unwise to claim too much credit for her achievements. The week after she arrived she had taken her place among the others at a singing lesson. Miss Wright, the mistress, began to teach the class the old English ballad, "Should he upbraid"; it was one with which Aldred happened to be familiar, so she at once took the lead and sang away lustily, beating time in a rather marked manner, and accomplishing the many little runs and trills with an air as if she considered herself indispensable. At the close of the lesson, as they were filing out of the room, she could not resist remarking to Ursula Bramley:

"It was a good thing I knew that song so well, wasn't it?"

"Why?" asked Ursula pointedly, looking her straight in the eyes.

Thus cornered, Aldred could hardly say that she thought the class would have managed badly without her aid; her tact told her that the remark would be unpalatable and indiscreet, so she quickly changed her ground.

"Oh! only that I find it difficult to learn new things," she replied, in some confusion.

"Indeed! Well, I suppose you'll improve when you've been here a little while," returned Ursula, with a meaning smile that was partly a sneer, and made Aldred decidedly red and uncomfortable.

During the earlier part of the term, try as she might, Aldred was not able to see her name in the coveted position of heading the list for the Fourth Form. One week she failed in geometry, another in French; if her German was correct, her arithmetic proved inaccurate, and some unexpected slip would pull her down. At the end of the sixth week, however, she at last dared to hope. She was aware that she had done unusually well, both in the ordinary class subjects and in the Friday morning examination; while Ursula, her chief opponent, had had an exercise returned, and received a bad mark for botany. The lists were always posted up on the notice-board in the corridor just before tea-time on Saturday afternoon, and there was generally a rush to read them. On this particular Saturday, Aldred determined to be the first to cull the news. She was too proud to allow herself to seem anxious, so she hung about the corridor, pretending that she was searching for a lost piece of india-rubber, and that she was thrillingly interested in the view of the dripping garden through the side window. At last Miss Drummond appeared, pinned the papers neatly on to the notice-board, and re-entered the library. Aldred strolled up as casually as she could; but Mabel, who had also been on the look-out, was before her.

"You're top! You're top!" shrieked the latter. "There it is: 'No. 1, Aldred Laurence.' Oh, how lovely! You've beaten Ursula by twenty marks. It's splendid! Come and see for yourself!"

Though inwardly she felt she had satisfied her ambition, Aldred took the announcement with the greatest outward sang-froid.

"Oh! am I?" she replied nonchalantly. "No, I don't want to see, thanks; I can take your word for it."

"How calm you are! I should have been fearfully excited if it had been: 'No. 1, Mabel Farrington.'"

"What's the use of getting excited? Let us go into the dressing-room, and wash our hands for tea."

Mabel linked her arm affectionately in that of Aldred, and accompanied her down the passage, talking as she went.

"I knew you would come out top, dearest!" she said. "You were certain to, as soon as you had grown used to the work here. It's always difficult for a new girl, when she has been accustomed to a different teacher; but I think you have fallen into Birkwood ways marvellously quickly. Don't you feel proud?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I do, for you! To think of being twenty marks ahead of Ursula! It's a tremendous score! How do you manage to be so clever?"

"I'm not clever. It's sheer good luck, I expect."

"No, it's not good luck," said Mabel, putting back Aldred's dark curls with a caressing hand. "It's something far more, only you're too modest to acknowledge it. You're behaving just as you did at Seaforth. Oh, I've heard about that episode! We all know of it, though you may think it was done by stealth."

"What episode?" gasped Aldred, suddenly red to the tips of her ears.

"Don't blush so, darling! I won't speak about it again, if you'd rather not; but I should like to tell you how much I admire you, not only for what you did, but for the way you've tried to make nothing of it afterwards. It's only one girl in a thousand who would have had the courage to rush into that blazing house, and crawl upstairs and down again; or the presence of mind to tie a wet handkerchief over the little boy's mouth. I should never have thought of that, I'm certain. Do you mind my mentioning it to you just this once?"

Now was Aldred's chance. The occasion when she might deny her identity with the heroine of the fire had come at last! How easily the mistake could be corrected, and the matter set right! She looked nervously at Mabel, and words struggled painfully to her lips.

"I--I'm afraid--you----" she began.

"Yes, dearest?" There was a little thrill in Mabel's voice.

"You're--you're thinking too--too well of me----" stammered Aldred, trying desperately to take the fatal plunge.

