A Pair of Schoolgirls: A Story of School Days Read online

  CHAPTER II

  What Dorothy Overheard

  At half-past three, exactly in the middle of the French reading-lesson,Miss James, the school secretary, entered the Upper Fourth room with asheaf of voting papers in her hand. These were dealt round to all thegirls, with the exception of the candidates, and Miss James gave a briefexplanation of what was required.

  "On each paper you will find six names. You must put a cross to the oneyou wish to choose for your warden. Do not write anything at all, butfold the paper and hand it in to Miss Pitman, who will place it in thisbox, which I shall call for in five minutes."

  So saying, she bustled away in a great hurry to perform a similar errandin the next classroom. The six candidates tried to sit lookingdisinterested and unconscious while their fates were being decided. HopeLawson hunted out words in the dictionary, Valentine Barnett made aparade of arranging the contents of her pencil box, and the othersopened books and began preparation. Not a word was allowed to bespoken. In dead silence the girls recorded their crosses and handed intheir papers, and the last was hardly dropped into the ballot box beforeMiss James reappeared. The result of the election was to be announced atfour o'clock, therefore there were still twenty minutes of suspense.Miss Pitman went on with the French reading as if nothing had happened,and Dorothy made a gallant effort to fix her attention on _Le JeunePatriote_, and to forget that Miss Tempest and Miss James were hard atwork in the library counting votes. Nobody's translation wasparticularly brilliant that afternoon; everyone was watching the clockand longing for the end of the lesson. When the bell rang there was ageneral scuffle; books were seized and desk lids banged, and though MissPitman called the Form to order and insisted upon a decorous exit fromthe room, the girls simply pelted down the stairs to the lecture hall.In a few moments the whole school had assembled. There was not long towait, for exactly at the stroke of four Miss Tempest walked on to theplatform and made the brief announcement:

  "Hope Lawson has been elected Warden of the Lower School by a majorityof fifty votes."

  Dorothy left the lecture hall with her head in a whirl. That Hope shouldhave won by such an enormous majority was most astonishing. She couldnot understand it. Conversation was strictly forbidden on the staircase,but the moment she reached the gymnasium door she burst into eagerenquiries.

  "Yes, it's a surprise to everybody," said Ruth Harmon. "I thought myselfthat Val would get it. All the Lower Fourth and most of the Upper Thirdwere for her."

  "Then how could Hope possibly score by fifty?"

  "She did it with the kids, I suppose."

  "But the First and Second weren't voting?"

  "Indeed they were! Do you mean to say you never knew? Why, Miss Jamesgave it out this morning."

  "Of all sells!" gasped Dorothy. "I heard nothing about it! It's thefirst year those kids have ever taken part in the election. Why couldn'tsome of you tell me?"

  "I was just going to," said Mavie, "but you stalked away and wouldn'tlisten. It's your own fault, Dorothy."

  "You might have run after me."

  "You looked so lofty, I didn't feel disposed."

  "Val didn't know either," interposed Bertha Warren. "She never canvassedin the First or the Second; no more did Grace or Noelle. I'm not certainif any of you knew except Hope. Only a few were in the room when MissJames gave it out."

  "Then she's taken a most mean advantage," said Dorothy. "I understandnow why she was sitting on the see-saw making herself so extremelypleasant. It's not fair! Miss James ought to have announced to the wholeschool that such a change had been made."

  "Go and tell her so!" sneered Phyllis Fowler.

  "Those who lose always call things unfair," added Joyce Hickson.

  Dorothy walked away without another word. She did not wish to beconsidered jealous, and her common sense told her that she had alreadysaid more than enough. She was too proud to ask for sympathy, and feltthat her most dignified course was to accept her defeat in silence. Shethought she would rather not speak even to her friends, so, ignoringviolent signals from Bertha Warren and Addie Parker, she went at once toput on her outdoor clothes. The dressing-room, to provide greateraccommodation, had not only hooks round the walls, but double rows ofhat-stands down the middle, with lockers for boots underneath. AsDorothy sat changing her shoes, she could hear three girls talking onthe other side of the hat-stand, though, owing to the number of coatswhich were hanging up, the speakers were hidden from her. She recognizedtheir voices, however, perfectly well.

