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Functional Analysis
in Applied
Mathematics
and Engineering
Studies in Advanced Mathematics
Series Editor
STEVEN G. KRANTZ
Washington University in St. Louis
Editorial Board
R. Michael Beals
Gerald B. Folland
Rutgers University
University o f Washington
Dennis de Turck
William Helton
University o f Pennsylvania
University o f California at San Diego
Ronald DeVore
Norberto Salinas
University o f South Carolina
University o f Kansas
iMwrence C. Evans
Michael E. Taylor
University o f California at Berkeley
University o f North Carolina
MICHAEL PEDERSEN
Pedersen, Michael.
Functional analysis in applied mathematics and engineering /
Michael Pedersen.
p. cm.— (Studies in advanced mathematics)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8493-7169-4 (alk. paper)
1. Functional analysis. I. Title II. Series.
Q A320.P394 1999
5 1 5 '.7 -^ c 2 1 99-37641
CIP
This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Reprinted material
is quoted with permission, and sources are indicated. A wide variety of references are listed. Reasonable
efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and the publisher cannot
assume responsibility for the validity o f all materials or for the consequences o f their use.
Neither this book nor any part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or by any information storage or
retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
The consent o f CRC Press LLC does not extend to copying for general distribution, for promotion, for
creating new works, or for resale. Specific permission must be obtained in writing from CRC Press LLC
for such copying.
Direct all inquiries to CRC Press LLC, 2000 N.W. Corporate Blvd., Boca Raton, Florida 33431.
Tradem ark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are
used only for identification and explanation, without intent to infringe.
Michael Pedersen
P reface
2 Banach Spaces 11
201 Normed Vector Spaces 11
202 £P-spaces 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 12
203 Infinite Dimensional Spaces 19
3 Bounded Operators 23
301 Basic Properties 0 0 0 0 0 0 23
302 Bounded Linear Operators 0 26
4 Hilbert Spaces. 33
401 Inner Product Spaces 0 0 0 0 0 0 33
402 Hilbert Spaces 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 36
403 Construction of Hilbert Spaces 42
4.4 Orthogonal Projection and Complement 49
4o5 Weak Convergence 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 52
6 Spectral Theory 77
601 The Spectrum and the Resolvent 78
602 Operator-Valued Functions o 0 0 86
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7 Integral Operators 91
7.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
7.2 The Class of Hilbert-Schmidt Operators 92
7.3 Integral Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Exercises. 244
References 291
C h a p ter 1
Topological and M e tric Spaces
5 e r, 0 G T (1.1)
if ^ 1, ^ 2, ...Ak G r, then nf Aj G r ( 1.2)
if Aj G r for all j G /, then Uj^/ Aj G r. (1.3)
where / is a (not necessarily finite) index set. The sets in r are denoted
open sets, and a set is defined to be closed if its complement is open. Note
that sets can be both closed and open. The closure A of a, set A is the
smallest closed set containing A, and the interior of a set is the largest
open set contained in it. A neighborhood of a point x in 5 is an open set
containing x. We call (5 ,r) a Hausdorff Space and r a Hausdorff topology
if every two distinct points in S have disjoint neighborhoods; that is, the
topology separates points in S. We define continuity in the following way:
(i) 0<d{x, y )
(ii) d{x,y) = 0 if and only if x — y
(Hi) d{x,y) = d{y,x)
{iv) d{x, y) < d{x, z) -f d{z, y).
d(x,y)
d'{x,y) =
l + d{x,y)'
or in general,
It is not at all evident that dp is a metric - but we will see later that these
metrics in fact are induced by norms. D
1
d i(/n ,0) = / f ^ { t ) d t = ---- >0
J-i n
so /n 0 in (C([—1; l]),di). On the other hand, it is obvious that in
(C([-l;l]),doo) we have
F IG U R E 1.1
G rap h of (/„)
P R O P O S IT IO N 1.1
If Xn X and yn y in (M,d), then d{xn,yn) —t d{x,y).
PR O O F
so
so
P R O P O S IT IO N 1.2
A convergent sequence has only one limit point.
I
In R with the metric d{x, y) — \x —y\ we know that any Cauchy sequence
is convergent. We shall see below that this is an exclusive property of a
metric space. On the other hand, all convergent sequences are Cauchy:
d{Xn,Xrn) < d{Xn,x) + d(x, Xm) 0 if limn = X.
FIGURE 1.2
Graph of the nth element of (/n)
It is obvious that
< 0
min{n,m}
hence, (/n) is a Cauchy sequence. But it is also obvious that (/n) cannot
converge to any continuous function since the only possible candidate /
1. TOPOLOGICAL AND METRIC SPACES
must satisfy
rifo r te]o,i]
~ [ Oi o T t e [-1,0[,
Since the property that all Cauchy sequences are convergent is exclusive,
we have the following definition:
There is a way to overcome the fact that some spaces fail to be complete
- we make them so! This is not the whole truth, but the following will
explain what one does. First we need the concept of a set being dense in
another.
First notice that we can assume that the continuous function / we want
to approximate is real since we can approximate real and imaginary parts
one at a time. Moreover, we assume that [a; b] = [0; 1]; this is just a scaling.
Define the sequence of polynomials (pn(/))-
n —k
k=0
These are the so-called “Bernstein polynomials”. Notice that / is uniformly
continuous (since the interval [0; 1] is closed), that is,
Ve > 0 36 > OVs, t e [0; 1] : |s - t| < 5 \f{s) - f{t)\ < e.
Let e > 0 be given and choose 6 > 0 according to this. For t E [0; 1] we
have:
k n —k
i E |(f{t) - / i*^(i - i )
n —k
+ E m - f i -n
k-0 ^ ^ 0 -~ y ^
“p— >1^
where M = sup^^[o;i] l/(^)l- Hence,
6^ n
since the expression in the last summation is just the variance of the bino
mial distribution.
Then
2M 1 1
doo{f,Pnif)) < £ +
6'^ n 4
M
< 2e for n > 7^-,
“ 6^e
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1. TOPOLOGICAL AND METRIC SPACES
T H E O R E M 1.3 (C om pleteness)
Let (M,d) be a metric space. There is a complete metric space {M\d' ) and
a dense set M C M ' such that (M^d) and {M,d’) are isometric.
The space (M',d') is denoted the com pletion of {M,d).
