Part 3

“Mind, if I let you go at all, it would be only as a day boarder,” said Grandpapa warningly. But there was more than a hint of concession in his tone.

“That’s all I want,” said Lydia.

“I’ll think it over, and talk to your aunt. Now go and fetch me to-day’s paper.”

Grandpapa occasionally made a feint of reading the newspaper to himself, although he was never seen to turn over a page.

“I can’t, Grandpapa. Aunt Beryl took it away, but she is going to bring it back this evening.”

“You _can’t_?” said Grandpapa in a voice that contrived to be terrible, although it was so small and high-pitched: “Don’t talk nonsense! There’s no such thing as _can’t_. There’s _won’t_, if you like.”

Lydia felt very much distressed. Grandpapa’s anger and contempt were not pleasant at any time, and just now when he appeared so nearly disposed to grant her heart’s desire, she was less than ever wishful of incurring them.

“Aunt Beryl has lent the paper to Mrs. Jackson for something,” she faltered, feeling much disposed to cry. “She said you were sure not to want it before to-night.”

“Quite wrong. I want it at once. Now don’t say _can’t_ again,” said Grandpapa sharply.

The unfortunate Lydia looked helplessly at her tyrant.

“There’s no such thing as _can’t_,” said Grandpapa truculently. “Just you take hold of that and don’t you ever forget it. Never place any reliance on a person who says _can’t_. Let ’em say they won’t--or they don’t want to--that may be true. The other isn’t. Anybody can do anything, if they only make up their minds to it.”

Grandpapa and his descendant faced one another in silence for a minute or so across the echo of this Spartan theory. At last the old man said contemptuously:

“If you haven’t learnt _that_ yet, you’re not ready for any more schooling than we can give you here, I can tell you.”

It was as Lydia had feared!

The future of one’s education, the whole of one’s career in fact, was at stake.

Lydia gulped at an enormous lump in her throat and managed to articulate with sufficient determination:

“I’ll fetch it.”

Then she hurried out of the room, wondering what on earth she should do next.

Rush out and buy another paper?

The shops were a long way off, and very likely the morning papers might be all sold out.

The station book stall?

That again was open to the same objections.

Borrow one from somebody else?

But whom?

Suddenly Lydia caught her breath.

Why not? It seemed obvious, once one had thought of it.

She hastily put on her hat, left the front door ajar behind her, and walked out into the road and down a street that ran at an angle to Regency Terrace.

“If you please, Mr. Raymond would be glad to have the morning paper back again if Mrs. Jackson has quite finished with it,” she said politely, relieved that it was late enough in the day for “the girl” to open the door of the Jackson establishment to her, instead of one of the family.

Five minutes later she was again confronting Grandpapa, this time feeling triumphant and highly pleased with herself.

“I’ve got it, Grandpapa!”

Grandpapa’s claw-like old hand shot out and snatched at the newspaper.

“What’s the date on it?” he demanded.

Lydia read it aloud.

“That’s to-day’s all right.”

“I went round and asked----” began Lydia, desirous of exploiting her resourcefulness.

“That’ll do, me dear. Never spoil an achievement by a long story about it,” said Grandpapa. “I asked for the paper and you’ve brought it. That’s quite enough.”

“Yes, Grandpapa,” said Lydia submissively.

Grandpapa pointed the moral no further but Lydia had unconsciously added another paragraph to the Book of Rules which was to guide her throughout the mysterious game that was just beginning for her: “There’s no such thing as can’t.”

She heard nothing more for the next few days of her ambitious request to be sent to school, and was far too cautious to risk a peremptory refusal through importunity.

It was a week later that she became uncomfortably aware of an indefinable alteration in her aunt’s manner towards her.

“Is anything the matter, auntie?” she gently ventured.

“Why should anything be the matter, dear?” said Aunt Beryl, her lips very close together and her gaze not meeting Lydia’s.

The child’s heart sank.

Quite obviously Aunt Beryl was offended, and meant to adopt the trying policy of ignoring any cause for offence. Twice she was too tired to come upstairs and say good night to Lydia, although this had never happened before, and several times when Lydia made little obvious comments, of the sort that always constituted conversation between them on their walks, Aunt Beryl appeared to be too much absorbed in thought to have heard her.