  "I'm rather surprised at Hope getting it," Helen Walker was saying. "Ithought Val was pretty safe. I voted for her, of course."

  "A good many voted for Dorothy," replied Evie Fenwick.

  "I know. I thought she might have had a chance even against Val. She'llbe dreadfully disgusted."

  "I'm very glad Hope was chosen," said Agnes Lowe. "After all, she's farthe most suitable for Warden; she's ever so much cleverer than Val."

  "But not more than Dorothy!"

  "No; but she's a girl of better position, and that counts for something.Her father was Mayor last year, and her mother is quite an authority oneducation, and speaks at meetings."

  "Well, Dorothy's aunt writes articles for magazines. One often sees thename 'Barbara Sherbourne' in the newspapers. Dorothy's tremendouslyproud of her."

  "Dorothy needn't take any credit to herself on that account," returnedAgnes, "for, as it happens, Miss Sherbourne isn't her aunt at all; she'sno relation."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. I know for a fact that Dorothy is nothing but a waif, anobody, who is being brought up for charity. Miss Sherbourne adopted herwhen she was a baby."

  At this most astounding piece of information, Dorothy, who had followedthe conversation without any thought of eavesdropping, flung herslippers into her locker and stalked round to the other side of thehat-stand.

  "Agnes Lowe, what do you mean by telling such an absolute story?" sheasked grimly.

  "I'd no idea you were there!" returned Agnes.

  "Listeners never hear any good of themselves," laughed Helen.

  "I'm extremely glad I overheard. It gives me a chance to deny suchrubbish. I shall expect Agnes to make an instant apology."

  Dorothy's tone was aggressive; she waited with a glare in her eyes and adetermined look about her mouth. Agnes did not flinch, however.

  "I'm sorry you heard what I said, Dorothy," she replied. "It wasn'tmeant for you; but it's true, all the same, and I can't take back mywords."

  "How can it be true?"

  Agnes put on her hat hastily and seized her satchel.

  "You'd better ask Miss Sherbourne. Probably everyone in Hurford knowsabout it except yourself. Come, Helen, I'm ready now," and she hurriedaway with her two friends, evidently anxious to escape furtherquestioning.

  Dorothy took up her pile of home-lesson books and followed them; butthey must have raced down the passage, for when she reached the doorthey were already disappearing round the corner of the playground. Itwas useless to think of pursuing them; she had barely time, as it was,to catch her train, and she must walk fast if she meant to be at thestation by half-past four. She scurried along High Street, keeping awatchful eye on the town hall clock in the intervals of dodgingpassengers on the pavements and dashing recklessly over crossings. AtStation Road she quickened her footsteps to a run, and tore up theflight of stairs that was the shortest cut to the ticket office.Fortunately she possessed a contract, so she had no further delay, andwas able to scuttle across the platform into the Hurford train. Theguard, who knew her well by sight, smiled as he slammed the door of hercompartment.

  "A near shave to-day, missy! I see you're back at school," he remarked,then waved his green flag.

  Dorothy sank down breathlessly. To miss the 4.30 would have meantwaiting three-quarters of an hour--a tiresome experience which she hadgone through before, and had no desire to repeat. She was lucky,certainly; but now that the anxiety of catching the train was over, thereaction came, and she felt both t
ired and cross. What an enormouslylong time it seemed since she had started that morning, and what ahorrid day it had been! She leaned back in a corner of the compartmentand took a mental review of everything that had happened at school: herexpectation of winning the election, her canvassing among the girls,their many ill-natured remarks, Val's method of bribery, and Hope'sunfair advantage. She was bitterly chagrined at missing the wardenship,and the thought that she might have had a chance of success if she hadknown of the voting powers of the First and Second Forms only added toher disappointment. She was indignant and out of temper with Mavie, withHope, with the whole of her little world; everything had seemed to gowrong, and, to crown all, Agnes Lowe had dared to call her a nobody anda charity child! What could Agnes mean? It was surely a ridiculouslyfalse accusation, made from spite or sheer love of teasing. She, DorothyGreenfield, a waif! The idea was impossible. Why, she had always pridedherself upon her good birth! The Sherbournes were of knightly race, andtheir doings were mentioned in the county history of Devonshire as farback as Queen Elizabeth's reign. Of course, her name was Greenfield, notSherbourne; but she was of the same lineage, and she had pasted thefamily crest inside her school books. She would trace out her pedigreethat very evening right to Sir Thomas Sherbourne, who helped to fit outa ship to fight the Armada; and she would take a copy to schoolto-morrow and show it to Agnes, who could not fail to be convinced bysuch positive evidence. Yes, the girls should see that, far from being anobody, she was really of a better family than Hope Lawson, whose claimsto position rested solely on her father's public services to the city ofColeminster.

