The Philanthropist

Front matter

BY LUCY MAYNARD " LET OTHERS CHANT THE GODS OLYMPIAN WE ARE BUT MORTALS, AND MUST SING OF MEN." METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON TO E. C. O. IN RECOGNITION OF UNREMITTING SYMPATHY AND ENCOURAGEMENT CONTENTS FAGE Chapter I .... i Chapter II . . . . 19 Chapter III . . . . . 37 Chapter IV ..... 54 Chapter V . . . . . 71 Chapter VI ..... 84 Chapter VII ..... 92 Chapter VIII . . . . .106 Chapter IX . . . .115 Chapter X . . . . .124 Chapter XI .... . 145 Chapter XII ..... 163 Chapter XIII . . . . .175 Chapter XIV ..... 186 Chapter XV . . . . .199 Chapter XVI . . . . .211 Chapter XVII . . . . .220 Chapter XVIII .... 230 Chapter XIX ..... 238 CONTENTS FAGE Chapter XX 2+6 Chapter XXI 2S6 Chapter XXII .... .263 Chapter XXIII .... .270 Chapter XXIV 275 Chapter XXV 284 Chapter XXVI 291 Chapter XXVII . 3°3 Chapter XXVIII .... 308 Chapter XXIX . . . . . 317 Chapter XXX .....

Part I Chapter

I 'INHERE had been a cold rain all day sweeping ■*- across the lawn and beating against the windows of the National Orphan Asylum. But between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, the sky cleared, and the stars appeared over the trees in the garden. Penrose Frere, who was on duty in the girls' schoolroom, went once or twice to the long windows that opened on to the verandah and looked out anxiously. She returned at last to her seat and resumed her reading, satisfied that the rain had really ceased. The large schoolroom thinned by degrees. The younger classes got up to go to bed with considerable clatter, and the young governess had to put down her book and marshal them along the passages on their way to the dormitories. She returned with a sigh of relief to the elder girls who had not finished their preparation.

They were not noisy, and it was possible to go on reading without the constant interruptions caused by the little ones. She looked up every now and then to say : " Not so much talking," or " Go on with your work, please." But she spoke the words mechanically, and rather as a reminder of her presence than as a check on the whispers that were exchanged between the girls. Eight o'clock struck and Penrose shut up the " Heart of Midlothian " and called to the girls to close their books. This order was obeyed with alacrity, but the girls were in no hurry to go to bed. Upstairs, in the dormitories, talking was for bidden, and there was a brief interval that must be made the most of. They dawdled over collecting the books and slates, while Penrose looked at the clock, and tapped the desk impatiently.

On any other evening she would not have minded the delay, but to-night she was anxious for them to set her free. She spoke once or twice sharply, telling them to make haste. They answered sulkily. They generally counted on having an extra quarter of an hour when Miss Frere was on duty. If she had a book she was quiet, and as long as they made no great noise, she allowed them more grace than they could expect from the other governesses. They resented her punctuality, and it was well past eight o'clock before they had finished. Directly they had left the room Penrose opened the door and went through the passage, across the hall and to the Head Governess's room. There was the sound of voices and laughter within. She knocked, but her light tap was lost in the noise. She knocked again louder, and this time she heard " come in " — and the voices and laughing stopped.

Coming out from the big, cheerless schoolroom, the room which Penrose entered seemed to blaze with light. A red fire glowed in the grate, a lamp stood on the round table ; there were candles burning on the mantelpiece and on the open piano. There were pictures on the walls, knick-knacks everywhere, plants and flowers on the tables. The cosy chairs had been drawn up close to the fire, and the group that was sitting there turned to see who was the unwelcome intruder. Confused as Penrose was, she saw at a glance who formed the party. Miss Field, the head governess, sat on a low chair at the further end of the fire, shading her face from the heat with a handscreen ; by her side was Miss Scott, a girl of about eighteen, with a pretty innocent face and her hair neatly braided, and every detail of her dress expressing daintiness.

She had a piece of lace work in her lap, on which she had spread a white silk handkerchief, to prevent her dark dress soiling the thread that slipped so easily through her small fingers. Next to her sat Oliver Kenyon, the mathematical master on the boys' side of the house ; he was leaning back in a big armchair, his hands in his pockets, his feet extended before him, his handsome face marred by frowning brows, and a discontented expression about the lines of his mouth. Standing up in front of the fire, his coat tails gathered up under his arms, was a man of about four or five and thirty — Mr Stephen Scott. Penrose had known him all her life, or, at all events, during the greater portion of it which she had spent at the Orphanage. He had no profession, but farmed his own land, and had a pretty little place about a mile out of the town.