“I would much rather be scolded,” reflected Lydia dismally.

She was not scolded, but Aunt Beryl’s sense of grievance presently passed into a more articulate stage.

“Oh, don’t ask _me_, dear. I’m nobody. _I_ don’t know anything,” she suddenly exclaimed with extreme bitterness, on a request for advice in respect of Lydia’s knitting.

“Oh, auntie! are you angry?”

“Why should I be angry, dear? I may be _grieved_, but that’s another matter.”

On this ground Aunt Beryl finally took her stand.

“I’m not angry, dear--I’m grieved.”

And grieved Aunt Beryl remained, tacitly waving away all Lydia’s timid attempts at apology or explanation.

Could anything be better calculated to make one feel thoroughly remorseful and uncomfortable?

Lydia, however, characteristically felt more resentful than remorseful.

The tension of the situation was slightly relieved one evening, greatly to Lydia’s surprise, by Mr. Monteagle Almond.

“So you’re being sent to school, young lady?” he remarked quietly, making Lydia jump.

“Oh, am I?”

“You ought to know. I understand that a certain young lady, not a hundred miles away from where we are now, asked to be sent to school, so that she might grow very learned. Isn’t that so?”

“I _should_ like to go to school,” faltered Lydia.

“Very natural,” said Mr. Almond indulgently. “Companions of your own age attract you, no doubt. What would childhood be without other children, eh, George? You remember?”

“I was not so well provided as you were, Monty,” said Uncle George rather resentfully.

“Indeed, no. Are you aware, young lady, that I was one of a family of fifteen?”

Aunt Beryl made a clicking sound with her tongue.

“Yes, Miss Raymond, fifteen. My father and mother were old-fashioned people, and held that each child carried a blessing with it. Three died in infancy, and a young brother was lost at sea. Otherwise I’m thankful to say that we are all spared to this day.”

“Fancy!” said Aunt Beryl in a flat voice.

“Fifteen children,” repeated the grey-bearded clerk, “and my mother kept her figure to the last day of her life. A lesson to the young wives of to-day, I often think.”

“Your bedtime, Lydia,” said Aunt Beryl briskly. “Go upstairs now and I’ll come and put the light out.”

Lydia was much too tactful to point out that it was still ten minutes before her bedtime, understanding perfectly that the indiscreetness of Mr. Monteagle Almond’s conversation was responsible for her accelerated departure.

She had learnt that she was really going to school, and she was happy.

Aunt Beryl gradually became reconciled to the loss of her pupil, and presently began to show signs of pride in Lydia’s advancement.

Once or twice Lydia heard her talking to Mrs. Jackson in the rapid undertones always adopted by Aunt Beryl and Aunt Evelyn with their friends.

“Quite a backward child, when she came to us last year. Between ourselves, my sister-in-law never took much trouble.... I was quite against sending her to Miss Glover’s at first--you know, I thought she’d be so behind in everything. So she was, too, but the way that child has picked up! You really wouldn’t believe it--I’m sure half the sums in her book I couldn’t do myself. Never was good at figures.”

Lydia was very proud of her faculty for arithmetic. She thought very little of being first in her class for English composition, and none of the other girls thought much of it either, but they all envied her when the weekly announcement came, as it frequently did:

“Problem No. 15. No one got that right except Lydia Raymond. Stand up, Lydia Raymond, and show the class the working of No. 15 on the black-board. ‘If a train left Glasgow at 8.45 a.m. on Wednesday, travelling at the rate of 60 miles an hour----’”

Lydia enjoyed those problems, worked by herself on the black-board in full view of half-a-dozen befogged, pencil-chewing seniors.

But for her French, Lydia would have found herself more highly placed than she was in the school.

Monday and Thursday afternoons.

O horrible verbs, O hateful _Première Année de Grammaire_, and thrice-hateful genders!

_Why_ should a table be feminine and an arm-chair masculine?

Lydia hated her French, and continued to say “Esker le feneter de la salong ay ouvere?” in a lamentable voice and an unalterably British accent. Very few of Miss Glover’s girls were “good at French.” Only three had any acquaintance with German, and of these one was Dutch.