We will omit the proof but mention that all completions of a metric space
are isometric; this is why we talk of the completion. Following this idea,
that is to identify isometric spaces, we usually consider the original space
as embedded in the completion. The completion of (Q,d) is (R,d) (where
d is the natural metric) and we usually think of Q itself as a dense subset
of R, even though by the construction of R it is an isometric image T{Q)
that is dense in R. The plot is that we are not able to distinguish between
Q and T{Q). Such identifications are made all the time in mathematics,
and this book follows this tradition.
P R O P O S IT IO N 1.4
(C([a; 6]), doo) the completion of the space (P, doo)*
PROOF
P is dense in C([a; 6]), which is complete with respect to the metric doo-
I
We will now prove the famous Banach fixed point theorem, and for this
purpose we must define a certain class of mappings between metric spaces.
^ ^ i f m)j f (^m-1))
^ OidiXfYi, Xm—l)
< a^d{xi,xo)-
Then
so d (/(x),x) = 0. I
M{b-a)'
When this is the case, we can solve the integral equation by the iteration
11
12 2. BANACH SPACES
is a Banach space.
2.2 X^-spaces
We will now construct some very important Banach spaces of functions,
namely the L^-spaces. These will be constructed from a suitable subspace
of the continuous functions by imposing certain norms, and then completing
the normed (hence metric) spaces.
First we need some definitions.
Notice here that perhaps the simplest compact sets in R are the closed
and bounded intervals.
P R O P O S IT IO N 2.1
The map || • ||p, , from Co{R) to R, p > 1, given by
\\f\\p = i i \ f { x r d x ) K
Jr
is a norm on Cq{R).
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rule—not one—with regard to your conduct to me. I will leave that
conduct to the love you bear me. If you don't love me, nothing I can
do will make you; if you do, all will be easy—for those who love try
hard to please the beloved."
Amongst the girls who most adored Miss Lavinia Peacock was Star.
Star had naturally a most vivacious, brilliant, and affectionate nature.
All that was good and beautiful in her character was drawn out by
Miss Peacock, and the idea of going to her private room now filled
her with the strangest sensations.
"Under ordinary circumstances I should love it," thought the girl. "As
it is——"
She trembled exceedingly as she turned the handle of the door and
entered. The room, with its bright fire, its beautiful decorations, its
lovely pictures, its still more beautiful flowers, soothed Star as it
always did; but then the memory of Christian—Christian ill, very ill—
Christian treated, as it seemed to the girl herself now, with great
cruelty, came over her, and flinging herself into a chair, she wept.
"Why have I been dragged into this?" she thought. "What am I to
do? No, I won't tell what I know. If I couldn't tell last night, still less
can I tell now. Oh, poor Christian! poor Christian!"
It was just then when Miss Peacock entered. She noticed at a swift
glance Star's attitude of utter despair. She did not make any remark,
however, but going to her accustomed chair near the fire, she took
up her knitting and began to knit. Her whole attitude was the very
essence of peace. Star, who had been sobbing so violently that she
could not altogether restrain herself, soon ceased her tears.
Presently, with wet eyes and flushed face, she glanced at her
teacher. Miss Peacock, to all appearance, was in a dream. She was
knitting, but her eyes were gazing straight before her. Sometimes
her lips moved. Her face was pale; her eyes were full of trouble.
"Oh, Miss Peacock!" said the child at last.
Then Miss Peacock dropped her knitting; over her whole face there
came an alert, watchful, and yet affectionate expression. She held
out both her arms to Star, and the next instant the weeping child
was clasped to her breast. Miss Peacock was one of those women
who are mothers without ever having had children, and Star knew as
those firm arms clasped her, and those lips kissed her on the brow,
that she was to all intents and purposes in the presence of a mother.
By and by Miss Peacock loosened her clasp, and motioned Star to a
chair by her side. She took one of the girl's hands, pressed it gently,
and said:
"Now, darling, you will tell me."
"But I can't," said Star in a choking voice.
"You can't, Stella? You can't tell me about that which I have spoken
of, and yet you know?"
"I may not know. I know something; I certainly don't know all; I am
distressed, I am unhappy; but if you banish me from the school
even, I shall not tell."
Star's voice gained courage as she proceeded. She looked full up at
Miss Peacock now.
"Star," said her teacher, "I am the last to force anyone to act against
her conscience. Is it a matter of conscience with you to keep this
thing to yourself?"
"It would injure Christian if I were to tell; it would be unfair."
"Can you not give me some hint, Star? Think of my position: a child
—the child of a valued friend—very, very ill, and I am unable to cope
with her malady. You can cope with it. Will you?"
Star rose. "I will go and see her if you like," she said. "The other day
I was angry; you would have been angry if you were in my place. I
would not speak to her nor look at her. Oh! don't ask me to say any
more; it is unfair to her."
"Of course, I must not question you, but your words alarm me. In
spite of your efforts to conceal something, you are driving me to the
conclusion that Christian has done something very wrong."
Star was silent.
"Is that so, Star? Please speak."
"I cannot tell you anything; I must not. There is one perhaps who
could——"
"Ah! you allude to Susan Marsh. It is an extraordinary thing,"
continued Miss Lavinia, "that from the very first entrance of Christian
into this school, Susan Marsh seems to have had a most pernicious
influence on her. That such a girl as Susan could affect such a girl as
Christian is a puzzle to me. Do you agree with me, Star, that Susan
is at the bottom of this?"
"I ought not to say anything against Susan, but will you question
her?"
"I will do so."
"And may I go and see Christian?"
"She is very ill, but it may do her good to see you. Go, my child; and
God bless you. I am intensely unhappy about this. I want to act with
justice to everyone—to everyone—and I confess I cannot see my
way."
Miss Peacock's large gray eyes were full of tears. Star saw them, and
the next instant the impulsive child had dropped on her knees.
"Oh, I love you—I love you!" she said. "We all love you. There is
nothing I wouldn't do for you, but if you knew all you would counsel
me not to tell what has happened with regard to Christian. I will go
to her; I will go at once."
"Do, Star; and on your way through the schoolroom, tell Susan
Marsh to come to me immediately."
Star left the room. The momentary weakness which had made her
sob so bitterly was over. It seemed to her that all of a sudden her
contempt for Christian, her dislike to her, had vanished. She had a
sort of misgiving that, after all, Christian might be innocent. If such
was the case, she, Star, was the one who had treated Christian with
such rare cruelty.
