The Unclassed | Page 5

she
took her place at the raised desk whence she was wont to survey the

little room.
There were present thirteen pupils, the oldest of them turned fifteen, the
youngest scarcely six. They appeared to be the daughters of respectable
people, probably of tradesmen in the neighbourhood. This school was
in Lisson Grove, in the north-west of London; a spot not to be pictured
from its name by those ignorant of the locality; in point of fact a dingy
street, with a mixture of shops and private houses. On the front door
was a plate displaying Miss Rutherford's name,--nothing more. That
lady herself was middle-aged, grave at all times, kindly, and, be it
added, fairly competent as things go in the world of school. The room
was rather bare, but the good fire necessitated by the winter season was
not wanting, and the plain boarding of the floor showed itself no
stranger to scrubbings. A clock hanging on the wall ticked very loudly
in the perfect stillness as the schoolmistress took her seat.
She appeared to examine a book for a few moments, then raised her
head, looked at the faces before her with a troubled expression, and
began to speak.
"I wish to know who can give me any account of the way in which
Harriet Smales received her hurt. Stop! Hands only, please. And only
those raise their hands who actually saw the blow struck, and overheard
all that led to it. You understand, now? One, two, three --seven
altogether, that is quite enough. Those seven will wait in the room at
four o'clock till the others have all gone. Now I will give the first class
their sums."
The afternoon passed Very slowly to teacher and pupils alike. When
the clock struck four, work was put away with more than the usual
noise and hurry. Miss Rutherford seemed for a time to be on the point
of making some new address to the school before the children departed,
but eventually she decided to keep silence, and the dismissal was got
over as quickly as possible. The seven witnesses remained, solemnly
seated at their desks, all anxious-looking.
"Lucy Wood," Miss Rutherford began, when the door was closed and
quiet, "you are the eldest. Please tell me all you can of this sad affair."
There was one of the seven faces far more discomposed than the rest, a
sweet and spiritual little countenance; it was tear-stained, red-eyed; the
eager look, the trembling lips spoke some intimate cause of sympathy.
Before the girl addressed had time to begin her answer, this other, one

would have said in spite of herself, intervened with an almost agonised
question.
"Oh, Miss Rutherford, is Harriet really dead?"
"Hush, hush!" said the lady, with a shocked look. "No, my dear, she is
only badly hurt."
"And she really won't die?" pleaded the child, with an instant
brightening of look.
"Certainly not, certainly not. Now be quiet, Maud, and let Lucy begin."
Lucy, a sensible and matter-of-fact girl, made a straightforward
narration, the facts of which were concurred in by her companions.
Harriet Smales, it seemed, had been exercising upon Ida for some days
her utmost powers of irritation, teasing her, as Lucy put it, "beyond all
bearing." The cause of this was not unknown in the school, and Miss
Rutherford remembered the incident from which the malice dated.
Harriet had copied a sum in class from Ida's slate-- she was always
copying from somebody--and the teacher, who had somehow detected
her, asked Ida plainly whether such was not the case. Ida made no reply,
would not speak, which of course was taken as confirmatory evidence,
and the culprit had accordingly received an imposition. Her spleen, thus
aroused, Harriet vented upon the other girl, who, she maintained, ought
to have stoutly denied the possibility of the alleged deceit, and so have
saved her. She gave poor Ida no rest, and her persecution had
culminated this afternoon; she began to "call Ida's mother names," the
result of which was that the assailed one suddenly snatched up her slate,
and, in an uncontrollable fit of passion, struck her tormentor a blow
with it upon the forehead.
"What did she call Ida's mother?" inquired Miss Rutherford, all at once
changing her look curiously.
"She called her a bad woman."
"Was that all?"
"No, please, Miss Rutherford," put in Maud eagerly. "She said she got
her living in the streets. And it isn't true. Ida's mother's a lady, and
doesn't sell things in the streets!"
The teacher looked down and was silent.
"I don't think I need ask any more questions," she said presently. "Run
away home all of you. What is it, my dear?"
Maud, she was about eleven, and small for her age, had remained

behind, and was looking anxiously up