The Unclassed

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Unclassed

CHAPTER I

SCHOOL

There was strange disorder in Miss Rutherford's schoolroom, wont to
be the abode of decorum. True, it was the gathering-time after the
dinner-hour, and Miss Rutherford herself was as yet out of sight;
but things seemed to be going forward of a somewhat more serious
kind than a game of romps among the children. There were screams and
sobbings, hysterical cries for help; some of the little girls were
crowding round an object in one corner of the room, others appeared
to be getting as far away from it as possible, hiding their pale
faces in their hands, or looking at one another with terrified eyes.
At length one more thoughtful than the rest sped away out of the
room, and stood at the bottom of the stairs, calling out her
teacher's name as loud as she could. A moment, and Miss Rutherford
came hastening down, with alarmed aspect, begging to be told what
was the matter. But the summoner had turned and fled at the first
sight of the lady's garments. Miss Rutherford darted into the
schoolroom, and at once there was quietness, save for half-choked
sobs here and there, and a more ominous kind of moaning from the
crowded corner.

"Gracious goodness, children, what is it? Who's that lying on the
floor? Harriet Smales! What _ever_ has happened?"

The cluster of children had fallen aside, exposing a strange
picture. On the ground lay a girl of twelve, her face deadly pale,
save in the places where it was dabbled with fresh blood, which
still streamed from a gash on the right side of her forehead. Her
eyes were half opened; she was just recovering consciousness; a moan
came from her at intervals. She had for support the lap and arms of
a little girl, perhaps two years younger than herself. Heedless of
the flowing blood, this child was pressing her pale cheek against
that of the wounded one, whose name she kept murmuring in pitiful
accents, mixed with endearing epithets. So unconscious was she of
all around, that the falling back of the other children did not
cause her to raise her eyes; neither was she aware of Miss
Rutherford's first exclamations, nor yet of the question which was
next addressed to her by the horrified schoolmistress.

"How did it happen? Some of you run at once for a doctor--Dr.
Williams in Grove Road--Oh, quick!--Ida Starr, how _did_ it
happen?"

Ida did not move, but seemed to tighten her embrace. The other
pupils all looked fearfully hither and thither, but none ventured to
speak.

"Ida!" repeated Miss Rutherford, dropping on her knees by the two,
and beginning to wipe away some of the blood with her handkerchief.
"Speak, child! Has some one gone for the doctor? How was it done?"

The face at length turned upon the questioner was almost as ghastly
and red-stained as that it had been pressed against. But it had
become self-controlled; the dark eyes looked straight forward with
an expression marvellously full of meaning in one so young; the lips
did not tremble as they spoke.

"I did it, Miss Rutherford. I have killed Harriet. I, and nobody
else."

"You? How, child?"

"I killed her with the slate, Miss Rutherford; this slate, look."

She pointed to a slate without a frame which lay on the floor. There
were sums worked on the uppermost side, and the pencil-marks were
half obliterated. For a moment the schoolmistress's amazement held
her motionless, but fresh and louder moans recalled her to the
immediate necessities of the case. She pushed Ida Starr aside, and,
with the help of a servant-girl who had by this time appeared in the
room, raised the sufferer into a chair, and began to apply what
remedies suggested themselves. The surgeon, whom several of the
children had hastened to seek, only lived a few yards away, and his
assistant was speedily present. Harriet Smales had quite recovered
consciousness, and was very soon able to give her own account of the
incident. After listening to her, Miss Rutherford turned to the
schoolchildren, who were now seated in the usual order on benches,
and spoke to them with some degree of calm.

"I am going to take Harriet home. Lucy Wood, you will please to see
that order is preserved in my absence; I shall only be away twenty
minutes, at the most. Ida Starr, you will go up into my
sitting-room, and remain there till I come to you. All take out your
copy-books; I shall examine the lines written whilst I am away."

The servant, who had been despatched for a cab, appeared at the
door. Harriet Smales was led out. Before leaving the house, Miss
Rutherford whispered to the servant an order to occupy herself in
the sitting-room, so as to keep Ida Starr in sight.

Miss Rutherford, strict disciplinarian when her nerves were not
unstrung, was as good as her promise with regard to the copy-books.
She had returned within the twenty minutes, and the first thing she
did was to walk along all the benches, making a comment here, a
correction there, in another place giving a word of praise. Then 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 into Miss Rutherford's face.

