“O ki, John!” she greeted her, being in a vast good-humour. “What do you look so black for?”
“Dunno. Why do you never walk with me nowadays, Laura? I say, you know about that ring? You haven’t forgotten?”
“Course not. When am I to get it? It never turns up.” Her eyes glittered as she asked, for she foresaw a further link in her chain. “Soon, now?”
Chinky nodded mysteriously. “Pretty soon. And you promise faithfully never to take it off?”
“But it must be a nice one … with a red stone in it. And listen, Chink, no one must ever know it was you who gave it me.”
“All right, I swear. You’re a darling to say you’ll wear it,” and putting her arm round Laura’s shoulders, Chinky gave her a hearty kiss.
This was more than Laura had bargained for;—she freed herself, ungraciously. “Oh, don’t!—now mind, a red stone, and for the third finger of the left hand.”
“Yes. And Laura, I’ve thought of something to put inside. Semper eadem … do you like that, Laura?”
“It’ll do. Look out, there’s old Day!” and leaving Chinky standing, she ran down the corridor to her room.
XVIII
Der Verbrecher ist haüfig genug seiner Tat nicht gewachsen.
Nietzsche
For a month or more, Laura fed like a honeybee on the sweets of success. And throve—even to the blindest eye. What had hitherto been lacking was now hers: the admiration and applause of her circle. And never was a child so spurred and uplifted by praise as Laura. Without it, her nature tended to be wary and unproductive; and those in touch with her, had they wished to make the most of her, would no more have stinted with the necessary incentive, that one stints a delicate rose tree in aids to growth. Laura could swallow praise in large doses, without becoming over-sure. Under the present stimulus she sat top in a couple of classes, grew slightly ruddier in face, and much less shrinking in manner.
“Call her back at once and make her shut that door,” cried Miss Day thickly, from behind one of the long, dining-hall tables, on which were ranged stacks and piles of clean linen. She had been on early duty since six o’clock.
The pupil-teacher in attendance stepped obediently into the passage; and Laura returned.
“Doors are made to be shut, Laura Rambotham, I’d have you remember that!” fumed Miss Day in the same indistinct voice: she was in the grip of a heavy cold, which had not been improved by the draughts of the hall.
“I’m sorry, Miss Day. I thought I had. I was a little late.”
“That’s your own lookout,” barked the governess. “Oh, there you are at last, Miss Snodgrass. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to appear at all this morning. It’s close on a quarter past seven.”
“Sorry,” said Miss Snodgrass laconically. “My watch must be losing. Well, I suppose I can begin by marking Laura Rambotham down late. What on earth are you standing there holding the door for?”
“Miss Day knows—I don’t,” sauced Laura, and made her escape.
She did not let Miss Snodgrass’s bad mark disturb her. No sooner had she begun her practising than she fell to work again on the theme that occupied all her leisure moments, and was threatening to assume the bulk of an early Victorian novel. But she now built at her top-heavy edifice for her own enjoyment; and the usual fate of the robust liar had overtaken her: she was beginning to believe in her own lies. Still she never ventured to relax her critical alertness, her careful surveillance of detail. For, just a day or two before, she had seen a quick flare-up of incredulity light Tilly’s face, and oddly enough this had happened when she tried her audience with a fact, a simple little fact, an incident that had really occurred. She had killed the doubt, instantly, by smothering it with a fiction; but she could not forget that it had existed. It has very perplexing; for otherwise her hearers did not shy at a mortal thing; she could drive them where and how she chose.
At the present moment she was planning a great coup: nothing more or less than a frustrated attempt on her virtue. It was almost ready to be submitted to them—for she had read Pamela with heartfelt interest during the holidays—and only a few connecting links were missing, with which to complete her own case.
Then, without the slightest warning, the blow fell.
It was a Sunday afternoon; the half-hour that preceded Sunday school. Laura, in company with several others, was in the garden, getting her Bible chapter by heart, when Maria called her.
“Laura! Come here. I want to tell you something.”
Laura approached, her lips in busy motion. “What’s up?”
“I say, chicken, your nose is going to be put out of joint.”
“Mine? What do you mean?” queried Laura, and had a faint sense of impending disaster.
“What I say. M. Pidwall’s asked to the you-know-who’s next Saturday.”
“No, she’s not!” cried Laura vehemently, and clapped her Bible to.
“S’help me God, she is,” asserted Maria. “Look out, don’t set the place on fire.”
“How do you know? … who told you?”
“M. P. herself—Gosh, but you are a jealous little cub. Oh, go on, Kiddy, don’t take it like that. I guess he won’t give you away.”—For Laura was as pale as a moment before she had been scarlet.
Alleging a violent headache, she mounted to her room, and sat down on her bed. She felt stunned, and it took her some time to recover her wits. Sitting on the extreme edge of the bedstead, she stared at the objects in the room without seeing them. “M. P.’s going there on Saturday … M. P.’s going there on Saturday,” she repeated stupidly, and, with her hands pressed on her hips, rocked herself to and fro, after the fashion of an older