Mabel simply smiled. Her blue eyes were gazing into her friend's with adoring affection; her face showed how deeply her feelings were stirred, and how earnestly she meant all she had said.

"I was at Seaforth----" continued Aldred.

"I know that."

"But--but----"

Oh, how hard it was to utter her confession! In the act, Aldred's resolution failed her; she stopped again, and was silent. Her embarrassment was most apparent.

"Would you really rather not speak of it, dear?" said Mabel gently.

Why did Aldred hesitate? Opportunity, like an angel of light, still tarried, and held open the door of honour. If she could only screw up her courage to the sticking-point!

"All right! If you don't like me to mention it, I'll say nothing more. I'm satisfied now I've let you know that your deed isn't absolutely hidden under a bushel. You're famous, in spite of yourself. You darling! I only wish I were worthier to be your friend."

Aldred shrank back at the words, and, disengaging Mabel's clinging arms, made an excuse to hurry away. She had the grace to be thoroughly ashamed of herself, and to feel that she could not bear any more praise at present.

"Why didn't I tell?" she moaned, in an agony of remorse. "I know I'm mean, and dishonest, and horrid, and the exact opposite of what she supposes. What would Keith say, if he knew? He'd never forgive me. He scolded me for not explaining that Mr. Bowden had painted part of my picture, and this is twice as bad. Keith is so absolutely honourable! I suppose I ought to go to Mabel now, and put things right. No, I can't! I simply can't! It would be worse than ever. I couldn't force myself to say it--the words would choke me!"

A letter from Keith had arrived only that morning, a particularly nice, jolly letter, full of chatty news and of such affectionate enquiries about her own doings at school that it seemed to bring her into closer touch than usual with her brother. She wanted so much to stand well in Keith's opinion; and she recalled with a groan what he had said to her in the cornfield about her sketch: "Of all the sneaks, you're the biggest!" and, "Be a little straighter in future, if you want to keep chums with me." Yes, she was a sneak; it was not a pretty epithet, but it was a true one. In Keith's eyes this affair would be serious; he would never tolerate such conduct for one single moment. If she wished to act up to his principles, she must undeceive Mabel immediately, her own self-respect told her that. Yet she could not bring herself to do it, and for a whole week she wavered, her conscience reproaching her bitterly, and her pride pleading and ever pleading to put off the evil moment.

"It's impossible to tell her straight out," she decided at last. "I'll write a letter and give it to her; that will be much easier, because I needn't stay to watch her read it. I know Keith would have gone and owned up; but then, I'm not Keith--I always mind things so much more than he does."

Having resolved to make an explanation through the medium of pen, ink, and paper, she retired, when tea was over, to the empty classroom, and set herself to the unwelcome task. How difficult it was! She scribbled sheet after sheet, and tore up one after another. Her confession looked so bald and paltry when she saw it in black and white! It seemed so awkward to explain adequately how the mistake had arisen. After five fruitless attempts, she at last managed to arrive at a result which, if it did not satisfy her, at least contained the truth. She placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Mabel Farrington, then stood turning it over and over in her hand. Was this letter to break their friendship?--so small a thing to have such a fateful result? Well, if it must be, she had better let it be done as quickly as possible; it was no use delaying any longer. Bracing up her nerves, therefore, she went down to look for Mabel.

It being Saturday evening, there was no preparation. Relays of girls were having their hair washed in the bathroom, and others were finishing stocking darning, or various pieces of mending; tidying their drawers, putting out their clean clothes, and performing the many small duties that seemed to accumulate at the end of the week.

The Lower School recreation room happened to be temporarily deserted by its usual rollicking crew, and Mabel was there alone, standing warming her hands at the fire. She looked up brightly as Aldred entered.

"Come along!" she said. "Isn't this a glorious blaze? We've got the room all to ourselves for once, and we'll have such a cosy chat! Why! what's this you're giving me? A letter? From whom?"

"From me. It's something I want you to know," replied Aldred shortly; and she would have turned to leave the room had not Mabel caught her by the arm and forced her back to the fire.

"Don't run away!" she exclaimed. "You're the most absurd girl! What are you writing to me about?"

"You'll find out when you've read it," gulped Aldred.

"But why couldn't you tell me? What's the matter? You're actually crying! Dearest, have I done anything to offend you?"

"No, no! Do let me go, and then open the letter!"

"I shan't. You must stay here till I know why you are crying. Has anybody been nasty to you?"