His tastes were philanthropic, his hobby — the Orphanage, and he spent most of his leisure in devising entertainments for the children and establishing for himself a certain position in the school. It was not a very propitious moment for one of the junior governesses to have appeared. The masters, on the boys' side of the house, were not supposed to mix with the mistresses. A casual meeting in the Matron's room was not to be avoided, but there was not supposed to be any direct encouragement to the masters to meet in any friendly way. Mr Kenyon's attitude betrayed a certain familiarity with Miss Field's comfortablest arm-chair that would not have been approved by the governors. Of course the younger governesses knew that there was a considerable relaxation of the rules but it is awkward to be caught in the full enjoy ment of transgression, and Miss Field drew herself up and said somewhat sharply : " What is it, Miss Frere ?

" Penrose coloured at the tone of her voice, and made her way silently to where Miss Field sat. " May I go across to the Infirmary and see my brother ? " she asked. "This evening? It's too late and it's still raining," objected Miss Field, wishing she had not been caught sitting on this little stool in such an un dignified attitude. " It doesn't rain now. I've looked, " You might have gone earlier, if you had only asked," went on Miss Field. " I couldn't, I was on duty." " I will take Miss Frere across, if you are anxious," said Mr Scott. " Thank you," answered Penrose, " but I am not in the least afraid. It's only just across the grounds." " Indeed there is no occasion to trouble you, Mr Scott," said Miss Field eagerly, " Miss Frere has often been as late as this." Penrose had learnt that it was inexpedient to express her feelings or she would have shown some surprise at this statement — she had never been to visit anyone at the Infirmary before.

" Have you shut up the schoolroom ? " asked Miss Field. "No, I thought I must speak to you first," answered Penrose. " Have you been through the dormitories ? " It is not yet half-past eight." "Then you cannot go to see your brother till you have finished your duties. After that you may go for a quarter of an hour." "Thank you," returned Penrose briefly. She would have left the room quietly, but Mr Scott, who was always anxious to impress himself upon the minds of the Orphanage people, stepped forward with a face of mild concern. " I'm sorry to hear your brother is at the Infirmary. I hope it's nothing serious." " He fell over the gymnasium bar in the play ground," answered Miss Field, as if she did not wish to encourage conversation between Mr Scott and a governess. " I did not know what was the matter.

I only heard he had been hurt," said Penrose. " Sprained his wrist," said the mathematical master shortly. He had not changed his position, or taken any notice of the interruption Penrose had caused, and he spoke now without raising his eyes or addressing anyone in particular. " Very tiresome for him," said Mr Scott sym pathetically. " Pray tell him I hope to go and see him very soon." He made as though he would shake hands with Penrose as he spoke, but she went to the door without appearing to notice the advance, and, once out of the room, ran across the hall and down the passage into the deserted schoolroom. It was part of her duty to inspect the three class-rooms and see that everything was left tidy. All toys or books found lying about were to be confiscated. With a disregard of this rule, Penrose picked up a doll off the floor and put it into the locker to which it belonged, and found a place for a paint-box that had been forgotten.

Then she turned out the lights in two of the rooms, but left one burning low in the large schoolroom, to which she intended returning, so as to have a chance of finishing her book before supper. There were still the dormitories to be in spected and she ran lightly up the stone staircase, stopping to look through each room and see that the gas had been turned out. Having visited each dormitory, she returned to the dimly-lighted school room and drew from her desk a little red shawl which she threw over her head and shoulders ; then, unlocking the door, she stepped out into the verandah. The night was clear and bright ; Pen rose went along quickly, past the boys' playground which was separated from the garden by an iron paling. A thick shrubbery formed a natural barrier between the masters' lawn and that part of the garden that was given up to the mistresses.

The path to the Infirmary ran along the edge of both lawns, and, just where the shrubbery was thickest, it was difficult for Penrose to see her way. She was not nervous, and her mind was too pre occupied for fears to arise in it without cause, but she gave a little start and drew back involuntarily when she saw the figure of a man leaning against the gate at the end of the narrow walk. It was well known to her that tramps frequented the Orphanage grounds, and she did not care to meet one alone. Moreover she could not pass through the gate without attracting his attention. She paused for a moment, unable to decide what to do. She felt it would be very tiresome to have to return to the schoolroom without seeing her brother ; there was no other private way to the Infirmary, and she knew she would not be allowed to go by the road.