She entered the central hall, where the greater number of the girls
had their classes during the morning. It was in this room she would
be certain to find Susan Marsh. Yes, there she was, her large face
slightly flushed, her eyes suspicious and eager. She was pretending
to copy a theme into one of her exercise books, but Star saw at once
that she was not thinking about her work.
The moment Star entered the room several of the girls looked up at
her, and all with more or less curiosity. Had she relieved the tension?
Had she confessed whatever she had to confess to Miss Peacock?
Was Christian innocent or guilty? The whole school was in a state of
great excitement with regard to Christian, and different opinions
were hotly argued amongst the girls with regard to the why and
wherefore of her present condition. Never before at Penwerne Manor
had there been such an interesting and remarkable case under
discussion. Susan, however, had refused to say anything about
Christian.
"Oh, I am sick of her!" she had exclaimed when Janet Bouverie and
another girl came and spoke to her on the subject. "Do let her alone,
Florence. I don't want the subject mentioned in my hearing. I can
only say that it was a very bad day for the school when she entered
it."
Lessons began, and the girls were forced to keep their opinions to
themselves. It was in the midst of the history lesson that Star
walked up the room. The history mistress paused and looked at Star.
Star went up to her.
"I have a message from Miss Peacock. She wants to see Susan
Marsh at once."
"At once, Star? Does that mean now or after school?"
"Now," said Star briefly.
"Susan," said Miss Forest, glancing at the girl, "go at once to your
head-mistress in her private room."
Susan gave Star a very venomous look. Her face turned white. She
wondered if Star had really told what she knew; but then she
reflected that by no possibility could Star know the truth. She could
not know who had stolen the bill out of her purse. She could not
possibly guess in what way Susan Marsh had become possessed of
Christian's secret. Above all things, she had not the most remote
idea that strangers were to be admitted into the attic on the
following Wednesday to partake of the Penwernian feast. Any one of
these things, if known, would have insured Susan's removal from the
school under the most bitter and disgraceful circumstances. But no
one could know, and Susan tossed her head in the air, walked down
the corridor, entered the central hall, quickly traversed another
passage, and knocked at Miss Peacock's door. Miss Peacock said,
"Come in," and Susan entered.
"Ah, Susan!" said her mistress, glancing at the girl, and treating her
altogether in a different manner from what her conduct had been to
Star; "come and stand before me. I have something to say to you."
Susan considered this an indignity. She augured the worst from Miss
Peacock's somewhat stern manner. "What is it, Miss Peacock?" she
asked.
"Stand quiet, Susan; I want to ask you a question."
Susan made no remark, but she shut her lips and looked full into the
face of her mistress.
"I want to ask you a direct question," said Miss Peacock; "and I want
to ask it now that we two are alone—not really alone, Susan, for
there is One present, mighty, all-powerful, all-knowing. Here in His
presence, therefore—the presence of our God, Susan—I ask you if
you can throw any light on the very unhappy condition of my dear
pupil, Christian Mitford?"
"I can thrown no light," answered Susan.
She spoke calmly enough, although her heart was beating almost to
suffocation.
"Are you certain, Susan? If you could see the One who is always
present, would you make such an answer?"
"I can throw no light on it," repeated Susan; but now her eyes
sought the ground and her lips trembled.
Miss Peacock uttered a sigh.
"Star Lestrange says you can."
"That's just like Star Lestrange," replied Susan. "She does know
something—of that I am certain—but she won't tell, and throws the
thing on me. I hate her. She's the worst, most deceitful girl in the
school. I hate her more than I hate Christian. But I hate them both."
"Susan," said Miss Peacock after a pause, "do you know the exact
circumstances under which you came to this school?"
Susan raised her brows in some surprise.
"I suppose as a pupil, and because my father paid for me," she said
after a pause.
"You certainly came as a pupil, and most certainly also your father
pays your school expenses. But in a select school of this sort there is
generally a very strict inquiry instituted with regard to each girl who
comes here. You were at another school before you came. You were
at a school at Margate."
"How do you know that?" said Susan, and her voice became sharp
with anxiety.
"I happen to know it. What is more, I had a letter from the head-
mistress of that school telling me certain things about you. Oh, no,
my dear, you need not turn so white; I have not the slightest wish to
injure you with your schoolfellows; but after receiving that letter I
wrote to your father declining to receive you as one of my pupils. He
was much distressed. He is a good man. He came to see me, and he
spoke of you as his orphan child; your mother was not long dead."
"No; mother died very suddenly," said Susan. Her words came out
falteringly; in her unattractive eyes tears swam.
"Your father gave a pitiful picture with regard to his motherless girl,
and after due reflection and consulting Jessie Jones, I decided to
admit you to the school. Any girl who arrived at a school like this
labeled as a black sheep might far better never come. I was
therefore most anxious not to tell your schoolfellows anything
whatever about you. Nor, shall I tell them now, Susan. No, I will not
injure you to that extent; but unless Christian Mitford is happy and
well by the end of the present term, and unless no further stories of
your misdoings reach me, I shall expect your school life at Penwerne
Manor to terminate at Easter. Have you anything to say, my dear?"
"I think you are awfully unkind. I hate you all. I wish I might go."
"You don't realize what it means, Susan. To have been already
dismissed for want of honesty and truthfulness from school at
Margate, and to be again dismissed—or practically dismissed—from
Penwerne Manor, would injure you for life, my poor child. Be certain
of this: nothing would induce me to make you so unhappy if it were
not absolutely essential. It rests with yourself, Susan. A little courage
and determination to cease to do evil, and to learn to do well, will
make all things possible even for you. Now go. You leave a very
anxious and unhappy head-mistress behind you; but when you can
come to me and confess, I will certainly be as lenient as
circumstances can permit."
"I will never, never confess," said Susan. "I have nothing to confess,"
she added sullenly, and she left the room, hanging her head, a scowl
between her brows.
Meanwhile Star had gone straight upstairs to the White Corridor. She
paused for a moment outside Christian's door. The door was slightly
ajar. The blinds were down at the windows; the fire burned low, and
yet with a bright gleam in the grate. Little Jessie was seated by the
fire, bending forward and stirring something from time to time that
simmered in a saucepan.
Star tapped with her knuckles on the door. Jessie rose at once.
"Oh, my dear!" said the little woman when she saw Star, "you must
on no account come in; you would trouble her dreadfully. Go away,
dear; leave her to me. She mustn't see anyone now. I have the
doctor's orders."
