Читать книгу The Second Form at St. Clare's - Enid blyton - Страница 5

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Miss Jenks made both the old second-formers into joint head-girls of the form. She and Miss Theobald, the Head Mistress, had had a talk about them, and had decided that perhaps it would be the making of them.

“Elsie is a spiteful type,” said Miss Jenks. “She has never been popular, though she would have liked to be—so she gets back at the others by being spiteful and saying nasty things. And Anna is bone-lazy—won’t do a thing if she can help it!”

“Well, a little responsibility may be good for them,” said Miss Theobald, thoughtfully. “It will give Elsie a sense of importance, and bring out any good in her—and Anna will have to bestir herself if she wants to keep her position. Let them both try.”

“I don’t know how they will work together,” said Miss Jenks, doubtfully. “They don’t like each other very much.”

“Let them try,” said Miss Theobald. “Elsie is quick, and she may stir Anna up a bit—and Anna is too lazy to be spiteful, so perhaps she will be good for Elsie in that way. But I too have my doubts!”

Elsie Fanshawe was delighted to be a joint head-girl—though, of course, she would very much rather have been the only one. Still, after being thoroughly disliked and kept down by the whole of the second form, it was quite a change to be top-dog!

“Now I can jolly well keep the others down and make them look up to me,” thought Elsie, pleased. “I can get some of my own back. These silly little first-formers, who have just come up, have got to learn to knuckle under a bit. I can make Anna agree with all I do—lazy thing! I’ll have every single one of the rules kept, and I’ll make a few of my own, if I want to—and I’ll report any one who gets out of hand. It’s worth-while not going up into the third form, to be top of the second!”

The others guessed a little what Elsie was thinking. Although they had not known the girl very well when they were first-formers, they had heard the others talking about her. They knew Elsie would try to “get her own back.”

“Just what a head-girl shouldn’t do,” said Janet. “She should try and set some sort of example to the others, or what’s the use of being a leader? Look at old Hilary, when she was head of the first form! She was a good sport and joined in everything—but she always knew where to draw the line without getting our backs up.”

“I can’t bear Elsie,” said Carlotta. “I would like to slap her hard.”

“Oh Carlotta! Have you still got that habit?” said Bobby, pretending to be shocked. “Really, a second-former, too! What would Elsie say!”

Elsie overheard the last remark. “What would I say to what?” she asked, coming up.

“Oh, nothing—Carlotta was simply saying she’d like to slap some one,” said Bobby, with a grin.

“Please understand, Carlotta, that you are in the second form now,” said Elsie, in a cold voice. “We don’t even talk of slapping people!”

“Yes, we do,” said Carlotta. “Wouldn’t you like to know whom I want to slap, dear Elsie?”

Elsie heard the danger-note in Carlotta’s high voice, and put her nose in the air.

“I’m not interested in your slapping habits,” she said, and walked off.

“Shut up now, Carlotta,” said Bobby. “Don’t go and get all wild and Spanish again. You were bad enough with Prudence last term!”

“Well, thank goodness old Sour-Milk Prudence was expelled!” said Carlotta. “I wouldn’t have stayed if she had come back!”

It was the hour when all the second form were in their common room, playing, working or chattering. They loved being together like that. The wireless blared at one end of the room, and Doris and Bobby danced a ridiculous dance to the music. Gladys Hillman sat in a corner, looking as miserable as usual. Nobody would make anything of her. Isabel looked at her and felt sorry. She went over to her.

“Come and dance,” she said. Gladys shook her head.

“What’s the matter?” asked Isabel. “Are you homesick? You’ll soon get over it.”

“Don’t bother me,” said Gladys. “I don’t bother you.”

“Yes, you do,” said Isabel. “You bother me a lot. I can’t bear to see you sitting here all alone, looking so miserable. Haven’t you been to boarding-school before?”

“No,” said Gladys. Her eyes filled with tears. Isabel felt a little impatient with her. Hadn’t she any courage at all?

“You don’t seem to enjoy a single thing,” said Isabel. “Don’t you like any lesson specially—or games—or something?”

“I like acting,” said Gladys, unexpectedly. “And I like lacrosse. That’s all. But I don’t like them here. I don’t like anything here.”

She wouldn’t say any more, and Isabel gave her up. She went across to Pat. “Hopeless!” she said. “Just a mass of self-pity and tears! She’ll fade away and we’ll never notice she’s gone if she doesn’t buck up! I’d almost rather have that rude Mirabel than Gladys.”

Mirabel had been the source of much annoyance and amusement to the second form. She was rude to the point of being unbearable, and reminded every one every day that she wasn’t going to stay a day beyond half-term.

“Don’t tell me that any more,” begged Bobby. “You can’t imagine how glad I am you’re going at half-term. It’s the only bright spot I can see. But I warn you—don’t be too rude to Mam’zelle, or sparks will fly—and don’t get on the high horse too much with our dear head-girl, Elsie Fanshawe, or you’ll get the worst of it. Elsie is pretty clever you know, and you’re rather stupid.”