"No; it's I who have done something wrong--I wanted to let you know--I'm afraid you'll never care for me afterwards--I daren't tell you--so please read it, and don't keep me now!"

Mabel looked puzzled, then suddenly enlightened; but instead of loosening her hold on her friend, she pulled her down on to the hearth-rug, before the fire.

"I understand!" she said. "Oh, Aldred, dear, I know all about that, you know!"

Aldred's face was a study.

"Yes, Agnes Maxwell told me before tea."

"What has Agnes to do with it?"

"Why, she heard you! She said all the others who had spoken English had reported themselves to Miss Bardsley, but she was sure you hadn't."

Aldred drew a long breath. It was quite a different crime that Mabel imagined she was confessing, a little slip that she scarcely recollected, and certainly had not intended to rake up. She had been guilty of expressing herself in her own language during the time set apart for French conversation that morning, but, having no desire to lose a mark, she had discreetly allowed her memory to fail her when the mistress asked if any girl had "communicated in English".

"I must say I was very astonished," continued Mabel, "and very disappointed that you, of all people, should not have told; it seemed so entirely different from what you are. I couldn't believe that you would go a whole afternoon letting 'perfect' be down in the register, when you ought to have had a bad mark. Of course, I knew you would tell before Monday--luckily, Saturday's marks count for next week."

Aldred said nothing. She sat on the fender, poking the little, soft volcanoes that oozed out of the coal, squeezing them down, and watching the jets of gas that followed.

"It was a funny idea to write it in a letter!" said Mabel. "You always do quaint things; I suppose it's because you're such an original girl."

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked Aldred, in a strained voice.

"Why should I? I know what's in it. No, it shall go down into that hollow in the fire. Give me the poker. There! What a blaze it makes!"

Aldred watched her confession flare up and sink into ashes in the heart of the hot coals; there was a strange look on her face, a look that her friend could not fathom.

"Suppose I had said nothing at all about it next week, and had kept the 'perfect', would you still have cared for me?"

"Oh, but you couldn't!" cried Mabel. "It's impossible! Why, it wouldn't be you to do such a thing!"

"But if----"

"There are no 'ifs'. I could never believe any wrong of you, darling; and yet----"

"What are you two crouching over the fire in the dark for?" exclaimed Dora Maxwell, bursting suddenly into the room. "We are going to act dumb charades in the hall, and Miss Drummond and the teachers are all there to watch. Come along! We've thought of some most lovely words, which I'm sure they'll never think of guessing."

So another opportunity was lost, and Aldred's secret was still untold. She dared not run the risk of breaking the friendship. If she was blamed for such a small fault, could she ever be forgiven for so much greater a deception? It was so sweet to be the very centre of Mabel's adoration, to be placed on a pinnacle, and loved with such rapturous devotion. Could she bear to see all this fade utterly, or even partially, away? No! She was glad and thankful that the letter had been burnt; she felt as if she had escaped from a great danger. She told Miss Bardsley about her "English communication", and took her bad mark with resignation; it was a small evil, compared with what she had avoided. There seemed no retreat now from the course she had taken; she could not in future plead the excuse that she was ignorant of her identification with the heroine of the fire. The affair had been mentioned so plainly that it was impossible for the most dense and obtuse person not to have understood the allusion. Had Mabel on the first occasion questioned her point-blank, I think she would probably have owned up immediately; but every wrongdoing bears its own ill harvest, and the second slip from the straight path is always easier than the first. Aldred persuaded herself that she had not told any deliberate lies, though she was fully aware that her silence made her equally guilty of falsehood. Finally, she tried to dismiss the whole thing from her thoughts. Mabel had promised not to speak of it again; surely it was finished with, and there was no need to trouble further? Yet it was a trouble. Deep down in her heart lay always the consciousness that she was sailing under false colours; every now and then Mabel would impute to her some better motive than really actuated her, or some virtue that she did not possess, and Aldred's inward monitor would give her an uneasy twinge, and remind her how very far she was below that high standard. There was also constantly present the dread that Mabel might learn the truth from some outside source; perhaps the cousin who had written to her before might hear more details, and write again, or some other friend might have been staying at Seaforth, and might know full particulars. The horror of the thought would make Aldred shudder with apprehension; she was living, she knew, on a bubble reputation, and at one word it might collapse, and change her pleasant Eden of appreciation and adulation into a blank desert of disillusion and contempt.