"May I wait for Ida, please," she asked, "and--and walk home with
her? We go the same way."

"Not to-night, dear; no, not to-night. Ida Starr is in disgrace. She
will not go home just yet. Run away, now, there's a good girl."

Sadly, sadly was the command obeyed, and very slowly did Maud
Enderby walk along the streets homeward, ever turning back to see
whether perchance Ida might not be behind her.

Miss Rutherford ascended to her sitting-room. The culprit was
standing in a corner with her face to the wall.

"Why do you stand so?" asked the teacher gravely, but not very
severely.

"I thought you'd want me to, Miss Rutherford."

"Come here to me, child."

Ida had clearly been crying for a long time, and there was still
blood on her face. She seemed to have made up her mind that the
punishment awaiting her must be dreadful, and she resolved to bear
it humbly. She came up, still holding her hands behind her, and
stood with downcast eyes. The hair which hung down over her
shoulders was dark brown, her eye-brows strongly marked, the eyes
themselves rather deep-set. She wore a pretty plum-coloured dress,
with a dainty little apron in front; her whole appearance bespeaking
a certain taste and love of elegance in the person who had the care
of her.

"You will be glad to hear," said Miss Rutherford, "that Harriet's
hurt is not as serious as we feared at first. But she will have to
stay at home for some days."

There was no motion. or reply.

"Do you know that I am quite afraid of you, Ida? I had no idea that
you were so passionate. Had you no thought what harm you might do
when you struck that terrible blow?"

But Ida could not converse; no word was to be got from her.

"You must go home now," went on the schoolmistress after a pause,
"and not come back till I send for you. Tell your mother just what
you have done, and say that I will write to her about you. You
understand what I say, my child?"

The punishment had come upon her. Nothing worse than this had Ida
imagined; nay, nothing so bad. She drew in her breath, her fingers
wreathed themselves violently together behind her back. She half
raised her face, but could not resolve to meet her teacher's eyes.
On the permission to go being repeated, she left the room in
silence, descended the stairs with the slow steps of an old person,
dressed herself mechanically, and went out into the street. Miss
Rutherford stood for some time in profound and troubled thought,
then sighed as she returned to her usual engagements.

The following day was Saturday, and therefore a half-holiday. After
dinner, Miss Rutherford prepared herself for walking, and left home.
A quarter of an hour brought her to a little out-of-the-way
thoroughfare called Boston Street, close to the west side of
Regent's Park, and here she entered a chemist's shop, over which
stood the name Smales. A middle-aged man of very haggard and feeble
appearance stood behind the counter, and his manner to the lady as
she addressed him was painfully subservient. He spoke very little
above a whisper, and as though suffering from a severe sore throat,
but it was his natural voice.

"She's better, I thank you, madam; much better, I hope and believe;
yes, much better."

He repeated his words nervously, rubbing his hands together
feverishly the while, and making his eye-brows go up and down in a
curious way.

"Might I see her for a few moments?"

"She would be happy, madam, very happy: oh yes, I am sure, very
happy If--if you would have the kindness to come round, yes, round
here, madam, and--and to excuse our poor sitting-room. Thank you,
thank you. Harriet, my dear, Miss Rutherford has had the great, the
very great, goodness to visit you--to visit you personally--yes.
I will leave you, if--if you please--h'm, yes."

He shuffled away in the same distressingly nervous manner, and
closed the door behind him. The schoolmistress found herself in a
dark little parlour, which smelt even more of drugs than the shop
itself. The window looked out into a dirty back-yard, and was almost
concealed with heavy red curtains. As the eyes got accustomed to the
dimness, one observed that the floor was covered with very old
oil-cloth, and that the articles of furniture were few, only the
most indispensable, and all very shabby. Everything seemed to be
dusty and musty. The only approach to an ornament was a framed
diploma hanging over the mantelpiece, certifying that John Alfred
Smales was a duly qualified pharmaceutical chemist. A low fire
burned in the grate, and before it, in a chair which would probably
have claimed the title of easy, sat the girl Harriet Smales, her
head in bandages.