As she paused the man left the gate and turned in her direction. Without a moment's hesitation she slipped behind one of the shrubs, and waited for him to pass. When he came down to where she crouched, he stopped and she began to feel frightened. But, looking up, she was greatly re lieved at seeing the supposed tramp was Mr Kenyon. She felt her position was ridiculous, and she could do nothing else but walk out of hiding and meet him. " I beg pardon — " he said, with some amusement in his voice. " I am so glad you are not a tramp," she said, laughing ; " when you turned, I hid." " I'm afraid I must have frightened you," he said. " Oh ! no, not at all — " she returned, " At least, I was just beginning to wish I was further away, when I recognised you." "How very stupid of me not to have spoken before.

I heard you coming, and I wondered why you had disappeared." Penrose was anxious to get on. She had been delayed a few minutes, and her time with her brother was shortened. Mr Kenyon turned and went by her side. " I will try and make amends, if I may, by seeing you safely to the Infirmary." She made some protest, but he stopped her. " I think it will be only fair — and it is no trouble. I came out for a smoke. Miss Field's room became very hot." Penrose remembered his attitude before the fire and smiled to herself. " I suppose you're as glad as the rest of us that the summer vacation will soon be here," he said after a pause. " Indeed I am. I was glad of the holidays when I was only a girl in the school." " Do you mean to say that, having been taught here, you are going on to live here as a governess ?

I should have thought you had had enough of the place." " It isn't my choice exactly — but I couldn't quarrel with any plan that kept me so near Robert." " Robert ? " IO " My brother." "Of course. I had forgotten, you had that interest on our side of the school. But Robert will be leaving soon. He is more than fifteen now." "But he's clever, isn't he? I may not be able to judge myself, but I always think he seems clever — and he has won prizes often," said Pen rose anxiously. She had never thought it possible that she should be in a position to find out what one of his masters could say for Robert. " Oh, yes — he's clever. But fifteen's an early age for a boy to be turned out into the world, and he's not over fond of learning." " But he will go on learning and trying to improve himself," said Penrose earnestly, " and then he will get on."

Mr Kenyon, thinking what an idle good-for nothing scamp Robert Frere was, could not respond to Penrose's hopes for him. He said nothing, but smoked his pipe in silence. They had come into the cricket field, and could see before them the two white houses that formed the Infirmary, gleaming in the moonlight. The two houses — little more than cottages — lay close together. Mr Kenyon opened the gate, and Pen rose said good-night, and went up to the door, framed with a little, old-fashioned porch, which was festooned with jasmine and clematis. She knocked, and a nurse, in a black dress and white frilled cap and apron, opened to her. " I'm come to see my brother," she explained. The nurse led the way up the uncarpeted stairs, and into a room — where a single gas jet was burning. The room was bare, but clean.

There was no carpet on the floor, and but scanty furni ture. There were three beds : two were empty : in the third, a boy was sitting up, straining his eyes over a book. He tucked the book under the pillow as the nurse and Penrose came in. " You've been reading again," said the nurse crossly. " I told you to leave off. It's no good your being here, if you won't do as you are bid." " Don't be cross, nursey. You're the loveliest woman I ever saw." " Give over that, and hand me that book, " I sha'n't, and you may go." " I'll report you — as sure as I live — " said the nurse crossly, as she left the room. " Robert ! You wretch ! what have you done to your wrist ? " said Penrose, sitting down on his bed and patting his cheek, a demonstration of affection he barely tolerated. " I dunno. Broken it or something.

Have you brought me a novel ? " " No, I haven't. I thought perhaps you'd be ever so ill, delirious or something, and you are as perky as ever. I hope you're going to be well by Distribution Day, because of the prizes." " The prizes ? Pooh ! You girls always think such a lot of prizes. Well, have you any news? Have you heard from the Aunt yet ? " " It's very odd, Robert. I haven't heard a word. Of course she'll write as usual and tell us to go to her for the holidays. She's pleased with me because I'm kept on this term as a full blown governess." " She'll expect you to be duly thankful." " Of course I'm thankful, and the Committee was only too glad to keep on someone who could play at the show-times, and teach all the little ones with out incurring any great expense." " Turn down the gas, Pen.

