CHAPTER XIX

The Prize Giving

All the school was delighted at Mercy's good fortune, but no one more so than Sylvia. To feel that Dr. Severn's discovery was indirectly due to herself was an unbounded satisfaction.

"I always wanted so much to discover Mercy's friends," she said to Linda. "And isn't it strange that when I believed I'd found her mother it was just a silly mistake, and when I'd really found her father, I didn't suspect it in the least. I never dreamt of Dr. Severn being a relation, even when I saw his locket was the same as Mercy's. You see, Mercy said it was a Chinese charm, so I thought perhaps they were quite common, like the blue-bead tassel he'd been showing you, and anybody who'd been in China might have one. Suppose I hadn't come to stay with you at Whitsuntide, or we hadn't gone to tea that afternoon, you wouldn't have noticed that locket, because Mercy hadn't shown hers to you; and if you'd told Dr. Severn about her being found, he'd never have guessed it was his own Mary. I don't think anything you could have offered me in the whole world would have made me gladder than this!"

There was only one flaw in Sylvia's happiness. Mercy, who was now seventeen, was to leave Heathercliffe House to be mistress of Dale Side. Both Miss Kaye and Dr. Severn thought her right place was with her father, and that her schooldays might fitly come to a close.

"I couldn't part from her again," said the doctor, "not even to send her to so short a distance as Aberglyn. We've still to learn to know each other, and the more we're in each other's company the better. I can arrange for visiting masters to give her lessons in painting and music, but she's such a tall girl, I feel she's almost a woman, and will soon begin to take care of me, instead of allowing me to take care of her."

To Sylvia, Mercy's absence would leave a great blank, but she was consoled when Dr. Severn promised that she should be their first visitor, and that he would ask her mother to allow her to spend part of the August holidays with them at Craigwen, where Linda and her brothers would be able to join them constantly for walks and excursions. There was little more of the summer term left for anyone at Heathercliffe House. The few remaining weeks passed quickly by, and brought the annual garden party and prize giving, with which Miss Kaye always celebrated the breaking up. It was the great occasion of the school year, and many of the girls' parents came over to Aberglyn on purpose to be present. The day fortunately proved fine, and all the thirty-four pupils found themselves in such effervescent spirits that the mistresses had a hard task to keep their attention during the morning classes.

"Connie Camden, sit up straight and place your feet together," said Miss Arkwright. "I cannot allow you to have your arm round Brenda's waist, even if it is the last day. Linda, put that lozenge in your pocket; if I see it again, I will take it from you. Marian, tie your hair ribbon. Gwennie, you have lost your place three times; I'm astonished at you! Sylvia, don't fidget; I told you not to touch Nina's ruler. Nina, shut your pencil box at once. Now, Jessie, begin again, and parse more carefully; antelope is not an abstract noun."

It was certainly difficult to recall the rules of grammar when the girls remembered that this was actually the very last lesson, and that for seven whole weeks their books would be lying idle, the schoolrooms would be deserted, the blackboard and maps put away, and they themselves would be enjoying the country or seaside in company with their respective families. Even Marian answered at random, and poor Miss Arkwright was getting into despair, when fortunately for all the bell rang, and they were at liberty to disperse. There was still enough discipline left to cause the class to walk decorously through the door, but once outside in the passage they danced about like a little crew of savages, and, tearing downstairs, ran into the garden to work off their excitement, leaving their teacher standing with a sigh of relief at her open desk to put the last marks to their now finished exercise books.

"We're going to Whitby for the holidays," said Connie. "We've taken a furnished house, and our cousins are coming to stay next door. There are eight of them and eleven of us, so shan't we just have a jolly time? Hurrah!"

"We're off to Scotland," said Nina. "And Mother's promised I may take all the coach rides that the others do. I haven't had a cold now since Easter."

"Don't boast," cried Brenda, "or you'll be sure to catch one this afternoon, and Miss Kaye'll put you to bed, and say you aren't well enough to travel to-morrow."

"She shan't!" declared Nina indignantly. "I wouldn't stay there. I'd get up and go home if I were coughing and sneezing till I couldn't see out of my eyes."

