“Oh, I hope they won’t be too hard on her,” said Mother in quick alarm. “Shut the side gate, will you. Those children have left it open again. And, Sarah, I think we’ll turn out the drawing-room.”
Sarah grunted to herself as she went to close the gate. This had not entered into her scheme of work for the day, and her cooking was still undone. But she did not gainsay her mistress, as she otherwise would have made no scruple of doing; for she knew that nothing was more helpful to the latter in a crisis than hard, manual work. Besides, Sarah herself had a sneaking weakness for what she called “dra’in’-room days.” For the drawing-room was the storehouse of what treasures had remained over from a past prosperity. It was crowded with bric-a-brac and ornament; and as her mistress took these objects up one by one, to dust and polish them, she would, if she were in a good humour, tell Sarah where and how they had been bought, or describe the places they had originally come from: so that Sarah, pausing broom in hand to listen, had with time gathered some vague ideas of a country like “Inja,” for example, whence came the little silver “pagody,” and the expressionless brass god who squatted vacantly and at ease.
III
As long as the coach rolled down the main street Laura sat bolt upright at the window. In fancy she heard people telling one another that this was little Miss Rambotham going to school. She was particularly glad that just as they went past the Commercial Hotel, Miss Perrotet, the landlord’s red-haired daughter, should put her fuzzy head out of the window—for Miss Perrotet had also been to boarding-school, and thought very highly of herself in consequence, though it had only been for a year, to finish. At the National Bank the manager’s wife waved a friendly hand to the children, and at the Royal Mail Hotel where they drew up for passengers or commissions, Mrs. Paget, the stout landlady, came out, smoothing down her black satin apron.
“Well, I’m sure I wonder your ma likes sendin’ you off so alone.”
The ride had comforted Pin a little; but when they had passed the chief stores and the flour-mill, and were come to a part of the road where the houses were fewer, her tears broke out afresh. The very last house was left behind, the high machinery of the claims came into view, the watery flats where Chinamen were forever rocking washdirt in cradles; and O’Donnell dismounted and opened the door. He lifted the three out one by one, shaking his head in humorous dismay at Pin, and as little Frank showed sighs of beginning, too, by puckering up his face and doubling up his body, the kindly man tried to make them laugh by asking if he had the stomachache. Laura had one more glimpse of the children standing hand in hand—even in her trouble Pin did not forget her charges—then a sharp bend in the road hid them from her sight.
She was alone in the capacious body of the coach, alone, and the proud excitement of parting was over. The staunchly repressed tears welled up with a gush, and flinging herself down across the seat she cried bitterly. It was not a childishly irresponsible grief like Pin’s: it was more passionate, and went deeper; and her overloaded feelings were soon relieved. But as she was not used to crying, she missed the moment at which she might have checked herself, and went on shedding tears after they had become a luxury.
“Why, goodness gracious, what’s this?” cried a loud, cheerful and astonished voice, and a fat, rosy face beamed in on Laura. “Why, here’s a little girl in here, cryin’ fit to break ’er heart. Come, come, my dear, what’s the matter? Don’t cry like that, now don’t.”
The coach had stopped, the door opened and a stout woman climbed in, bearing a big basket, and followed by a young man with straw-coloured whiskers. Laura sat up like a dart and pulled her hat straight, crimson with mortification at being discovered in such a plight. She had instantly curbed her tears, but she could not disguise the fact that she had red eyes and a swollen nose—that she was in short what Sarah called “all bunged up.” She made no reply to the newcomer’s exclamations, but sat clutching her handkerchief and staring out of the window. The woman’s good-natured curiosity, however, was not to be done.
“You poor little thing, you!” she persisted. “Wherever are you goin’, my dear, so alone?”
“I’m going to boarding-school,” said Laura, and shot a glance at the couple opposite.
“To boardin’-school? Peter! D’you hear?—Why, whatever’s your ma thinkin’ of to send such a little chick as you to boardin’-school? … and so alone, too.”
Laura’s face took on a curious air of dignity.
“I’m not so very little,” she answered; and went on to explain, in phrases which she had heard so often that she knew them by heart: “Only small for my age. I was twelve in spring. And I have to go to school, because I’ve learnt all I can at home.”
This failed to impress the woman.
“Snakes alive!—that’s young enough in all conscience. And such a delicate little creature, too. Just like that one o’ Sam MacFarlane’s that popped off last Christmas—isn’t she, Peter?”
Peter, who avoided looking at Laura, sheepishly