She received Miss Rutherford rather sulkily, and as she moved,
groaned in a way which did not seem the genuine utterance of pain.
After a few sympathetic remarks, the teacher began to touch upon the
real object of her visit.

"I have no intention of blaming you, Harriet; I should not speak of
this at all, if it were not necessary. But I must ask you plainly
what reason you had for speaking of Ida Starr's mother as they say
you did. Why did you say she was a bad woman?"

"It's only what she is," returned Harriet sullenly, and with much
inward venom.

"What do you mean by that? Who has told you anything about her?"

Only after some little questioning the fact was elicited that
Harriet owed her ideas on the subject to a servant girl in the
house, whose name was Sarah.

"What does Sarah say, then?" asked Miss Rutherford.

"She says she isn't respectable, and that she goes about with men,
and she's only a common street-woman," answered the girl, speaking
evidently with a very clear understanding of what these accusations
meant. The schoolmistress looked away with a rather shocked
expression, and thought a little before speaking again.

"Well, that's all I wanted to ask you, Harriet," she said. "I won't
blame you, but I trust you will do as I wish, and never say such
things about any one again, whoever may tell you. It is our duty
never to speak ill of others, you know; least of all when we know
that to do so will be the cause of much pain and trouble. I hope you
will very soon be able to come back again to us. And now I will say
good-bye."

In the shop Miss Rutherford renewed to the chemist her sincere
regret for what had taken place.

"Of course I cannot risk the recurrence of such a thing," she said.
"The child who did it will not return to me, Mr. Smales."

Mr. Smales uttered incoherent excuses, apologies, and thanks, and
shufflingly escorted the lady to his shop-door.

Miss Rutherford went home in trouble. She did not doubt the truth of
what Harriet Smales had told her, for she herself had already
entertained uneasy suspicions, dating indeed from the one interview
she had had with Mrs. Starr, when Ida was first brought to the
school, and deriving confirmation from a chance meeting in the
street only a few days ago. It was only too plain what she must do,
and the necessity grieved her. Ida had not shown any especial
brilliancy at her books, but the child's character was a remarkable
one, and displayed a strength which might eventually operate either
for good or for evil. With careful training, it seemed at present
very probable that the good would predominate. But the task was not
such as the schoolmistress felt able to undertake, bearing in mind
the necessity of an irreproachable character for her school if it
were to be kept together at all. The disagreeable secret had begun
to spread; all the children would relate the events of yesterday in
their own homes; to pass the thing over was impossible. She
sincerely regretted the step she must take, and to which she would
not have felt herself driven by any ill-placed prudery of her own.
On Monday morning it must be stated to the girls that Ida Starr had
left.

In the meantime, it only remained to write to Mrs. Starr, and make
known this determination. Miss Rutherford thought for a little while
of going to see Ida's mother, but felt that this would be both
painful and useless. It was difficult even to write, desirous as she
was of somehow mitigating the harshness of this sentence of
expulsion. After half-an-hour spent in efforts to pen a suitable
note, she gave up the attempt to write as she would have wished, and
announced the necessity she was under in the fewest possible words.

CHAPTER II

MOTHER AND CHILD

Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly homewards.
She was unusually late, and her mother would be anxious. Still, when
she came within sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting.
How should she tell of her disgrace? It was not fear that made her
shrink from repeating Miss Rutherford's message; nor yet shame,
though she would gladly have hidden herself away somewhere in the
dark from every eye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she
knew she was going to cause one who had always cherished her with
faultless tenderness,--tenderness which it had become her nature
to repay with a child's unreflecting devotion.

Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door was a brass-plate
which bore the inscription: "Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;" in the
window of the ground-floor was a large card announcing that
"Apartments" were vacant. The only light was one which appeared in
the top storey, and there Ida knew that her mother was waiting for
her, with tea ready on the table as usual. Mrs. Starr was seldom at
home during the child's dinner-hour, and Ida had not seen her at all
to-day. For it was only occasionally that she shared her mother's
bedroom; it was the rule for her to sleep with Mrs. Ledward, the
landlady, who was a widow and without children. The arrangement had
held ever since Ida could remember; when she had become old enough
to ask for an explanation of this, among other singularities in
their mode of life, she was told that her mother slept badly, and
must have the bed to herself.