"But I wish you would let me see her. I think—I am sure—that I
won't do her any harm. I may do her good. I told Miss Peacock, and
Miss Peacock is willing. Please let me come in for a minute or two,
Jessie. And, please, when I go in, go out, Jessie. What I say to her I
must say to her alone. No one must be present when I talk to her."
"I can't permit you to enter, Star, until I get Miss Peacock's authority
from herself. If you like to stand here just within call, I will run down
to Miss Lavinia and find out what she wishes."
Miss Jessie departed at once, and Star stood outside the door. All
was still in the room. The sick girl must be asleep. By and by Miss
Jessie, her eyes full of tears, reappeared.
"You can go in, Star," she said. "But don't stay long. And do—do be
guided by wisdom; and do—do be kind."
"I will, Jessie," said Star in a voice of great affection; "if for no other
reason, for your sake."
Miss Jessie went away, and Star on tiptoe entered the room.
Christian was asleep. She was lying on her back. Her arms were
flung outside the bedclothes; the heavy, dark lashes swept her pale
cheeks; her fair hair was pushed back from her broad forehead. She
looked wonderfully sweet and wonderfully intellectual. Star noticed
this first of all; then she saw the real, the latent nobility in the face.
Whatever its faults, deceit—real deceit—could have nothing to do
with it.
Star felt her heart beat. She would not wake the sick girl. She must
wait quietly until Christian opened her eyes. Star sank down on the
chair by the fire. The little saucepan stood on the hob. Now and
then Star bent forward and stirred the chicken broth which Miss
Jessie was making. What was she to do? What was she to believe?
Star had never come face to face with any really complicated case of
wrong-doing. She had been attracted to Christian from the first;
then she had been repelled by her; then she had been very much
puzzled by her extraordinary allegiance to Susan Marsh and her set.
When she saw the grocery bill in Christian's history-book she had
been astonished, but scarcely inclined to blame Christian very
severely. Christian did not know, she had argued, and Susan was
clever and full of resources, and was absolutely sure to force the
girls who were under her power to carry out her will. Yes, Star was
terribly vexed, but she scarcely blamed Christian for this. She almost
took Christian's part when she went up to the front attic and spoke
about what she had discovered. But when on the following evening
she went to the bowling-alley, and opening her purse, found that the
little tell-tale bill had been removed, and when she further
remembered that the purse had been in Christian's possession for
over an hour, her lingering liking for the girl vanished on the spot.
"Her looks belie her," she thought. "She is bad, deceitful, unworthy
of any good girl's affection. I'll give her up."
So angry was she that she had acted on impulse. She had sent for
her chosen friends and for two of the most important girls in the
school, and had told them that she had given Christian up. She had
further said that she wished to resign her post on the committee of
the secret society of the Penwernians. She had spoken with great
heat and bitterness.
Then came the news of Christian's illness, and Star's interview with
Miss Peacock. During that interview it seemed to the girl that she
was once more forced to change her point of view. There were even
yet possibilities that Christian might be innocent. Beyond doubt she
was suffering. The very worst characters don't suffer when they
commit sin. Christian was suffering so badly that the doctor was
anxious about her. He said she was suffering from a shock. Now,
what had shocked her? If her character was all that Star had
imagined it to be two days ago, why should the shock of what she
had done make her ill? Star determined now at any cost to keep
Christian's secret.
"I don't understand things," thought the child, "but if there is a way
out I will try to find it; and if there is any sort of doubt I will give
Christian the benefit of it."
As she thought this she glanced again toward the bed; then she
gave a start and stood up, for Christian's eyes were wide open and
were fixed on her face.
Now Christian's young face was very pale. She did not look at all
surprised at seeing Star. Star went up to her.
"How are you, Christian?" she said in a low voice. "Are you better?"
"I am quite well," replied Christian.
Her words came out with a sort of indifference. She looked at Star,
and then she smiled.
"Oh, I am quite well," said the young girl.
"If you are well you will get up, won't you?"
"It doesn't matter," said Christian.
"But you needn't stay in bed if you are well, need you?"
"It doesn't matter," said Christian again.
Then the thankfulness which had filled Star's heart just for a
moment left it, and in its place came a queer sensation of pain and
fear. Although Christian said she was quite well, her face belied her;
and still more her words belied her.
"Do you know me, Chris?" said Star, bending towards her.
"Yes," replied Christian; "you are Star Lestrange."
"We have always been friends, haven't we, Christian?"
"No," said Christian, still speaking in that level, indifferent voice;
"you were never my friend."
"Oh, Christian! but I tried to be."
"No," said Christian again.
She gazed straight before her. Her voice was never raised; it never
altered its level, indifferent tones. It seemed to Star as she listened
that Christian did not care whether they were friends or foes. For a
minute the little girl was absolutely silent.
"I wish to tell you something," she then said gravely. "Can you listen
to me, Christian?"
Christian's eyes were fixed on Star's face. She did not speak.
"I wish to tell you that I am very sorry for what happened a couple
of days ago. I don't mean only about not finding Dawson's bill in my
purse after you had it in your lap for an hour or more; I don't mean
only that, but I mean what I did afterwards. For I was so hurt, and
so frightened, and so angry that I scarcely knew what I was doing. I
forgot myself, Christian, and I sent for all my friends and told them
that I had given you up."
"Yes," said Christian.
"Did you know it, Chris? You look as though you knew it."
"I heard you—at least I heard something about it. The girls passed
the door, and they spoke to each other. I knew you had given me
up."
"And weren't you shocked?"
"Shocked? No."
"Didn't you care?"
"No."
"Christian, that is unlike you."
"Perhaps; but everything is unlike me. Everything has been unlike
me since I came to Penwerne Manor."
"Christian, tell me the truth. Lying as you are there, looking as you
now look, I am certain—positive—that you would not tell a lie."
"Perhaps not," said Christian.
"You never, never took that bill out of my purse?"
"No."
"You are certain?"
"Yes. I didn't open your purse. But it doesn't matter whether you
believe me or not. You think I did; it doesn't matter.
"Christian, tell me what you know."
"Alice gave me your purse to keep for you. She threw it into my lap.
I fell asleep. I slept for an hour. When I awoke it was still in my lap.
I never gave it to anybody else. I don't know how the bill was taken
out of your purse. But that is all as far as I am concerned."
Steps were heard in the corridor. Miss Jessie was coming back. Miss
Jessie would certainly be impatient. Christian, looking more dead
than alive, was lying prone on her bed, and Star had not fulfilled her
mission. Suddenly an idea came to her.
