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Updated: June 8, 2025
"In all the wide world this is the last place you should have come to." "Miss Chinfeather is dead, and all the young ladies have been sent to their homes. I have no home, so they have sent me here." "What shall I do? What will her ladyship say?" cried the woman, in a frightened voice. "How shall I ever dare to tell her?" "Who rang the bell, Dance, a few minutes ago? And to whom are you talking?"
Then I said: "If you please, Mrs. Whitehead, may I see Miss Chinfeather before I go?" Her thin, straight lips quivered slightly, but in her eyes I read only cold disapproval of my request. "Really," she said, "what a singular child you must be. I scarcely know what to say." "Oh, if you please!" I urged. "Miss Chinfeather was always kind to me. I remember her as long as I can remember anything.
She strove earnestly, and with infinite patience, to change me from a dreamy, passionate child a child full of strange wild moods, capricious, and yet easily touched either to laughter or tears into a prim and elegant young lady, colourless and formal, and of the most orthodox boarding-school pattern; and if she did not quite succeed in the attempt, the fault, such as it was, must be set down to my obstinate disposition and not to any lack of effort on the part of Miss Chinfeather.
And she let me talk on and on for I can't tell how long, only putting in a question now and again, till she knew almost as much about Miss Chinfeather and Park Hill as I knew myself. But she never seemed to grow weary.
As I wandered, this autumn morning, up and down the solitary playground, I went back in memory as far as memory would carry me, but only to find that Miss Chinfeather and Park Hill Seminary blocked up the way. Beyond them lay darkness and mystery. Any events in my child's life that might have happened before my arrival at Park Hill had for me no authentic existence.
Three nights ago Miss Chinfeather had retired to rest, as well, to all appearance, and as cheerful as ever she had been; next morning she had been found dead in bed. This was what they told us pupils; but so great was the awe in which I held the mistress of Park Hill Seminary that I could not conceive of Death even as venturing to behave disrespectfully towards her.
"That good Chinfeather has not quite eradicated our gaucherie, it seems. We are deficient in ease and aplomb. What is the name of that Frenchwoman, Agnes, who 'finished' Lady Kinbuck's girls?" "You mean Madame Delclos." "The same. Look out her address to-morrow, and remind me that you write to her.
How long I had been asleep I had no means of knowing, but I was awakened some time in the night by a rain of kisses, soft, warm, and light, on lips, cheeks and forehead. The room was pitch dark, and for a second or two I thought I was still at Park Hill, and that Miss Chinfeather had come back from heaven to tell me how much she loved me.
To see her once more for the last time. It would seem to me cruel to go away without." "Follow me," she said, almost in a whisper. So I followed her softly up stairs into the little corner room where Miss Chinfeather lay in white and solemn state, grandly indifferent to all mundane matters.
She was too cold, she was altogether too far removed for me to regard her with love, or even with that modified feeling which we call affection. But then no such demonstration was looked for by Miss Chinfeather. It was a weakness above which she rose superior.
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