But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtless
increased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door,
stood on tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two
distinct raps. Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a
large woman, with pressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly;
attired, however, neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who
was at once landlady and dressmaker could be expected to look.

"How 's 't you're so late?" she asked, without looking at the child;
her eyes, as far as one could guess, fixed upon the houses opposite,
her hands in the little pocket on each side of her apron. "Your
mother's poorly."

"Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?" exclaimed Ida,
forgetting her trouble for the moment in this happy foresight

"Dessay," returned Mrs. Ledward laconically.

Ida left her still standing in the doorway, and ran stairs. The
chamber she went into--after knocking and receiving permission to
enter, according to the rule which had been impressed upon her--
was a tolerably-furnished bedroom, which, with its bright fire,
tasteful little lamp, white coverlets and general air of fresh
orderliness, made a comfortable appearance. The air was scented,
too, with some pleasant odour of a not too pungent kind. But the
table lacked one customary feature; no tea was laid as it was wont
to be at this hour. The child gazed round in surprise. Her mother
was in bed, lying back on raised pillows, and with a restless,
half-pettish look on her face.

"Where have you been?" she asked querulously, her voice husky and
feeble, as if from a severe cold. "Why are you so late?"

Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offered
the accustomed kiss. Her mother waved her off.

"No, no; don't kiss me. Can't you see what a sore throat I've got?
You might catch it. And I haven't got you any tea," she went on, her
face growing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't
I a naughty mother? But it serves you half right for being late.
Come and kiss me; I don't think it's catching. No, perhaps you'd
better not."

But Ida started forward at the granted leave, and kissed her warmly.

"There now," went on the hoarse voice complainingly, "I shouldn't
wonder if you catch it, and we shall both be laid up at once. Oh,
Ida, I do feel that poorly, I do! It's the draught under the door;
what else can it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!"

She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had to
tell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under her
mother's neck, and pressed cheek to cheek tenderly.

"Oh, how hot you are, mother! Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear?
Wouldn't it make your throat better?"

"Perhaps it would; I don't know. Don't go away, not just yet. You'll
have to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go to
sleep, if you held me like that."

She closed her eyes, but only for a moment, then started up
anxiously.

"What am I thinking about! Of course you want your tea."

"No, no; indeed I don't, mother."

"Nonsense; of course you do. See, the kettle is on the bob, and I
think it's full. Go away; you make me hotter. Let me see you get
your tea, and then perhaps it'll make me feel I could drink a cup.
There, you've put your hair all out of order; let me smooth it.
Don't trouble to lay the cloth; just use the tray; it's in the
cupboard."

Ida obeyed, and set about the preparations. Compare her face with
that which rested sideways upon the pillows, and the resemblance was
as strong as could exist between two people of such different ages:
the same rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; the
deep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominent
jaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughter
ten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. In
the mother's eyes was a helpless look, a gaze of unintelligent
misery, such as one could not conceive on Ida's countenance; her
lips, too, were weakly parted, and seemed trembling to a sob, whilst
sorrow only made the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a
pallor not merely of present illness, but that wasting whiteness
which is only seen on faces accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in
the other, a healthy pearl-tint, the gleamings and gradations of a
perfect complexion. The one a child long lost on weary, woful ways,
knowing, yet untaught by, the misery of desolation; the other a
child still standing upon the misty threshold of unknown lands,
looking around for guidance, yet already half feeling that the sole
guide and comforter was within.

It was strange that talk which followed between mother and daughter.
Lotty Starr (that was the name of the elder child, and it became her
much better than any more matronly appellation), would not remain
silent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and her
conversation ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasional
moments, she spoke to Ida as to one of her own age, with curious
neglect of the relationship between them; at times she gave herself
up to the luxury of feeling like an infant dependent on another's
care; and cried just for the pleasure of being petted and consoled.
Ida had made up her mind to leave her disclosure till the next
morning; impossible to grieve her mother with such shocking news
when she was so poorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a
cheerful countenance; as often as a moment's silence left her to her
own reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which
made speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her
crime and its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different
alike in quality and degree from that of which children are
ordinarily capable. One compensation alone helped her; it was still
early in the evening, and she knew there were before her long hours
to be spent by her mother's side.

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