Many of them could play the piano correctly, and even brilliantly, some of them could copy free-hand drawings or plaster casts, but hardly one could write a letter without making mistakes in spelling, punctuation, and English. All, unconsciously enough, were more or less defective in the correct pronunciation of English.

Since brains, in Great Britain, are for the most part the prerogative of the middle classes, it follows that their possessors enjoy a certain prestige among their compeers which would, on those same grounds, be denied them in more exalted circles.

Lydia found that her schoolfellows were proud of her cleverness, and disposed to seek her friendship.

She easily assumed leadership amongst the group of girls of her own age who were also day boarders at Miss Glover’s.

“_Do_ help me with this beastly sum, Lydia. I’m sure you can do it.”

Lydia always acceded very graciously to such frequent requests, partly because she loved to show her own superior attainments, and partly because of a very definite conviction, which she had never yet put into words, that it was always worth while to show oneself agreeable. In consequence of this complaisance, she was seldom at a loss for companionship in play-time. There was always someone to walk about with, arms round one another’s waists after the immemorial schoolgirl practice, heads close together under black or scarlet tam o’ shanter, for a better exchange of confidences.

Then Lydia put into practice Grandpapa’s Golden Rule: _Always let the other people talk about themselves._

“I say, Lydia, I’ll tell you a secret. Mind, now, you’re not to say a word to anyone, because I promised not to tell ... but I know I can trust you?”

An interrogative turn to that last sentence.

“Yes, truly you can, Ethel. Tell me.”

“Well, promise you won’t tell. Not even if you’re asked?”

“Cross my heart----” in the glib, accustomed formula.

“Well, then, Daisy Butcher and May Holt have had a row. You know what _frightful_ friends they’ve been ever since the beginning of the term? Well, it’s all over, and they’ve quarrelled. Only don’t ever say I said so because Edith told me, and I said I wouldn’t say because it was May Holt herself who told her, and she made her promise not to say. I wouldn’t say a word myself, only I really thought you _ought_ to know, sitting next to May in class and everything. I say, do you _like_ May Holt?”

Lydia, who thought May Holt common and stupid, was for a moment tempted to say so. Then, innate caution and a distrust of her companion’s garrulity restrained her.

“She’s all right,” she said vaguely. “I thought you were rather friends with her?”

“Not now,” said Ethel hastily. “If the quarrel comes out and there’s any taking sides, I shall be on Daisy’s side. I think May Holt’s been awfully mean. I simply can’t bear mean ways. I’m like that, you know.”

Thus Ethel’s confidences, similar to scores of others, all ending in an exposition of the speaker’s view of her own personal traits of character.

Storms raged in teacups, confidences were violated, the identical Ethel who had sworn Lydia to secrecy on the May and Daisy quarrel, found herself taxed with various indiscreet utterances and sent to Coventry.

“Well, it was Edith who told me, and she said May Holt was a liar, what’s more,” sobbed Ethel, in counter-accusation that availed her nothing, although it raised fresh and terrible issues between herself and Edith, and again between Edith and May Holt, and all May Holt’s partisans.

Lydia listened to it all, and thought how clever she had been to keep clear of all this trouble.

It was a thing always to be remembered--the unwisdom of uttering opinions that would probably be repeated to their object--never, never to say anything that could not be safely repeated without making for one an enemy.

Lydia silently added this conviction to her increasing store of worldly wisdom.

So she welcomed the confidences of the other girls, most of whom seemed quite unable to prevent themselves from talking, and she was at the same time very careful never to render herself unpopular by mischief-making or by carrying backwards and forwards any of their indiscreet utterances.

“You can always trust Lydia,” said one or two of the girls.

And once she heard one of them exclaim:

“I’ve never heard Lydia Raymond say an unkind word about anybody.”

It sounded very sweet and charitable, but Lydia, with a sense of humour not unlike her grandfather’s, had a little grim, private laugh at the irony of it.

Several of her schoolfellows asked her to tea, or to an occasional picnic in the summer, but Lydia very often regretfully said that her aunt did not like her to go out much, and declined the invitations, without ever referring them to Aunt Beryl at all.