"Then they'll roll you up in a blanket," said Connie, who loved to tease, "with a shawl tied over your head, and carry you down to a cab as they did with Rosie when she began with chicken pox and was sent to the fever hospital. You'll have to travel in the luggage van, because everybody'll think you're infectious, and won't have you in their carriage. The doctor'll go with you, and keep taking your temperature and feeling your pulse, and telling you to put out your tongue, and listening at your bronchial tube all the time. He won't be able to hear much, though, because of the rattling of the train. Perhaps he'll take it for the rattling of your breath, and think you're very bad! It'll be a most exciting journey for you."

"You horrid girl! I haven't caught the cold yet, and I don't mean to!" said Nina, pursuing Connie, who dodged away round the summer house, calling out as a parting shot:

"Be sure to let us know how many bottles of medicine you take!"

"I travelled in the guard's van once," said Jessie Ellis. "Mother couldn't bring me to school herself, and nobody we knew was going to Wales either, so the guard took me with him. I rather liked it. There was such a lovely big window, and he let me look at a kitten that somebody was sending in a basket, and when we stopped at Chester he got me a glass of milk from the refreshment room. I'm going straight to Llandudno to-morrow; we're to stay there for three weeks. My brother's school broke up yesterday, and he's coming here with Father and Mother this afternoon."

"What are you going to do, Marian?" asked Linda.

"I'm not quite sure. We wanted the Isle of Man, but it's such a trouble to take the little ones on the steamer. We have to choose a nice safe place where there's sand for them to dig, and the tide doesn't come in too fast. Gwennie was nearly drowned at Arnside when she was five, and it's made Mother so nervous ever since."

"I'm going to learn the bicycle," said Brenda. "My eldest sister's promised to lend me hers, and lower the saddle. If I can manage well enough to ride on the road I'm to go with Ada and Willie to Ashmere, and that's eight miles off. But father's dreadfully afraid of motor cars. Hazel isn't coming home this summer; Aunt Cicely's taking her a tour in Switzerland. Isn't she lucky?"

All the members of the third class had promised faithfully to correspond with one another, and Sylvia suggested that they should each keep a diary of their adventures, to be read aloud at the next meeting of the S.S.L.U., which had languished during the summer, but which they intended to take up with renewed vigour when the days began to close in once more.

"Everybody must agree to send everybody else at least two picture postcards," said Linda, "and then we can compare them when we come back to school."

"Yes, if one's mother will pay for them," said Connie, who had returned to the lawn. "Mine struck last holidays, and said eleven children all wanting stamps continually was ruining her, and we must buy our own. Postcards are a penny each, and they need halfpenny stamps, so it'll cost exactly one and ninepence to send two to every one of you. I can't possibly afford it! Not if I want any donkey rides or chocolates."

The others laughed. The comfortable assurance that "Mother will pay", held by most boys and girls, had not caused them to think of the expense, and Connie's calculations were startling.

"Well, of course, if you can't, you can't," said Linda, "and we shan't expect them. You may write a kind of round-robin letter and send it to me, and I'll send it to somebody else, who'll pass it on to the next. That'll only take you one stamp, and you must go without a pennyworth of chocolates."

The guests were to arrive at half-past three o'clock, and the moment dinner was over, the girls hurried to their bedrooms for the very important ceremony of changing their dresses. Linda's thick, straight, brown locks had been wetted and plaited in the tightest possible braids the night before, to give it the required wave. Nina Forster had even tried the experiment of screwing hers up in curl papers; but the hard, round knobs had stuck into her head, and made her too uncomfortable to sleep, so, after tossing about uneasily for an hour, she could bear it no longer, and had pulled them out with a solemn vow to relinquish the idea of ringlets in the future. Marian, whose long beautiful auburn hair was generally brushed stiffly back from her face and worn in a neat pigtail, left it loose for once, and allowed Gwennie to tie it with two large bows of light-blue ribbon to match her sash; an alteration much appreciated by the girls, who declared they scarcely recognized her. Connie had little vanity, and, being arrayed the first of anybody, she flitted about among the various bedrooms like a small moth, giving free criticisms of the others' costumes.

