CHAPTER XV
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK
June was crowded full of interest that year. We gathered in with
its sheaf of fragrant days the choicest harvest of childhood.
Things happened right along. Cecily declared she hated to go to
sleep for fear she might miss something. There were so many dear
delights along the golden road to give us pleasure--the earth
dappled with new blossom, the dance of shadows in the fields, the
rustling, rain-wet ways of the woods, the faint fragrance in
meadow lanes, liltings of birds and croon of bees in the old
orchard, windy pipings on the hills, sunset behind the pines,
limpid dews filling primrose cups, crescent moons through
darklings boughs, soft nights alight with blinking stars. We
enjoyed all these boons, unthinkingly and light-heartedly, as
children do. And besides these, there was the absorbing little
drama of human life which was being enacted all around us, and in
which each of us played a satisfying part--the gay preparations
for Aunt Olivia's mid-June wedding, the excitement of practising
for the concert with which our school-teacher, Mr. Perkins, had
elected to close the school year, and Cecily's troubles with Cyrus
Brisk, which furnished unholy mirth for the rest of us, though
Cecily could not see the funny side of it at all.
Matters went from bad to worse in the case of the irrepressible
Cyrus. He continued to shower Cecily with notes, the spelling of
which showed no improvement; he worried the life out of her by
constantly threatening to fight Willy Fraser--although, as
Felicity sarcastically pointed out, he never did it.
"But I'm always afraid he will," said Cecily, "and it would be
such a DISGRACE to have two boys fighting over me in school."
"You must have encouraged Cyrus a little in the beginning or he'd
never have been so persevering," said Felicity unjustly.
"I never did!" cried outraged Cecily. "You know very well,
Felicity King, that I hated Cyrus Brisk ever since the very first
time I saw his big, fat, red face. So there!"
"Felicity is just jealous because Cyrus didn't take a notion to
her instead of you, Sis," said Dan.
"Talk sense!" snapped Felicity.
"If I did you wouldn't understand me, sweet little sister,"
rejoined aggravating Dan.
Finally Cyrus crowned his iniquities by stealing the denied lock
of Cecily's hair. One sunny afternoon in school, Cecily and Kitty
Marr asked and received permission to sit out on the side bench
before the open window, where the cool breeze swept in from the
green fields beyond. To sit on this bench was always considered a
treat, and was only allowed as a reward of merit; but Cecily and
Kitty had another reason for wishing to sit there. Kitty had read
in a magazine that sun-baths were good for the hair; so both she
and Cecily tossed their long braids over the window-sill and let
them hang there in the broiling sun-shine. And while Cecily sat
thus, diligently working a fraction sum on her slate, that base
Cyrus asked permission to go out, having previously borrowed a
pair of scissors from one of the big girls who did fancy work at
the noon recess. Outside, Cyrus sneaked up close to the window
and cut off a piece of Cecily's hair.
This rape of the lock did not produce quite such terrible
consequences as the more famous one in Pope's poem, but Cecily's
soul was no less agitated than Belinda's. She cried all the way
home from school about it, and only checked her tears when Dan
declared he'd fight Cyrus and make him give it up.
"Oh, no, You mustn't." said Cecily, struggling with her sobs. "I
won't have you fighting on my account for anything. And besides,
he'd likely lick you--he's so big and rough. And the folks at
home might find out all about it, and Uncle Roger would never give
me any peace, and mother would be cross, for she'd never believe
it wasn't my fault. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd only taken a
little, but he cut a great big chunk right off the end of one of
the braids. Just look at it. I'll have to cut the other to make
them fair--and they'll look so awful stubby."
But Cyrus' acquirement of the chunk of hair was his last triumph.
His downfall was near; and, although it involved Cecily in a most
humiliating experience, over which she cried half the following
night, in the end she confessed it was worth undergoing just to
get rid of Cyrus.
Mr. Perkins was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. No
communication of any sort was permitted between his pupils during
school hours. Anyone caught violating this rule was promptly
punished by the infliction of one of the weird penances for which
Mr. Perkins was famous, and which were generally far worse than
ordinary whipping.
One day in school Cyrus sent a letter across to Cecily. Usually
he left his effusions in her desk, or between the leaves of her
books; but this time it was passed over to her under cover of the
desk through the hands of two or three scholars. Just as Em
Frewen held it over the aisle Mr. Perkins wheeled around from his
station before the blackboard and caught her in the act.
"Bring that here, Emmeline," he commanded.
Cyrus turned quite pale. Em carried the note to Mr. Perkins. He
took it, held it up, and scrutinized the address.
"Did you write this to Cecily, Emmeline?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Who wrote it then?"