She had a fastidious idea that she did not want to be reputed “great friends” with the children of the more superior tradespeople, or even with the two youthful social lights of the establishment, the daughters of a rich local dentist.

Instinct, and certain recollections of her mother, led her to seek the friendship of a quiet little girl, actually a boarder, whose home was in the west of England, and of whom Lydia only knew that her father was a clergyman, and that she had nice manners and somehow spoke differently from the others. Her name was Nathalie Palmer.

Nathalie did not make so many confidences as did the other girls, and when she did talk to Lydia it was of Devonshire and of her own home, not of the people at school.

This Lydia observed, instinctively approved, and inwardly made note of for future imitation.

As Nathalie knew no one outside the school, she was naturally unable to ask Lydia to come home with her, but just before the midsummer break-up her father came to visit her.

He stayed for two days at the Seaview Hotel, and Nathalie took Lydia to luncheon there.

Mr. Palmer looked old to be the father of fourteen-year-old Nathalie, and had a slow, clerical manner of speech that rather overawed Lydia.

She had never had a meal at any hotel since the days with her mother and father in London, that seemed now so immeasurably remote, and she felt rather nervous. Politely answering Mr. Palmer’s kind inquiries as to her place in class, her favourite games and lessons, she was all the time anxiously casting surreptitious glances at Nathalie to see how she helped herself to the strange and numerous dishes proffered by the waiter.

Aunt Beryl was very particular about “table-manners,” but at Regency Terrace there was never any such bewildering profusion of knives and forks to perplex one.

Once Lydia embarked upon the butter-dish, offered by Mr. Palmer, with her own small knife, and then, leaving it in the butter-dish, found only a very large knife left beside her plate with which to spread it.

Shame and disaster threatened.

Lydia looked up, and her distressed gaze met that of a waiter. To her own effable surprise, she made a movement of her head that brought him deferentially to her elbow with the required implement. Simplicity itself!

Lydia inwardly decided that one need never be frightened, in the most unaccustomed surroundings, if only one kept one’s head and never betrayed any sense of insecurity.

Next day she had the gratification of being shyly told by Nathalie:

“Father said what a pretty face you had, Lydia, and what nice manners. He was so glad I’d got such a nice friend, and he said I might ask you whether one day your aunt would let you come and stay with us during the holidays.”

IV

When Lydia was fifteen, expectant of Honours in her examinations, highly placed in the school, and with a secret hope that the following term might see her Head of the School--and that, moreover, at an unprecedently early age--unexpected disaster overtook her.

The three placid years at Regency Terrace had been so little marked by any changes that she had forgotten that old sense of the insecurity and impermanence of life, bred of early days with her mother, and it came as a shock to her that anything should interfere seriously with her schemes.

Quite unexpectedly she fell ill.

“I don’t like that cough of yours, Lydia.”

“It’s only a cold, auntie.”

“It doesn’t seem to get any better. Let me see, how long have you had it now?”

Lydia pretended to think that Aunt Beryl was only talking to herself, and bent lower over her books. She always worked at her preparation in the evenings after supper now.

It was damp, chilly weather, and her cough grew worse, although she stifled it as far as possible, and said nothing about the pains in her back and sides.

Aunt Beryl brought her a bottle of cough mixture recommended by Mrs. Jackson, and Lydia put it on the mantlepiece in her bedroom, and carefully dusted the bottle every day, and sometimes poured away a little of the contents.

But one morning, one important morning when there was a French lesson which it was essential that Lydia, with whom French still remained the weakest of links in an otherwise well-forged chain, should attend, she found herself quite unable to go downstairs to breakfast.

Her head swam, her eyes and mouth were burning, and her legs unaccountably trembled beneath her.

“No such thing as _can’t_,” muttered Lydia fiercely, repeating Grandpapa’s favourite axiom.

The pain in her side had increased without warning, and suddenly gave her an unendurable stab every time that she tried to move.

“_Oh!_”

Lydia sank back on the bed, and found herself crying hoarsely from pain and dismay. Surely even Grandpapa would admit the necessity for saying “can’t” at last.