My head aches with reading. I say, what fun we'll have in the holidays." " Do you know, Robert, I had an adventure coming over here ? " " An adventure ? Impossible, in the grounds of this respectable place ! " " Don't scoff, Rob. It's a fact. I thought I saw a tramp." " And screamed, I suppose." " No, I didn't— I hid— I was frightened." " Of course you were." " And my tramp turned out to be your master, Mr Kenyon ! " " I don't like Kenyon," said Robert decisively. " Why not ? " " Oh, I don't know. He's always snubbing a fellow, and he's got such high and mighty ways with him." " You'll be having a visitor soon," said Penrose after a pause, during which she had wished vaguely that her brother had liked Mr Kenyon better. " The Matron, I suppose you mean ? " " No, Mr Scott ! " " May I be delivered !

He'll come in and patronise me, and send me some magazines, as he always does to all the fellows. Except that I don't think he cares much for me. I don't follow in his train sufficiently. I hate making up to a fellow like that, so that he shall take notice of one. But I'm hanged if it isn't enough to make one do something — sometimes. It's so dull." " Oh, Robert, if it is dull for boys, who can do more, it's much, much worse for girls. I'm so very sick of it sometimes. There's nothing so very hard I suppose — only it is very dull to be a governess, and teach all day, and never see anything outside the school." " Well, it doesn't matter so much for girls." " Yes, it does. I think it's worse for them to have no change, and nothing outside of themselves. They get so self-satisfied and egotistical, and those who are here all the year round give themselves the most airs, and are intolerable !

Well, I'm glad there are the holidays to look forward to." " There's the old nurse calling. You're supposed to go ; she has cut your time awfully short. When you come again, bring me a novel. If Mr Scott comes he won't bring me anything too exciting." " I may be able to come to-morrow, Robert ; but i4 THE PHILANTHROPIST I don't know. I'm on duty till quite late. There's an extra preparation for the first class.' "Well post me something if you can't leave. Good-night." " Good-night, Robert." She kissed him and went down-stairs. " It's nearly ten o'clock," said the nurse at the foot of the stairs. Penrose nodded good-night, and went out through the little garden, where the rain had brought out the scent of the wallflowers, and the jasmine that climbed about the lower windows of the house. She opened the gate and went out.

Someone was walking up and down the edge of the cricket ground. Penrose felt sure that it was Mr Kenyon. She found that she was right when he joined her. " Brother all right ? " he asked briefly. She was so astonished at his waiting for her that she could not answer at once — then she said : " He's pretty well, thank you," and straightway fell to considering what Miss Field would say if she came upon her. This thought made her nervous, as she stepped along by Mr Kenyon. She was not sure but she thought he lagged in his walk, and she was anxious to get in to supper. " Do you teach anything special, Miss Frere ? " asked Mr Kenyon, as they left the open cricket-field and entered the thickly shaded path of the masters' lawn. " Music chiefly ; I have a class also," answered Penrose demurely. The spontaneity that had marked her manner during her interview with her brother was entirely gone.

She was now the governess, giving guarded replies. " Dreadful drudgery teaching, isn't it ? " said Mr Kenyon. " Not always. It's dull sometimes certainly, but I don't mind it when the girls get on and try a little. Indeed I think the teaching is the best part of being at school." Mr Kenyon laughed shortly. " If it wasn't for the games I'd cut the whole thing. The boys are stupid enough, and one half of them sickly, but we have fair football and cricket teams, and we can get a good game sometimes against another school." "You are more fortunate than we are," said Penrose. " Have you no games ? I see the governesses playing tennis sometimes." " But they play so badly, and think they play so well. It's all among themselves too. We have no opportunity of playing with other schools." " But I think I've seen Mr Scott playing some times."

" Yes, but he's not a school, and I think it's worse when there's only one outsider like that allowed to come in. It makes the girls so silly — I mean — " said Penrose, who had been led away into saying more than she thought right or prudent, " I mean, of course, it's not the same as a good, hard game with strangers ; no one cares about winning, and no one plays any better at the end of the term than at the beginning." " I don't think I've ever seen you play." " I never play here. I'm too busy. I'm only a junior governess and there's plenty to do, and I have to practise very hard in my leisure time." " What do you practise ? " " The piano. They were at the opening in the boys' playground that led up to the masters' side of the building. Kenyon seemed inclined to continue the conversation, but Penrose felt she had been long enough away.

The clock from the town hall had chimed the quarter to ten, and the governesses would be at supper. She could see the light in the windows of the girls' schoolroom, and she knew she ought not to linger. The evening was cool after the rain and wind and she drew her shawl about her. Kenyon could see her face quite distinctly in the moonlight, and wondered that he had never noticed its comeliness before he had seen her in Miss Field's room that evening. The shawl over her head framed it becomingly. " Good night," she said with some abruptness, as she found he was looking at her without speaking. He was disappointed when she turned away so quickly, but could only answer good night and saunter up through the deserted playground to the ■7 masters' room. Mr Crawley, one of the junior masters, was practising a song for Distribution Day.