“No, I’m not!” flashed Mirabel, angrily. “I only seem stupid because I don’t want to try—but you should hear me play the piano and the violin! Then you’d see!”

“Why, you don’t even learn music!” said Bobby. “And I’ve never seen you open your mouth in the singing class. We all came to the conclusion that you couldn’t sing a note.”

“That’s all you know!” said Mirabel, rudely. “Golly, what a school this is! I always knew boarding-school would be awful—but it’s worse than I expected. I hate living with a lot of rude girls who think they’re the cat’s whiskers just because they’ve been here a year or two!”

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Bobby, and walked off. “Really, what with you and the Misery-girl, and spiteful old Elsie we’re badly off this term!”

Miss Jenks kept a very firm hand on Mirabel. “You may not intend to work,” she said, “but you are not going to stop the others from working! You will do one of three things, my dear Mirabel—you will stay in the classroom and work—or you will stay in the classroom and do nothing at all, not even say a word—or you will go and stand outside the classroom till the lesson is finished!”

At first Mirabel thought it was marvellous to defy Miss Jenks and be sent outside. But she soon found it wearisome to stand there so long, waiting for the others to come out. Also, she was always a little afraid that the Head Mistress, Miss Theobald, would come along. Loudly as Mirabel declared that she cared for nobody, nobody at all at silly St. Clare’s, she was in awe of the quiet Head Mistress.

“Did you tell Miss Theobald that you didn’t mean to stay here longer than half-term?” asked Pat. Every girl had to go to see the Head Mistress when she arrived on the first day.

“Of course I did!” said Mirabel, tossing her head. “I told her I didn’t care for anyone, not even the Head!”

This was untrue. Mirabel had meant to say quite a lot—but Miss Theobald had somehow said it first. She had looked gravely at the red-eyed girl when she had come in, and had told her to sit down. Mirabel opened her mouth to speak, but Miss Theobald silenced her.

“I must finish this letter,” she said. “Then we will talk.”

She kept Mirabel waiting for ten minutes.

She kept Mirabel waiting for ten minutes. The girl studied the Head’s calm face, and felt a little awed. It would be difficult to be rude to someone like this. The longer she waited, the more difficult it would be to say what she had meant to say.

Miss Theobald raised her head at last. “Well, Mirabel,” she said, “I know you feel upset, angry and defiant. Your father insisted you should come away to school because you are spoilt and make his home unbearable. You also domineer over your smaller brother and sister. He chose St. Clare’s because he thought we might be able to do something for you. No—don’t interrupt me. Believe me, I know all you want to say—but you don’t know what I have to say.”

There was a pause. Even defiant Mirabel did not dare to say a word.

“We have had many difficult girls here,” said Miss Theobald. “We rather pride ourselves on getting the best out of them. You see, Mirabel, difficult children often have fine things hidden in their characters—things that perhaps more ordinary children don’t possess ...”

“What things?” asked Mirabel, interested in spite of herself.

“Well—sometimes difficult children have a great talent for something—a gift for art or drama, a talent for music—or maybe they have some great quality—out-standing courage, perhaps. Well, I don’t know if this is the case with you, or whether you are just a spoilt and unruly girl—we shall see. All I want to say now is—give yourself a chance and let me see if there is anything worthwhile in you this half-term. If there is not, we don’t want you to stay. We shall be glad for you to go.”

This was so unexpected that Mirabel again had nothing to say. She had meant to say that nothing on earth would make her stay at St. Clare’s beyond the half-term—but there was Miss Theobald saying that she didn’t want to keep her longer than that—unless—unless she was worth-while! Worth-while!

“I don’t care if I’m worth-while or not!” thought Mirabel to herself, indignantly. “And how dare Daddy write and tell Miss Theobald those things about me? Why couldn’t he keep our affairs to himself?”

Mirabel thought this thought aloud. “I think it was horrid of my father to tell you things about me,” she said, in a trembling voice.

“They were said in confidence to some one who understood,” said Miss Theobald. “Have you kept your own tongue quiet about your private affairs this afternoon, Mirabel? No—I rather think you gave yourself away to the whole school at tea-time when you arrived!”

Mirabel flushed. Yes—she had said far too much. She always did. She could not keep control over her tongue.

“You may go,” said Miss Theobald, picking up her pen again. “And remember—it is not St. Clare’s which is on trial—it is you! I hope I shall not say good-bye to you and rejoice to see the last of you at half-term. But—I shall not be surprised if I do!”

Mirabel went out of the room, her ears tingling, her face still red. She had been used to getting all her own way, to letting her tongue say what it pleased, and to ruling her parents and brother and sister as she pleased. When her father had at last declared in anger that she must go away, there had been a royal battle between them. The spoilt girl had imagined she could rule the roost at St. Clare’s too. But she certainly could not rule Miss Theobald!

“Never mind—I’ll lead everyone else a dance!” she thought. “I’ll show Daddy and the others that I mean what I say! I won’t be sent away from home if I don’t want to go.”

And so Mirabel set herself to be as annoying as possible, to spoil things for the others, and to try and domineer in the classroom, as she had always done at home. But she had not bargained for the treatment she got at last from an exasperated class.