  And yet under all her assurance there lurked an uneasy sensation ofdoubt. She had taken it for granted that her mother was a Sherbourne;but she remembered now that when she had spoken of her as such, AuntBarbara had always evaded the subject. Nobody ever mentioned herparents. She had thought it was because they were dead; but surely thatwas not a sufficient reason for the omission? Could there be another anda stronger motive for thus withholding all knowledge about them? Severalthings occurred to her--hints that had been dropped by Martha, the maid,which, though not comprehended, had remained in her memory--looks,glances, half-spoken sentences let fall by Aunt Barbara's friends--ahundred nothings too small in themselves to be noticed, but, counted inthe aggregate, quite sufficient to strengthen the unwelcome suspicionthat had suddenly awakened.

  "Rubbish!" thought Dorothy, with an effort to dispel the black shadow."I'll ask Aunt Barbara, and I've no doubt she'll easily explain it alland set everything right."

  By this time the train had passed Ash Hill, Burnlea, and Latchworth, andhad arrived at Hurford, Dorothy's station. She stepped out of thecompartment, so preoccupied with her reflections that she would haveforgotten her books, if a fellow-passenger had not handed them to her.She scarcely noticed the Rector and his children, who were standing onthe platform, and, turning a deaf ear to the youngest boy, who called toher to wait for them, she hurried off alone along the road.

  It was a pleasant walk to her home, between green hedges, and with aview of woods and distant hills. Hurford was quite a country place, andcould boast of thatched cottages, a market cross, and a pair of stocks,although it lay barely twelve miles from the great manufacturing city ofColeminster. Dorothy's destination was a little, quaint, old-fashionedstone house that stood close by the roadside at the beginning of thevillage street. A thick, well-clipped holly hedge protected from pryingeyes a garden where summer flowers were still blooming profusely, astrip of lawn was laid out for croquet, and a small orchard, at theback, held a moderate crop of pears and apples. Dorothy ran in throughthe creeper-covered porch, slammed her books on the hall table, then,descending two steps, entered the low-ceiled, oak-panelled dining-room,and rushed to fling her arms round a lady who was sitting doing fancywork near the open window.

  "Here I am at last, Auntie! Oh, I feel as if I hadn't seen you for ahundred years! I'm in the Upper Fourth, but it's been a hateful day. Inever thought school was so horrid before. I'm very disappointed anddisgusted and abominably cross."

  "Poor little woman! What's the matter?" said Aunt Barbara, takingDorothy's face in her hands, as the girl knelt by her side, and tryingto kiss away the frown that rested there. "You certainly don't look asif you had been enjoying yourself."

  "Enjoying myself? I should think not! We had an election for thewardenship, and my name was on the list, and I might perhaps have won ifthe others hadn't been so mean; but I didn't, and Hope Lawson has gotit!"

  "We can't always win, can we? Never mind! It's something that your namewas on the list of candidates. All the girls who lost will be feelingequally disappointed. Suppose you just forget about it, go and take offyour things, and tell Martha to make some buttered toast."

  Dorothy laughed. Already her face had lost its injured and woefulexpression.

  "That's as good as saying: 'Don't make a fuss about nothing'. All right,Auntie, I'm going. But I warn you that this is only a respite, and Imean to give you a full and detailed list of all my particulargrievances after tea. So make up your mind to it, and brace your dearnerves!"