But Lydia did not see Grandpapa for some time after that morning.

She lay in bed with a fire in the room, sometimes suffering a great deal of pain, and sometimes in a sort of strange, jumbled dream, when the pattern of the wall paper turned into mysterious columns of figures that would never add up, and French Irregular Verbs danced across the ceiling.

Aunt Beryl nursed her all day and sat up with her at nights very often, and Dr. Young came to see her every day.

Once he said to her:

“You’re a very good patient. I don’t know what we should have done with you if you hadn’t been a good, reasonable girl, and done everything you were told.”

Lydia was pleased.

“Am I very ill?” she asked.

“Oh, you’ve turned the corner nicely now,” said Dr. Young cheerfully. “But pneumonia’s no joke, and you’ll have to be careful for a long while yet.”

“Shan’t I be able to go up for the examination?”

“Let me see--that’s about a month off. We shall have to see about that.”

Dr. Young’s daughter was at Miss Glover’s school, too, and he knew all about the terrible importance of the examination. Nevertheless, he gave Lydia no permission to resume her studies.

“Don’t worry, dear, there’s plenty of time before you, and now I’ve got some nice fruit jelly for you,” said Aunt Beryl, and Lydia always thanked her very gratefully and lay back against the pillow, trying all the time to recapitulate the French verbs and the list of Exceptions to Rules that she had been learning when she first fell ill.

Except for anxiety about the examination, convalescence was agreeable.

Uncle George came up to see her one day, and brought her some grapes, and explained to her why it was that the great pieces of ice in her glass of barley-water did not cause it to overflow, quite in the old Mr. Barlow manner, and once Nathalie Palmer came by invitation and had tea with her upstairs, and told her how sorry all the girls had been about her illness.

“And you’ll miss the exam,” moaned Nathalie, “and it seems such a shame. I know you’d have done splendidly.”

“What have you been having in class?” asked Lydia.

“Almost all recapitulation. The only really new thing that we’re doing is _Henry V._ for literature.”

That evening Lydia made Gertrude, the servant, bring her the volume of Shakespeare from the drawing-room.

Her brain felt quite clear now, and her eyes no longer hurt her when she tried to read.

Next day she was allowed to go downstairs for tea.

Aunt Beryl, who looked very tired and sallow, helped her to dress, and Uncle George came upstairs to fetch her, and they both supported her very carefully down the stairs and into the drawing-room, where a fire had been lit, and a special tea laid on a little table beside the arm-chair.

Grandpapa, with Shamrock prancing unrestainedly at his feet, and the parrot, brought up from the dining-room, hanging upside down in his cage on the centre-table, were all waiting to welcome her.

“Very glad to see you down, me dear,” said Grandpapa, shaking hands with her formally. “A nasty time you’ve had, a very nasty time, I’m afraid.”

“She’s been such a good girl, Grandpapa,” said Aunt Beryl, raising her voice as though by a great effort. “Dr. Young says she’s the best patient he’s ever had.”

“Did you have to swallow a great deal of physic, Lyddie? Ah, a very disagreeable thing, physic,” said Grandpapa, who was ordered a certain draught daily, which he was only too apt to pour away into the nearest receptacle in the face of all Aunt Beryl’s protests.

“Mr. Almond asked after you on Wednesday, Lydia. He has been quite concerned over your illness,” Uncle George told her.

Lydia sat back in the arm-chair, her long plaits falling over either shoulder, and could not help feeling that all this attention was rather agreeable.

Aunt Beryl’s friend, Mrs. Jackson, “stepped in,” to ask how she felt, and to borrow a paper pattern for a blouse, and said she had also heard from Dr. Young and other sources what a good patient Lydia had been.

“And so hard on you, poor child, missing your examinations and all.”

“Perhaps Dr. Young will let me go,” said Lydia wistfully: “It’s only four days, and not till next week.”

Mrs. Jackson shook her head doubtfully.

“The Town Hall is well warmed, with those pipes and all, but I don’t know. Perhaps if you could go in a closed cab, well wrapped up.... But you’ve missed such a lot of study, haven’t you?”

“I know,” said Lydia dejectedly.