Crawley's forte was comic singing, which, combined with his good nature, lent him a popularity among the boys ; but it had been decided that comic sing ing was out of place on an occasion like the distribution of prizes, when a Bishop had promised to preside ; so, instead of the comic song that had delighted the hearts of the boys, Crawley had chosen a song of the ultra-sentimental kind, which he practised dili gently every evening, and, as Kenyon went up the steps, he heard " Come to me " in far off imitation of the leading tenor of the day. " There," he said, leaving the piano, as Kenyon drew a chair up for his feet and stretched himself out comfortably in the only one that could possibly be called easy, " Don't you think that'll fetch the Bishop ? Remind him you know of the days when he courted Mrs Bishop," and Crawley twisted his gutta-percha face into a series of contortions, " and it will set the hearts of the governesses palpitating.

By-the-by, Kenyon, I thought you were in the governess' parlour ' eating bread and honey.' " Kenyon took up a book and grunted. He was not fond of being chaffed ; hence, to tease him was the peculiar delight of the other masters. " I say, I hear that your pet nuisance is gone over to the Infirmary with a sprained wrist. Good for your temper, Kenyon. It's had very free play with that promising young cub of late, and wants a rest." B i8 THE PHILANTHROPIST The entrance of the " Chicken," as the younger master, Mr Donkin, was called, gave the loquacious Crawley opportunity for extending his chaff. " A fine fellow, very," he said, addressing the Chicken, but indicating Kenyon, " an excellent specimen — very excellent — uncommonly handsome, too, but, ' beware how you tread on his tail ! ' "

Chapter II

"OENROSE slipped quietly into the school and ■*- saw that it was close on ten o'clock. At ten o'clock the governesses had their simple supper brought into their room, but there were a few precious minutes before she need join them. She turned up the gas and, throwing off her shawl, sat down at her desk and took out the book she had slipped into it before leaving. The walk in the cool, damp air had brought a deeper colour to her cheeks, and brightened her eyes, which were of a soft green-brown. Her face was oval, her skin smooth and clear, her mouth rather large, but with full generous lips, that made delicious dimples at the corners when she smiled ; her brown hair was braided simply at the top of her head, and grew prettily about her white forehead. Among the many faces at the Orphanage, plain and handsome, hers would have been picked out from among the rest, as bearing the stamp that good-breeding alone can give.

Whereas, too, the faces of many of her companions were sickly with the heritage of ill health that had left them early orphans ; hers was bright with the glow of health and bounding young life. During a brief holiday her father, who was ■9 a poor curate, had persuaded his wife to join a cheap, yachting expedition of a few hours. The babes were left to the care of a motherly landlady in the cheap lodgings at Dover. The sea was blue and smiling, the passengers — even the most timid — had no fear, as the yacht danced lightly over the scarcely heaving waves. But, in an hour, by some misadventure, the little toy-vessel capsized, and half the gay company were drowned. Among those who were washed up to shore were the curate and his wife. Friends were not behind-hand to help the children, and as soon as education was a necessity they were put into the National Orphanage, where they were sure to receive sound and useful teaching to fit them to make way for themselves.

There is no surer method of rounding off angles, and blunting any sharp corners off individuality than being placed among a hundred children, all of whom wear the same dress, and keep the same hours for eating, learning, playing and sleeping. After a few years' training many of the faces acquire the same expression, the children get to speak in the same way and to have the same likes and dislikes. There was a chance for those who, like Penrose and her brother, were able to get away and go elsewhere for their holidays, and so break through the monotony of the necessarily narrow life ; but there was always a number who appeared to be altogether friendless, and who remained at school during the holidays. To be a " holiday girl " or a " holiday boy " was a stigma. Towards the end of the term there was a nervous fluttering about those who had had no intimation from their friends, that they could be received.

Sometimes they returned to homes that had been kept up with a struggle by a mother : more often an aunt or cousin came to the rescue, and it happened frequently (as those who knew the cases could tell) that the holidays were spent in far less comfort than the school provided, but what of that ? To the children themselves it was change and liberty, and imagination provided a great deal in the accounts that were given to their other school fellows. Those who spent all the year round at the school made little progress in work or play. They were usually the most unattractive children, and they remained stunted in intellect, dull, and almost invariably selfish and egotistical. Penrose, seeing that there were still a few minutes, took out her book and, making a prop for her face with her hands, began to read.