"I am going to take both your hands," she said. Christian made no
movement whatever to put her hands into Star's clasp. Star took
them.
"Now listen to me, Christian Mitford. I have done wrong, and I
confess it. I hated you, but I hate you no longer. I did love you—
well, I love you back again. Listen to me, Christian. I love you back
again; and I know, Christian, that you didn't take the bill out of my
purse. I know that you are innocent. Now get well, Chris—get well,
for I love you."
CHAPTER XXV
THE LETTER
Susan Marsh was thoroughly upset. She was not repentant. It is not
the nature of a girl like Susan easily to repent. She was not at all
sorry for what she had done, but she was terribly afraid of the
consequences. She also feared that she had gone too far. At the
school at Margate she had lived through an ugly time. There had
been a theft, and she had been concerned in it. She had, in fact,
been expelled from the school. Her wrong-doing at the time had by
no means terrified her, but she disliked the ceremony which had
meant her expulsion from Mrs. Anderson's school. She had to pass
through a group of her schoolfellows, and the eyes of the girls
seemed to burn her. They were by no means extraordinary girls in
any sense of the word; they were girls quite moderately good, and
with heaps of faults, but they all gazed with the utmost contempt at
Susan as she shuffled down the long line which they formed, and so
got out of the school.
Now, Miss Peacock would certainly not expel any girl, however
wicked, in so cruel a manner; but Susan did not know that. She was
certain that if Miss Peacock sent her back to her father at Easter
with such a report as she threatened to give, and with
announcement that she would not be received in the school again,
something fearful would happen. Mr. Marsh was a merchant, a very
rich man, and Susan was his only child. He was a big, red-headed,
stout man, with a harsh voice and a harsh laugh; but he was quite
upright. He had strong ideas with regard to honor and rectitude; and
if Susan came back to him so disgraced, she did not know all he
would do. He would send her away; he would banish her from all
other girls. He would put her under the care of the very strictest
disciplinarian he could possibly find. She must not run such a risk.
Beyond doubt she had got herself into a scrape. It was not only that
silly affair with regard to Christian Mitford. Christian had been fairly
useful to Susan as long as she could obtain her money and press her
into her service, but she had no time to give a thought to her now.
She had got all Christian's money; there was nothing of it left, and
Susan made up her mind to leave her alone, to announce to her
friends that she thought Christian Mitford a fairly good girl, and, in
short, if she could manage it with a few clever words, to undo the
mischief she had hitherto done. Christian would recover and take her
place in the school; Star Lestrange would be her friend, and her brief
time of friendship with Susan and her set would be forgotten.
But there were other things. There was the great feast in the front
attic which was to take place next Wednesday, and there were the
girls who were to be invited to attend it. Susan felt terribly anxious
when she thought of those girls. One of them was Florence Dixie,
who was the daughter of a lawyer who lived in the town of
Tregellick. Florence was a bold, wild girl, with quantities of black hair
which curled all over her head. She had black eyes to match the hair,
a turned-up nose, and a loud laugh. It had been Florence's wildest
ambition to become an inmate of Penwerne Manor, but Miss Peacock
did not approve of the young lady, and had declined the honor of
becoming her instructress.
There were also Ethel and Emma Manners. They were the daughters
of a rich greengrocer in the town. Ethel and Emma had more pocket-
money than they knew what to do with, and once having met Susan
when she had no right to be out, and lent her some money. They
were pleased to strike up any sort of acquaintance with a Penwerne
Manor girl, and Susan had taken advantage of their friendship to get
several good things for herself. Ethel and Emma had told Susan that
if she could smuggle them into the house, and make them
acquainted with some of the other girls of the Manor, they would
each give her a very beautiful present at Easter.
"We will manage," said Ethel, "so that Miss Peacock shall never
know. You'll do it, won't you?"
Susan had said of course she would, and she had planned the whole
thing.
Florence Dixie, who thought herself considerably above the Manners
girls, was still quite willing to accompany them on this occasion.
They would climb up the elm-tree at the back of the house; they
would tap at the window, and Susan herself, aided by the other girls,
who of course must be let into the secret, would admit them. Then
there would be high-jinks; then there would be a glorious time. Oh,
how they would eat, how they would drink, how they would laugh!
How they would enjoy themselves!
Florence Dixie had promised not to come empty-handed to the feast.
She would bring such plumcake as had not been eaten for years by
those girls.
"I can manage it," said Florence, "for my cousin, Amy Hall, was
married a fortnight ago, and there is a huge wedge of her wedding-
cake in the pantry. I shall get a great slice from it and bring it with
me. Oh, it will be fun!"
"And we can all sleep on it," cried Susan, almost shrieking with
delight, "and dream. Oh, to think of dreaming of our future
husbands! What a delicious joke!"
Ethel and Emma were to bring fruit from their father's shop, and
anything else they could manage to convey.
The girls of the town were very much delighted, but very much
afraid of their escapade being discovered, and very proud of their
acquaintance with Susan.
But now Susan, as she sat alone in her boudoir, had sorrowfully to
reflect that this glorious feast, this delightful adventure must be
given up.
"It can't be done," she said to herself. "Miss Peacock is on the watch.
When Lavinia opens her sleepy eyes, they do open with a
vengeance; and then Jessie ceases to be a lamb, and becomes a
very lion of vigilance and terror. Then as to Star, now that she has
given up the Penwernians, she will certainly split on us. It can't be
done. I must see Maud; she must help me. Maud and I must both
manage in such a way that no one shall find out. Florence, Ethel,
and Emma must be spoken to; they must be told that the delightful
feast is to be postponed."
Susan Marsh was the sort of girl who never took long in making up
her mind. This happened to be Saturday morning; the next day was
Sunday. The girls had a little more freedom on Sundays than on
other days, and they regularly walked, two and two together, to the
parish church at Tregellick. Susan wondered if by any possibility she
could slip away from her fellows and convey a note to Florence Dixie
with strict injunctions to give up all idea of visiting Penwerne Manor
on the following Wednesday evening, and further telling her to put
off Ethel and Emma Manners.
Susan felt very much frightened, and not at all sure that she could
convey this note, but still she resolved to have a good try.
As she sat and thought and made up her mind, Star Lestrange
entered the boudoir. Susan looked up sullenly when she observed
Star's bright face.
"Well, what is it?" she said. "What do you want?"
"I thought I'd like to have a little chat with you if you don't mind."
"I mind extremely," said Susan. "I don't want to have anything to do
with you. A girl who could be so mean as to give up the Penwernians
is unworthy of my notice."