Em said quite shamelessly that she didn't know--it had just been
passed over from the next row.
"And I suppose you have no idea where it came from?" said Mr.
Perkins, with his frightful, sardonic grin. "Well, perhaps Cecily
can tell us. You may take your seat, Emmeline, and you will
remain at the foot of your spelling class for a week as punishment
for passing the note. Cecily, come here."
Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to
public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.
"Cecily," said her tormentor, "do you know who wrote this letter
to you?"
Cecily, like a certain renowned personage, could not tell a lie.
"I--I think so, sir," she murmured faintly.
"Who was it?"
"I can't tell you that," stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.
"Ah!" said Mr. Perkins politely. "Well, I suppose I could easily
find out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other
people's letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse
to tell me who wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and
copy the contents on the blackboard that we may all enjoy them.
And sign the writer's name at the bottom."
"Oh," gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, "I'll tell
you who wrote it--it was--
"Hush!" Mr. Perkins checked her with a gentle motion of his hand.
He was always most gentle when most inexorable. "You did not obey
me when I first ordered you to tell me the writer. You cannot
have the privilege of doing so now. Open the note, take the
chalk, and do as I command you."
Worms will turn, and even meek, mild, obedient little souls like
Cecily may be goaded to the point of wild, sheer rebellion.
"I--I won't!" she cried passionately.
Mr. Perkins, martinet though he was, would hardly, I think, have
inflicted such a punishment on Cecily, who was a favourite of his,
had he known the real nature of that luckless missive. But, as he
afterwards admitted, he thought it was merely a note from some
other girl, of such trifling sort as school-girls are wont to
write; and moreover, he had already committed himself to the
decree, which, like those of Mede and Persian, must not alter. To
let Cecily off, after her mad defiance, would be to establish a
revolutionary precedent.
"So you really think you won't?" he queried smilingly. "Well, on
second thoughts, you may take your choice. Either you will do as
I have bidden you, or you will sit for three days with"--Mr.
Perkins' eye skimmed over the school-room to find a boy who was
sitting alone--"with Cyrus Brisk."
This choice of Mr. Perkins, who knew nothing of the little drama
of emotions that went on under the routine of lessons and
exercises in his domain, was purely accidental, but we took it at
the time as a stroke of diabolical genius. It left Cecily no
choice. She would have done almost anything before she would have
sat with Cyrus Brisk. With flashing eyes she tore open the
letter, snatched up the chalk, and dashed at the blackboard.
In a few minutes the contents of that letter graced the expanse
usually sacred to more prosaic compositions. I cannot reproduce
it verbatim, for I had no after opportunity of refreshing my
memory. But I remember that it was exceedingly sentimental and
exceedingly ill-spelled--for Cecily mercilessly copied down poor
Cyrus' mistakes. He wrote her that he wore her hare over his
hart--"and he stole it," Cecily threw passionately over her
shoulder at Mr. Perkins--that her eyes were so sweet and lovely
that he couldn't find words nice enuf to describ them, that he
could never forget how butiful she had looked in prar meeting the
evening before, and that some meels he couldn't eat for thinking
of her, with more to the same effect and he signed it "yours till
deth us do part, Cyrus Brisk."
As the writing proceeded we scholars exploded into smothered
laughter, despite our awe of Mr. Perkins. Mr. Perkins himself
could not keep a straight face. He turned abruptly away and
looked out of the window, but we could see his shoulders shaking.
When Cecily had finished and had thrown down the chalk with bitter
vehemence, he turned around with a very red face.
"That will do. You may sit down. Cyrus, since it seems you are
the guilty person, take the eraser and wipe that off the board.
Then go stand in the corner, facing the room, and hold your arms
straight above your head until I tell you to take them down."
Cyrus obeyed and Cecily fled to her seat and wept, nor did Mr.
Perkins meddle with her more that day. She bore her burden of
humiliation bitterly for several days, until she was suddenly
comforted by a realization that Cyrus had ceased to persecute her.
He wrote no more letters, he gazed no longer in rapt adoration, he
brought no more votive offerings of gum and pencils to her shrine.
At first we thought he had been cured by the unmerciful chaffing
he had to undergo from his mates, but eventually his sister told
Cecily the true reason. Cyrus had at last been driven to believe
that Cecily's aversion to him was real, and not merely the defence
of maiden coyness. If she hated him so intensely that she would
rather write that note on the blackboard than sit with him, what
use was it to sigh like a furnace longer for her? Mr. Perkins had
blighted love's young dream for Cyrus with a killing frost.
Thenceforth sweet Cecily kept the noiseless tenor of her way
unvexed by the attentions of enamoured swains.
