for your own good, shown you your faults, you bear malice against me, and say that you don’t care whether we part friends or not!”
“I didn’t say so.”
“Oh, Gertrude, you know you did,” said Jane.
“You seem to think that I have no conscience,” said Gertrude querulously.
“I wish you hadn’t,” said Agatha. “Look at me! I have no conscience, and see how much pleasanter I am!”
“You care for no one but yourself,” said Gertrude. “You never think that other people have feelings too. No one ever considers me.”
“Oh, I like to hear you talk,” cried Jane ironically. “You are considered a great deal more than is good for you; and the more you are considered the more you want to be considered.”
“As if,” declaimed Agatha theatrically, “increase of appetite did grow by what it fed on. Shakespeare!”
“Bother Shakespeare,” said Jane, impetuously, “—old fool that expects credit for saying things that everybody knows! But if you complain of not being considered, Gertrude, how would you like to be me, whom everybody sets down as a fool? But I am not such a fool as—”
“As you look,” interposed Agatha. “I have told you so scores of times, Jane; and I am glad that you have adopted my opinion at last. Which would you rather be, a greater fool than y—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Jane, impatiently; “you have asked me that twice this week already.”
The three were silent for some seconds after this: Agatha meditating, Gertrude moody, Jane vacant and restless. At last Agatha said:
“And are you two also smarting under a sense of the inconsiderateness and selfishness of the rest of the world—both misunderstood—everything expected from you, and no allowances made for you?”
“I don’t know what you mean by both of us,” said Gertrude coldly.
“Neither do I,” said Jane angrily. “That is just the way people treat me. You may laugh, Agatha; and she may turn up her nose as much as she likes; you know it’s true. But the idea of Gertrude wanting to make out that she isn’t considered is nothing but sentimentality, and vanity, and nonsense.”
“You are exceedingly rude, Miss Carpenter,” said Gertrude.
“My manners are as good as yours, and perhaps better,” retorted Jane. “My family is as good, anyhow.”
“Children, children,” said Agatha, admonitorily, “do not forget that you are sworn friends.”
“We didn’t swear,” said Jane. “We were to have been three sworn friends, and Gertrude and I were willing, but you wouldn’t swear, and so the bargain was cried off.”
“Just so,” said Agatha; “and the result is that I spend all my time in keeping peace between you. And now, to go back to our subject, may I ask whether it has ever occurred to you that no one ever considers me?”
“I suppose you think that very funny. You take good care to make yourself considered,” sneered Jane.
“You cannot say that I do not consider you,” said Gertrude reproachfully.
“Not when I tickle you, dear.”
“I consider you, and I am not ticklesome,” said Jane tenderly.
“Indeed! Let me try,” said Agatha, slipping her arm about Jane’s ample waist, and eliciting a piercing combination of laugh and scream from her.
“Sh—sh,” whispered Gertrude quickly. “Don’t you see the Lady Abbess?”
Miss Wilson had just entered the room. Agatha, without appearing to be aware of her presence, stealthily withdrew her arm, and said aloud:
“How can you make such a noise, Jane? You will disturb the whole house.”
Jane reddened with indignation, but had to remain silent, for the eyes of the principal were upon her. Miss Wilson had her bonnet on. She announced that she was going to walk to Lyvern, the nearest village. Did any of the sixth form young ladies wish to accompany her?
Agatha jumped from her seat at once, and Jane smothered a laugh.
“Miss Wilson said the sixth form, Miss Wylie,” said Miss Ward, who had entered also. “You are not in the sixth form.”
“No,” said Agatha sweetly, “but I want to go, if I may.”
Miss Wilson looked round. The sixth form consisted of four studious young ladies, whose goal in life for the present was an examination by one of the Universities, or, as the college phrase was, “the Cambridge Local.” None of them responded.
“Fifth form, then,” said Miss Wilson.
Jane, Gertrude, and four others rose and stood with Agatha.
“Very well,” said Miss Wilson. “Do not be long dressing.”
They left the room quietly, and dashed at the staircase the moment they were out of sight. Agatha, though void of emulation for the Cambridge Local, always competed with ardor for the honor of being first up or down stairs.
They soon returned, clad for walking, and left the college in procession, two by two, Jane and Agatha leading, Gertrude and Miss Wilson coming last. The road to Lyvern lay through acres of pasture land, formerly arable, now abandoned to cattle, which made more money for the landlord than the men whom they had displaced. Miss Wilson’s young ladies, being instructed in economics, knew that this proved that the land was being used to produce what was most wanted from it; and if all the advantage went to the landlord, that was but natural, as he was the chief gentleman in the neighborhood. Still the arrangement had its disagreeable side; for it involved a great many cows, which made them afraid to cross the fields; a great many tramps, who made them afraid to walk the roads; and a scarcity of gentlemen subjects for the maiden art of fascination.
The sky was cloudy. Agatha, reckless of dusty stockings, waded through the heaps of fallen leaves with the delight of a child paddling in the sea; Gertrude picked her steps carefully, and the rest tramped along, chatting subduedly, occasionally making some scientific or philosophical remark in a louder tone, in order that Miss Wilson might overhear and give them due credit. Save a herdsman, who seemed to have caught something of the nature and expression of the beasts he tended, they met no one until they approached the village, where, on the brow of an acclivity, masculine humanity appeared in the shape of two curates: one tall, thin, close-shaven, with a book under his arm, and his neck craned forward; the other middle-sized, robust, upright, and aggressive, with short black whiskers, and an air of protest against such notions as that a clergyman may not marry, hunt, play cricket, or share the sports of honest laymen. The shaven one was Mr. Josephs, his companion Mr. Fairholme. Obvious scriptural perversions of this brace of names had been introduced by Agatha.
“Here come Pharaoh and Joseph,” she said to Jane. “Joseph will blush when you look at him. Pharaoh won’t blush until he passes Gertrude, so we shall lose that.”
“Josephs, indeed!” said Jane scornfully.
“He loves you, Jane. Thin persons like a fine armful of a woman. Pharaoh, who is a cad, likes blue blood on the same principle of the attraction of opposites. That is why he is captivated by Gertrude’s aristocratic air.”
“If he only knew how she despises him!”
“He is too vain to suspect it. Besides, Gertrude despises everyone, even us. Or, rather, she doesn’t despise anyone in particular, but is contemptuous by nature, just as you are stout.”
“Me! I had rather be stout than stuck-up. Ought we to bow?”
“I will, certainly. I want to make Pharoah blush, if I can.”
The two parsons had been simulating