  Miss Barbara Sherbourne was a most charming personality. She was youngenough to be still very pretty and attractive, but old enough to takebroad views of life, and to have attained that independence of actionwhich is the prerogative of middle age. She was a clever and essentiallya cultured woman; she had lived abroad in her youth, and the glamour ofold Italian cities and soft, southern skies still seemed to cling toher. She was a good amateur musician, could sketch a little, and hadlately obtained some success in writing. Ever since Dorothy couldremember, she and Aunt Barbara and Martha, the maid, had lived togetherat Holly Cottage, a particularly harmonious trio, liking their own modeof life, and quite independent of the outside world. The little houseseemed to fit its inmates, and, in spite of its small accommodation, toprovide just what was wanted for each. First there was the old-fashioneddining-room, with its carved oak furniture, blue china, and rows ofshining pewter; its choice prints on the walls, its bookshelves,overflowing with interesting volumes; and the desk where Aunt Barbarawrote in the mornings--a room that seemed made especially for comfort,and reached its acme of cosiness on a cold winter's day, whenarm-chairs were drawn up to the blazing fire that burnt in the quaintdog grate. Then there was the little drawing-room, with its piano andmusic rack, and its great Japanese cabinet, full of all kinds oftreasures from foreign places. When Dorothy was a tiny girl it had beenher Sunday afternoon treat to be allowed to investigate the mysteries ofthis cabinet, to open its numerous drawers and sliding panels, and toturn over the miscellaneous collection of things it contained; and shestill regarded it in the light of an old friend. The artisticdecorations, the chintz hangings, the water-colour paintings of Italianscenes, all helped to give an aesthetic effect to the room, and to make avery pleasant whole. The kitchen was, of course, Martha's particulardomain, but even here there were books and pictures, and a tablereserved for writing desk and work basket. I fear Martha did not oftenbusy herself with pens and paper, for she held head-learning ingood-natured contempt; but she appreciated her mistress's effort to makeher comfortable, and polished the brass-topped inkpot diligently, if sheseldom used it. Peterkin, the grey Persian cat, generally sat in thearm-chair, or on Martha's knee, which he much preferred, when he got thechance; and Draco, the green parrot, hobbled up and down his perch atthe sunny window, repeating his stock of phrases, begging for titbits,or imitating smacking kisses.

  Just at the top of the stairs was Dorothy's special sanctum. It hadformerly been her nursery, and still contained her old dolls' house, putaway in a corner, though her toys were now replaced by schoolgirlpossessions. Here she kept her tennis racket, her hockey stick, hercamera and photographic materials, her collections of stamps, crests,and picture postcards; there was a table where she could use paste orglue, or indulge in various sticky performances forbidden in thedining-room, and a cupboard where oddments could be stored without thepainful necessity of continually keeping the
m tidily arranged. She couldtry experiments in sweet making, clay modelling, bookbinding, or any ofthe other arts and crafts that were represented at the annual schoolexhibition; in fact, it was a dear, delightful "den", where she couldconduct operations without being obliged to move her things away, andmight make a mess in defiance of Martha's chidings.

  Dorothy often took a peep into her sanctum on her return from Avondale,but to-day she ran straight to her bedroom. She was anxious to finishtea and have a talk with Aunt Barbara. She felt she could not rest untilshe had mentioned Agnes Lowe's remarks, and either proved or disprovedtheir truth. It was not a question that she could raise, however, whenMartha was coming into and going out of the dining-room with hot waterand toast; and it was only after she had cajoled Miss Sherbourne to theprivacy of the summer-house, and had related her other school woes, thatthe girl ventured to broach the subject.

  "I know it's nonsense, Auntie, but I thought I'd like to tell you, allthe same," she concluded, and waited for a denial with a look of anxietyin her eyes that belied her words.

  Miss Sherbourne did not at once reply. Apparently she was consideringwhat answer to make.

  "I knew you would ask me this some day, Dorothy," she said at last. "Itseemed unnecessary for you to know before, but you are growing older sofast that it is time you learnt your own story."

  Dorothy turned her face sharply away. She did not want even Aunt Barbarato see how her mouth was quivering.

  "Is it true, then?" she asked, in a strangled voice.

  "Yes, dear child. In a sense it is all absolutely true."