"Yes, that's a very pretty dress, Linda," she remarked. "White muslin over a pink slip suits you, though it rather reminds me of a dressing-table or a baby's cradle, all the same; I want to hang a pin cushion on to you! Sylvia, if you'd grown another half-inch they'd have had to let down a tuck. I like the little daisy pattern and the rows of narrow lace; they're rather sweet. You must wear the daisy brooch you got on your birthday. You should see Brenda! Her dress was so stiffly starched I couldn't fasten it for her; I had to fetch Mercy, and she opened the buttonholes with a pair of scissors. Jessie Ellis has on a pale-green silk, and she's almost afraid to sit down for fear of soiling it. I hate things that won't wash. Ta, ta! I'm going to see Marian. Gwennie spilled a whole bottle of scent over her clean muslin, but luckily her other had just come back from the laundry. She's sewing the buttons on it now."

The girls were allowed to go into the garden to await their friends, and kept up an excited commentary on the list of arrivals.

"There's Marian's mother! and she's brought a little one with her, such a darling, the image of Gwennie, only far prettier. That must be Mrs. Ellis and Jessie's brother. How terribly shy he looks! I don't wonder; the only boy in a girl's school! That's Sybil Lake's eldest sister; she used to come here herself once. There's Mr. Cameron; I thought he wouldn't stay away. And there are Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick and Miss Winnie. I wish Mr. Cecil had come too. Who are these who've just got out of a cab?"

"Father and Mother," replied Sylvia, jumping to her feet. "And why, surely, they've brought Aunt Louisa with them!"

It was actually Aunt Louisa herself, who was shaking hands cordially with Miss Kaye, and gazing about her with a complacent expression, as if she were remembering that it was all due to her persuasions that her niece was a pupil at Heathercliffe House, and congratulating herself still upon the wisdom of her plan.

She greeted Sylvia most affectionately, asked which were Linda and Mercy, had quite a pleasant chat with Miss Arkwright on the subject of Education, and seemed altogether to be enjoying herself immensely. Sylvia was delighted to have the opportunity of introducing her father and mother to Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and Dr. Severn, who were among the guests, and she was not satisfied till she had taken them the entire round of the house and garden, that they might see for themselves the places she had so often described.

Tea was served in the garden, the girls helping to pass cups and hand plates, luckily without any mishaps, though Connie Camden nearly upset the cream, which was only saved through the quickness of May Spencer; and little Greta Collins, who had been told to carry round a sugar basin, offered it to Mr. Cameron, and, as he was too busy talking to notice her, dropped three lumps into his cup and went away, an unpleasant surprise for him when he discovered it, as he did not take sugar. Sadie and Elsie Thompson were supremely happy in the possession of their father, whose ship had arrived at Liverpool just in time to allow him to come to the prize giving. It was quite pathetic to see how they clung to his hands, and would scarcely let him out of their sight the whole afternoon, and the girls were glad to hear that he was going to take the two children away for a short holiday without the guardianship of the stern aunt.

"We're to go to Liverpool first," said Elsie gleefully to Sylvia. "And Daddy'll show us all over his big ship. We'll see the engines, and the compass, and his cabin, and we're to have tea on the upper deck. He says we may talk through his speaking trumpet, and sound the foghorn, and turn the wheel just a tiny piece. Then we're going a long way in the train to stay at a farm in the country, quite alone with Daddy. Won't it be fun? He's going to send you an Indian necklace, because we told him you'd been so kind to us, and your mother'd sent us such a lovely cake on Sadie's birthday. He's got it locked up in his cabin on the ship, but I don't think I ought to have told you, 'cause it's to be a surprise."

Miss Kaye had allowed a full hour for tea and talk, and at the end of that time the guests were asked to assemble in the large schoolroom for the distribution of prizes, which were to be given away by the Rector of Aberglyn. The room was prettily decorated with flowers, and on a table at one end lay a number of handsomely bound books. The children were obliged reluctantly to be separated from their parents, as it was necessary for them to sit in classes, and once more the members of the third form found themselves side by side. Mr. Edwards, the rector, made a short opening speech, complimenting both teachers and pupils on a year of industrious work, and said what pleasure it gave him to see the rows of bright happy young faces before him, and to know how much they had learnt at Heathercliffe House. He reminded them of the high standard in right and honour as well as knowledge which it was Miss Kaye's object to maintain there, and begged them to make the best possible use of their schooldays, upon which, he declared, they would often look back as the happiest time in their lives.

