The Getting of Wisdom | Page 7

for Pin, owed to her rotund little body and mere sticks of legs--she was "all belly" as Sarah put it--and the mere mention of it made Pin fly; for she was very touchy about her legs.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Laura sprang out of bed and, waiting neither to wash herself nor to say her prayers, began to pull on her clothes, confusing strings and buttons in her haste, and quite forgetting that on this eventful morning she had meant to dress herself with more than ordinary care. She was just lacing her shoes when Sarah looked in.
"Why, Miss Laura, don't you know your ma wants you?"
"It's too late. I'm dressed now," said Laura darkly.
Sarah shook her head. "Missis'll be fine an' angry. An' you needn't 'ave 'ad a row on your last day."
Laura stole out of the door and ran down the garden to the summer-house. This, the size of a goodly room, was formed of a single dense, hairy-leafed tree, round the trunk of which a seat was built. Here she cowered, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Her face wore the stiff expression that went by the name of "Laura's sulks," but her eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared animal. If Sarah came to fetch her she would hold on to the seat with both hands. But even if she had to yield to Sarah's greater strength--well, at least she was up and dressed. Not like the last time--about a week ago Mother had tried this kind of thing. Then, she had been caught unawares. She had gone into Pin's warm place, curious and unsuspecting, and thereupon Mother had begun to talk seriously to her, and not with her usual directness. She had reminded Laura that she was growing up apace and would soon be a woman; had told her that she must now begin to give up childish habits, and learn to behave in a modest and womanly way--all disagreeable, disturbing things, which Laura did not in the least want to hear. When it became clear to her what it was about, she had thrown back the bedclothes and escaped from the room. And since then she had been careful never to be long alone with Mother.
But now half an hour went by and no one came to fetch her: her grim little face relaxed. She felt very hungry, too, and when at length she heard Pin calling, she jumped up and betrayed her hiding-place.
"Laura! Laura, where are you? Mother says to come to breakfast and not be silly. The coach'll be here in an hour."
Taking hands the sisters ran to the house.
In the passage, Sarah was busy roping a battered tin box. With their own hands the little boys had been allowed to paste on this a big sheet of notepaper, which bore, in Mother's writing, the words:
Miss Laura Tweedle Rambotham The Ladies' College Melbourne.
Mother herself was standing at the breakfast-table cutting sandwiches.
"Come and eat your breakfast, child," was all she said at the moment. "The tea's quite cold."
Laura sat down and fell to with appetite, but also with a side-glance at the generous pile of bread and meat growing under Mother's hands.
"I shall never eat all that," she said ungraciously; it galled her still to be considered a greedy child with an insatiable stomach.
"I know better than you do what you'll eat," said Mother. "You'll be hungry enough by this evening I can tell you, not getting any dinner."
Pin's face fell at this prospect. "Oh, mother, won't she really get any dinner?" she asked: and to her soft little heart going to school began to seem one of the blackest experiences life held.
"Why, she'll be in the train, stupid, 'ow can she?" said Sarah. "Do you think trains give you dinners?"
"Oh, mother, please cut ever such a lot!" begged Pin sniffing valiantly.
Laura began to feel somewhat moved herself at this solicitude, and choked down a lump in her throat with a gulp of tea. But when Pin had gone with Sarah to pick some nectarines, Mother's face grew stern, and Laura's emotion passed.
"I feel more troubled about you than I can say, Laura. I don't know how you'll ever get on in life--you're so disobedient and self-willed. It would serve you very well right, I'm sure, for not coming this morning, if I didn't give you a penny of pocket-money to take to school."
Laura had heard this threat before, and thought it wiser not to reply. Gobbling up the rest of her breakfast she slipped away.
With the other children at her heels she made a round of the garden, bidding good-bye to things and places. There were the two summer-houses in which she had played house; in which she had cooked and