"Oh, just as you please!" said Star. "I thought perhaps you would
come and have cocoa with me in our boudoir; but if you don't care
about it, never mind. I only wanted to tell you now that I have
discovered absolutely and conclusively that it was not Christian
Mitford who took the bill out of my purse."
"Oh!" said Susan, starting and turning very red. "And how did you
find that out, pray?"
"Never mind how. I have found it out, and I thought I'd tell you. I
don't want to say anything more just now."
Star immediately left the boudoir. Susan sat on, feeling very
uncomfortable; for to be told that a certain thing had been
discovered, the knowledge of which spelt ruin to her, Susan, was the
reverse of quieting. She felt her head aching; her face flushed; her
feet turned icy cold. She crept near to the fire, shivering all over.
"I'll be ill myself if this sort of thing goes on," she said to herself;
and just then her dearest friend, Maud, walked into the boudoir.
"I thought I'd find you here," said Maud, speaking with some
excitement.
She drew a chair forward and poked up the fire into a blaze.
"I wish we had some logs," she said; "they'd make the sparks flare
up the chimney. It's going to be a bitterly cold night."
Susan made no answer.
"What's the matter with you, Sukey? Are you sulky?"
"I feel miserable enough," said Susan.
"You look it; you look perfectly dreadful. Do you know what I have
heard? I have heard that Christian Mitford is much worse this
evening. The doctor is with her now. Don't you think we are all a
little hard on poor Christian?"
"Don't mention her name," said Susan passionately. "I hate her. I
can't sit in the room with people who talk about her."
"Oh, isn't that very silly, and very unkind? She has done nothing,
poor girl!"
"Oh, hasn't she? We were happy enough in the school until she
came here."
"Well, there's no doubt that she is very ill. I thought that it was
perhaps about her you were fretting. It's getting to be quite a
weight on my conscience. If she gets the least scrap worse I shall
surely have to tell myself."
"You'll have to do what?" said Susan.
Maud's words had roused her at last.
"Oh, dear! if I thought you were going against me—I don't know
what sort of a school this is, but to have my own friends going
against me—you and Mary Hillary and Janet—although somehow
Janet doesn't count for much—I believe I shall go mad. I'm awfully
unhappy, and I'm not at all well."
"You look anything but well, poor Sukey; your nose is so red and
your eyes so swollen. I expect you have a bad cold."
"I have. I am going to be ill myself; I have shivers down my back."
"You'd best go to bed and get Jessie to cosset you up."
"I hate Jessie; I won't let her come near me."
"Well, shall I go and ask her if you may have a fire in your room?
And I'll give you a hot drink. I can, you know, if they allow a fire in
your room. I have got a pot of that black-currant jelly; I'll make you
a smoking tumbler of black-currant tea. You'll soon be better."
"You are very kind, Maud," said Susan, who was intensely greedy,
and to whom the thought of hot black-currant tea appealed most
pleasantly. "But there!" she added, "that is not the worst; and that is
not the way you can really help me."
"Well, tell me; I really am distressed to see you look so bad. Of
course, Christian may soon get better; perhaps we needn't think
about her at all."
"We must think about something else, but she's the cause. You
know, of course, what Star said on Wednesday night."
"Star Lestrange? Rather! Why, the whole school is going on about it.
But I don't believe she will do it."
"I know she will. I tell you there's great trouble, and it's all caused
by that horrid Christian Mitford. For my part, I shall be glad if Star
ceases to be a Penwernian; but she can do us much damage.
There's a lot—a great lot—of mischief afoot, and we have got to be
careful. You can't imagine how bitterly and cruelly Miss Peacock
spoke to me. She even said that if anything else was found out I
might not be allowed to come back to the school."
"Oh, Susy!" said Maud in a shocked voice, "she couldn't have said
that. That would mean to ruin you for life. She couldn't have said it,
Susy."
"She did, Maud; so you needn't wonder that I am troubled. I tell you
what it is: you must and shall help me."
"I will if it is in my power, and if it isn't anything very wrong, for I'm
tired of doing wrong. It makes you feel so uncomfortable and
ashamed of yourself."
"This is putting wrong right, so I am sure you will help me. I know I
have got a cold, and there isn't the most remote chance of my being
allowed to go to church to-morrow. But you will go."
"We're allowed to go, just as we please, either to the chapel here or
to the church at Tregellick," said Maud. "If the weather is as bad as
it is at present you will have to go to the chapel, and I dare say I
shall go with you. I have a bit of a cold myself."
"But you must help me; you must go to church at Tregellick, and you
must manage to convey a letter from me to Florence Dixie or to the
Manners' girls. You must do it, and no one else must find out."
"But can't you post it?"
"I dare not. Florence's father might find it and open it by chance;
and then—then indeed the fat would be in the fire. And it would be
equally dangerous to confide a letter to the post for the Manners'
girls. Besides, the sooner they know the better."
"What have they to know?"
"Why, of course, that they are not to come to our feast on
Wednesday."
"Not to come to our feast!" Maud stood up. "I suppose you don't
mind Mary hearing," she said, as Mary Hillary entered the boudoir.
"I don't suppose I do. You will all know before the time. The strange
girls can't come on Wednesday night, and we must convey the fact
to them in such a way that we may not be discovered ourselves."
"Highty-tighty!" said Mary Hillary. "What does this mean? Not
coming? But why shouldn't they come? I am sure there has been
fuss enough preparing for them. And they promised to bring those
delicious cakes and things. And it would be such screaming fun to
have them with us for hours, and to send them away again, and
dear Peacock to know nothing about it. I say, Susan, I don't see why
you are running this show altogether. Why mayn't we have a word in
it now and then?"
"As many words as you like afterwards," said Susan; "but they can't
come next Wednesday. I tell you it would ruin us all; it would be
discovered."
"It needn't be. Of course, I have heard that story about Star, and I
call Star a mean sneak," said Mary. "But if we lock the door and
remain fearfully quiet, and have our feast not in the front attic, but
in the far-away attic at the back, which we can get at through the
front attic—the one over the room where the kitchen-maid sleeps—
why, not a soul will hear us, and they'll all think we are in bed. I am
going to put a pillow, dressed exactly like me, in my bed, and the
rest of you can do likewise, and Jessie won't know. Oh, we must—
we must have our feast!"
Susan sat down again. Her face was hot and flushed; her eyes
looked strange.