There were no competitive prizes among the little ones, each of whom was called up to receive a small present for good conduct, and when the rector had made some kindly remarks, he turned to the third class. The prizes were awarded according to the result of the examination, and of all the weekly marks gained during the year, the totals being added together. It was therefore a test both of correct memory and of steady application, and would show that the winner had worked hard for her laurels. The class knew that it must lie between Marian and Sylvia; no one else had the slightest chance; and the girls gazed eagerly at Mr. Edwards, waiting for the important announcement. He held a beautifully illustrated edition of _British Ballads_ in his hand.

"This is the prize for English," he said, "and I have much pleasure in presenting it to Sylvia Lindsay, who, I am sure, must have worked with the greatest industry to gain it, and thoroughly deserves her success."

Everybody clapped as Sylvia walked up the room to receive her book, and she herself could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had never really expected to win, and for the moment her triumph was sweet. Poor Marian, whose face had fallen at the news, joined nevertheless in the applause, and Sylvia in her turn was able to give her a hearty clap as the rector declared her to be the best French scholar, and awarded her a copy of Lafontaine's _Fables_. Nina took the music prize, and Gwennie the one for neatness, punctuality, and general orderliness, which completed the list for the third class, and Mr. Edwards went on to the second class, ending with the first, where Mercy very appropriately came out head of the school.

Sylvia felt as if her brain were in a whirl. It was all as she had wished; she held her reward in her hand, and her father and mother had been there to see her claim it. Surely life could contain no greater joy! But who was standing up now, to make the closing speech? It was Dr. Severn, and everyone who knew his story and Mercy's was anxious to hear him. He said only a few quiet words, but they were so concise and to the point that they lived for many years in the memories of some of those who listened to them. After congratulating the girls who had taken prizes, and urging all to fresh efforts, he spoke to those who had tried and had been unsuccessful.

"The greatest deeds in the world," he said, "have often been done by people who have failed not only once, but many times, yet have never let themselves be discouraged. Don't stop trying, but, on the other hand, don't look at the prize as the chief end of your striving. It's a poor thing, after all, compared with the gain to your character that every honest endeavour will bring you. Remember, too, that we can't all have the post of honour; somebody has to stand aside and take second best, and the one who can do it the most bravely and generously is winning what is far more worth having than a prettily bound book. You learn many lessons at Heathercliffe House, but believe me the greatest of them is the power to give up your own way sometimes, and to be happy in the pleasure and success of others. It mayn't seem easy just at first, but I can assure you it brings the best and most lasting happiness in the end. I read a few lines a day or two ago that explain just what I mean, so I'm going to say them to you:

'Our chiefest duty here below Is not the seeming great to do, That the vain world may pause to see; But in steadfast humility To walk the common walk, and bear The thousand things, the trifling care, In love, with wisdom, patiently. Thus each one in his narrow groove The great world nearer God may move.'"

As Sylvia listened, her small triumph seemed to fade away into something higher and better, and almost unconsciously she and Marian clasped hands, their rivalry forgotten in a nobler ideal. All the events of the school year passed rapidly through her memory: she was changed greatly from the rather selfish little girl who had given so cold a welcome to her guests at that wet-day party, and as her mother afterwards kissed her and praised her for her success, it was with a heartfelt meaning in her words that she said:

"I did try hard the whole time, just to please you and Father. I didn't want to come to school at all, but I'm glad you made me. I like it now most immensely, and I simply can't tell you how very extremely glad I am that you didn't choose anywhere else, but sent me here to Miss Kaye's!"

Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been retained except as follows:

Page 20 in giving the dolls'-house _changed to_ in giving the dolls' house

Page 21 turn me yound three _changed to_ turn me round three

Page 31 you will need to amuse youself _changed to_ you will need to amuse yourself

Page 33 and the housemaid crotcheted _changed to_ and the housemaid crocheted

Page 48 with her damp pocket handherchief _changed to_ with her damp pocket handkerchief

Page 98 opportuity of saying something _changed to_ opportunity of saying something

Page 137 Lend me you scissors, Marian _changed to_ Lend me your scissors, Marian

Page 225 and second classes, but Marin _changed to_ and second classes, but Marian

End of Project Gutenberg's The Third Class at Miss Kaye's, by Angela Brazil