"They can't come," she said; and all of a sudden she burst into
tears. "They can't come," she continued, "for it would ruin me. Oh,
girls, girls, don't let me be ruined! I will be so kind to you both when
I leave school. Father has heaps of money, and I'll make him take a
country-house and have you to stay with me, and you shall ride my
ponies. Oh, please help me now!"
"She's in great trouble, poor thing!" said Maud; "but I think she is
frightening herself unnecessarily. What do you say, Mary?"
"I say this," answered Mary somewhat defiantly—"that, as we went
into the thing, we ought to carry it through; and I am sure Janet
Bouverie will agree with me. You have always been our head, Sukey,
and on the whole we have put up with you, but what I say is this—
don't blow both hot and cold. You asked the girls, and even if there
is a spice of danger—and surely the greatest part of the fun is in
that very fact—we ought to stick to our words."
"I won't—I won't!" screamed Susan. "Oh, you drive me mad!"
"Leave us, Mary," said Maud; "I will manage her."
Mary, with a look of contempt on her face, left the room.
Maud now knelt by Susan and did her best to comfort her. She did
not find her task at all an easy one. Susan, who was thoroughly
selfish, had been frightened out of her habitual self-control. There is
no greater coward than the bully, and Maud could not help
wondering why she had ever made a friend of this girl, as she knelt
by her side, patted her hands, brushed back her hair, and did all she
could to soothe her.
By and by the great gong sounded for evening prayers, and Susan,
wiping away her tears and doing her best to recover her composure,
followed Maud into the central hall. It was only occasionally, on
Sundays and on special festivals, that the beautiful little chapel,
which had been used in the olden time when Penwerne Manor was a
priory, was lighted and warmed for Divine services; but on Sundays
it was a perfect picture to see the girls and their mistresses in the
lovely little place. Miss Peacock always attended private chapel at the
Manor, and many of the girls preferred it to any other church in the
neighborhood.
Now, as usual, the great hall was used, and as usual the girls
assembled. The electric light fell on their bright heads and graceful
young figures. Miss Peacock mounted the little dais and read the
evening lesson, prayed the evening prayer, and looked around her.
Just for an instant her eyes rested upon Susan. Her tear-stained face
and wretched appearance rather pleased the head-mistress than
otherwise. The same thought that filled her mind occupied the minds
of many of the girls present. Star felt inclined to pity Susan. Louisa
Twining said to herself:
"Whatever the poor thing has done—and I'm sure I don't like her—
she has plenty of heart."
And then the voice of the head-mistress rose in the stillness. After
reading a brief lesson she knelt to pray. There was generally a hymn
sung by all the girls, but on this occasion it was left out. Miss
Peacock prayed the evening collect, then pausing, she said a few
words in a solemn voice. These words startled each girl who listened
to them. They were to the effect that God in His mercy might bless
the means used for the recovery of dear Christian Mitford, who was
lying dangerously ill.
A pin might have been heard to drop in the room when the head-
mistress paused after these impressive words. She then finished her
prayer and rose to her feet. The girls crowded round her, distress in
their faces. Was it true? Was Christian really in danger?
"The doctor thinks badly of her," replied Miss Peacock. "He will stay
in the house to-night. I have sent for a trained nurse; and Jessie and
I will also watch in the sickroom. You must pray, my dear girls, you
who love Christian and admire her for many things, as all those who
know her cannot help doing; you also who have misunderstood her
and made her life unhappy"—here the head-mistress's eyes fixed
themselves for a moment on Susan's face—"all alike must pray to-
night that God will spare her life. Her parents are far away; that is
the saddest thing of all. Dear girls, 'more things are wrought by
prayer than this world dreams of.'"
Miss Peacock hurried away, and the girls slowly left the hall.
At the opposite side of the bright corridor was the refectory, but
scarcely a girl turned into it. They were all shocked and depressed.
Susan uttered a smothered sob deep down in her heart. Maud and
Mary suddenly pulled her away. They rushed up stairs, and all three
entered Susan's room.
"Now you mustn't give way. Oh, of course, we can't stand this sort
of thing much longer," said Maud.
Her words terrified Susan. "What do you mean?"
"That we ought to tell; we ought to tell what we know. We have
given a wrong impression of Christian in this school, and if she dies I
shall never forgive myself."
"You daren't tell," said Susan in a smothered voice. "If you do it will
ruin me. Oh, I know she will be better in the morning; I feel she will.
I will pray to God all night."
"Dare you?" said Mary suddenly.
"Oh, I dare—I dare anything. I know I am a wicked girl, but she
mustn't die. We mustn't let her die. God will be merciful."
The girls talked together for a little longer. Finally Mary went away,
and Susan and Maud were alone.
"I feel she will be better in the morning," said Susan. "Oh, dear, how
I shiver, and how ill I am! I do feel perfectly wretched. I wish I might
have my fire lit."
"I'll venture to break the rules for once," said Maud. "Here are some
matches. I'll put a light to the paper, and the fire will blaze up, and
you won't feel quite so miserable."
"I wish you would sleep with me to-night, Maudie. I am too
frightened to sleep alone."
"All right; I don't care," said Maud, who felt herself that she would
like some sort of company.
By and by the girls, a blazing fire in their room, lay side by side in
Susan's little bed. Maud put her arms round Susan, who kissed her.
"You don't really think she will die, do you, Maud?"
"Of course not," said Maud; "but Miss Peacock would not speak as
she does if she were not really frightened."
"And the doctor is staying here all night," said Susan. "And Miss
Peacock herself means to stay up, and she has sent for a nurse. She
must be very bad. Are you very frightened of death, Maud?"
"Yes, I think I am—a little bit. A little sister of mine died years ago,
and I saw her after they put her into her coffin. She did not look like
anybody else I had ever seen. I could not get her face out of my
head for a long time."
"I wouldn't look at a dead person for the world," said Susan. "Oh, I
do hope she won't die! I think I shall lose my senses if she does."
"She's good, you know," said Maud after a pause. "She's not a bit
like either you or me. We made her very unhappy."
"We certainly did," said Susan. "She seemed so astonished;
although, of course, what she did was——"
"What did she do?"
"I wish I could tell you; it would relieve my mind. Oh, how badly my
head aches!"
"Do tell me, dear Susy; I am dying of curiosity. I can't help it; it is
one of my failings."
"No, I won't, Maud: I could not bear it now that she is so ill. It is bad
enough to have her like this without betraying her as well."
"Of course, if you won't," said Maud, and the two girls lay silent.
Maud was anxious, depressed; her conscience was pricking her with
regard to Christian. But her anxiety and her depression were nothing
at all compared to the terrible feelings that swept over Susan's brain.
If Christian died, she felt that she could never hold up her head
again; and yet even to save Christian's life she did not believe she
could humble herself to the extent of confessing all her wrong-doing
since Christian had come to the school.
Towards morning she became drowsy and dropped off asleep. Maud
had long been sleeping peacefully by her side.
When the girls awoke little Jessie was looking down at them. Jessie's
eyes were red as though she had been crying very much. Susan
started up, her face turned white.
"Is she frightfully bad?" she gasped.
"Oh, I don't know," said Jessie. "The doctor won't say. She has been
delirious all night, and is now asleep. I don't know what to think. I
came to tell you both, dear girls, to dress very quietly, and not to
make the slightest noise. All the girls in the White Corridor are to be
moved to-day in order that she may have perfect stillness. The
doctor says that her brain is very much affected. He cannot imagine
what can have happened to her. He says she has got a terrible
shock."
"Oh, dear!" said Susan.
"You don't look well yourself, Susan. Have you a cold?"
"Yes. My throat aches, and my eyes ache."
"Well, get up quietly, dear, and go downstairs. There will be big fires
in all the sitting rooms, and the boudoirs will be made thoroughly
comfortable. I am glad you had a fire last night, girls. Yes, we must
hope for the best."
Little Jessie bustled away. Susan and Maud began slowly to put on
their things.
"There is one thing at least, Maud, that must be done," said Susan
as she proceeded with her dressing. "That letter which I spoke of
must be sent to Florence Dixie. Someone must go to church. You
must do it, Maudie; you must do it for me."
"But I have a cold myself," said Maud.
"You must do it whether you have a cold or not. You will manage
better than I, or I would do it. You must go to church. No one will
notice you. You must say you want specially to go this morning. You
will do this for me, won't you, Maud?"
"I don't know. I don't see why I should do it for you."
"Why, think—think for yourself what would happen if they were to
come now. Really, girls like Florence Dixie and the Manners girls
might easily know nothing about poor Christian's illness. This is
Sunday; Wednesday will be here in no time. Think of their coming at
present. Oh, Maud! you would be expelled as well as I."
"Do you think so?" said Maud, turning pale.
"I am sure—certain of it. We should all be made examples of—we
three at least; Janet isn't quite so much in it."
"If that is the case I will make an effort," said Maud.
Susan proceeded more cheerfully with her dressing after this remark
of Maud's; and presently, their toilets completed, the girls ran
downstairs.
Then Susan, taking an opportunity when no one was looking, wrote
a brief note to Florence Dixie. It ran as follows:
When Susan had finished her letter she folded it up. Outside the
little three-cornered note she wrote, "Be sure you burn this when
read"; and then she put it into a small envelope, which she stuck
down. A minute or two later she had thrust her note into Maud's
hand.
"Put it into your pocket, and don't fail to deliver it. Oh! it will be a
relief when you have managed this, Maud."
Maud nodded her head.
That morning Miss Peacock, contrary to her wont, did not appear at
family prayers; but Miss Forest, the English teacher, took her place.
Christian was again prayed for. The bulletin with regard to her state
was a little worse, if anything, than it had been on the previous
night. All the girls felt terribly depressed. They could not set to their
accustomed Sunday work. Susan glided to a seat by the fire in the
boudoir with a book; the others wandered here and there, not
knowing what to do with themselves. Presently Jessie came down.
"Miss Peacock says that there will be prayers as usual in the chapel,"
she said, "and she hopes that all the girls who are sufficiently well
will go there in good time."
Maud raised her head. She also was pretending to read. Susan gave
her one agonized glance. Maud rose slowly and went towards Jessie.
"Do you mind, Jessie," she said, "if I go to church at Tregellick?"
"But, my dear, Miss Peacock says that none of the girls are to go to
the village church to-day."
"Only I should like to go; I like Mr. White's preaching so much."
Miss Jessie hesitated. "Well, I'll ask Miss Peacock," she said. "You
must on no account go without her leave. She is in the room with
Christian now, but I will ask her if I have an opportunity. Does
anyone else want to go to the church at Tregellick?" she added,
looking round at the assembled girls.
Jane Price and one or two other girls said that they would like to go
to the village church; and Jessie, with four names entered in her
little notebook, went upstairs.
She presently returned to say that Miss Peacock would allow the girls
to go church in the village if they went straight there and straight
back and did not speak to anyone.
"Remember, Miss Peacock trusts you," said Miss Jessie. "She is so
distressed and miserable that she can scarcely think of anything, and
there is no teacher able to be spared to go with you this morning.
She trusts you to behave well, to speak to no one, and to come
straight home again."
"Oh, I'll take care that they speak to no one," said Jane Price.
"Appoint me the guardian of this party, won't you, Miss Jessie?"
"Very well, Jane. You are a nice, steady girl; you will see to the
others."
Jessie bustled from the room.
"Now then, you have got to obey me," said Jane, with a laugh.
A minute or two later Maud passed Susan's chair. Susan bent
towards her and whispered in her ear:
"You are a brick to have spoken out. I won't forget this to you in the
future."
Star was one of the girls who elected to go to Tregellick church. She
was too restless to stay within the grounds, and any chance of a
walk outside appealed to her.
There were six girls altogether who started off in time to say their
prayers in the little gray church in Tregellick.
Mr. White was an excellent preacher, and it was always a treat to
Star to listen to him. There were two pews in the church set apart
for the Penwerne Manor girls, and they entered these now. The
church happened to be specially full that morning. Maud, who found
herself between Jane Price and Star Lestrange, presently looked
around her. It was necessary that she should see Florence Dixie. She
hoped that as they were going out of the church she might have an
opportunity of slipping a note into the girl's hand without anyone
noticing her.
Jane Price, who was the leader of the little party, would on no
account allow her to speak to Florence. But Florence was aware that
she was not supposed to know any of the Penwerne Manor girls, and
she was extremely proud of her secret acquaintance with more than
one of them.
Florence and her mother, an extremely vulgar, overdressed woman,
generally sat in a pew just in front of those used by the schoolgirls.
When they got to the church Jane went into the second pew; but
Maud without making any comment, ensconced herself in the first
one. Jane wondered at this, but she nodded to her companions, and
they all entered the first of the two pews; and Maud, as has been
stated, found herself between Star and Jane.