A Pair of Schoolgirls: A Story of School Days Page 8

  CHAPTER VII

  Alison's Home

  Dorothy was ready enough at making good resolutions--the difficultyalways lay in keeping them when they were made. At night in bed it wouldseem fairly simple to practise patience, forbearance, charity, humility,and many kindred virtues, yet the very next morning she would come downto breakfast with a frown that caused Aunt Barbara to sigh. Full of highideals, she would dream over stories of courage and fortitude till shecould believe herself ready to accomplish the most superhuman tasks andovercome innumerable difficulties. She always hoped that when she wasgrown up she might have a chance of emulating some of her book heroines,and doing a golden deed which the world should remember. In the meantimemany little ordinary, commonplace, everyday duties were left undone. Shewas not thoughtful for others, and was content to let Aunt Barbara doeverything for her, without troubling herself to consider what she mightoffer in return.

  Miss Sherbourne was not blind, and saw only too clearly that the girlwas passing through a selfish phase.

  "I've seen it often enough in others of her age," she thought. "They areso sweet while they are little children, and then suddenly they lose alltheir pretty, childish ways, and become brusque and pert anduncompromising. I suppose they are struggling after their ownindividualities and independence, but it makes them ruthless to others.At present Dorothy is rather inclined to rebel against authority, and toassert herself in many directions. She needs most careful leading andmanagement. She's affectionate, at any rate, and that's something to goupon."

  Aunt Barbara could not guess all the trouble that was in Dorothy's mind.Though the latter had never referred again to the story of her adoption,the fact that she was a foundling continually rankled. She was sosensitive on the point that she imagined many allusions or slights whichwere not intended. It was extremely silly, but when the girls at schooltalked about their brothers and sisters, she often believed they did sopurposely to make her feel her lack of relations. If two friendswhispered together, she would think they were speaking of her; and anysmall discourtesy, however unintentional, she put down as an indicationthat the others considered her inferior to themselves. She contrived tomake herself thoroughly miserable with these ideas, and they had theunfortunate effect of causing her to be even more abrupt and brusquethan before. Sometimes one traitor thought would even steal in, and shewould question whether Aunt Barbara really loved her as truly as if shehad been her own flesh and blood; but this was such a monstrous andunjust suspicion that Dorothy would thrust it from her in horror athaving ever entertained it.

  One pleasure that she had at Avondale was her friendship with AlisonClarke. Owing to their daily companionship in the train, she had managedto keep Alison pretty much to herself, and she watched over her withjealous eyes, unwilling to share her with anybody else. Alison had beenaway from school on the day that the truants went to the wedding, and itwas nearly a week before she returned. Each morning Dorothy had lookedout for her at Latchworth, and every time she had been disappointed. Atlast, however, the familiar little figure appeared again on theplatform, and the round, rosy face smiled a greeting.

  "No, I've not been very ill--only a bad cold. It's almost gone now. Oh,yes, I'm delighted to go back to the Coll. It's so dull staying in thehouse with nothing to do except read, and one gets sick to death ofchicken broth and jelly! I want somebody to tell me school news. Itseems more like a year than a week since I stopped at home."

  Dorothy was accommodating in the matter of news, and the two chatteredhard all the way to Coleminster.

  "It's a fearful nuisance you're out of rehearsals," said Alison. "Can'twe all come up to the classroom and have them there instead?"

  "No; Miss Pitman won't let us. We six sinners are on penance; we mayn'tdo anything but read. Oh, it's disgusting! I shall be out of theChristmas performance altogether."

  "No, you shan't," declared Alison; "not if I can compass it in any way."

  She said no more just then, but when they were returning in the trainthat afternoon she mentioned the subject again.

  "I was talking to the girls at dinner-time," she began. "We wereplanning out the programme. Really, the scene from _Vanity Fair_ is veryshort. Hope says it won't take as much time as the play you had lastyear, so I suggested that we should have some tableaux as well. Youcould do characters in those without any rehearsing. What do you thinkof my idea?"

  "Ripping!" said Dorothy. "We haven't had tableaux at the Coll. for ages.But we must manage to get hold of some decent costumes."

  "I've heaps and heaps in a box at home," announced Alison complacently."I can lend them all. We'll get up something worth looking at. Tell mewhat you'd like to be, and you shall have first choice of everything."

  "It depends on what there is."

  "There's a lovely mediaeval dress that would do for Berengaria ofNavarre."

  "She had golden hair, and mine's brown!"

  "Bother! so she had. Then that's off. Never mind, there are heaps ofothers. There's a Cavalier's, if it will only fit. I wonder if it's bigenough? You'd look nice with the crimson cloak and huge hat and feather.Or there's a Norwegian peasant's--I think the skirt would be longenough--and a Robin Hood jerkin and tall leather boots. I believe youcould wear them. Oh dear! you ought to try all the things on. I wish Icould show them to you. They're kept in an oak chest on the landing."

  "I should like to see them," said Dorothy pensively.

  "Then look here! Get out with me at Latchworth and come to our house.Mother has gone to Bardsley this afternoon and won't be home till seven,so I shall be quite alone. You'd have heaps of time to come, and catchthe next train on to Hurford."

  It was a most tempting proposal. Dorothy wanted immensely to go. Sheknew she was expected to come straight home from school every day, andnot to accept any invitations without permission, but she dismissed thatremembrance as inconvenient.

  "Auntie'll only think I've missed the train. It will be all right if Icatch the next," she reasoned. "One must have a little fun sometimes,and I'm getting too old to have to ask leave about everything. Allright, I'll come," she added aloud; "I'd just love to see thosecostumes."

  It was delightful to get out of the train with Alison and walk to thehouse on the hill which she had so often admired from the carriagewindow. Dorothy was in wild spirits, and made jokes till Alison almostchoked.

  "It makes me cough to laugh so much," she protested. "Do be sensible,Dorothy! Here we are. Leave your books and your umbrella in the porch.We'll go straight upstairs."

  Dorothy could not help looking round with interest as her friend led herup the staircase. At every step her feet sank into the soft carpet.Through an open door she could catch a glimpse of a beautifuldrawing-room, and beyond was a conservatory full of flowers. On thelanding, which surrounded the hall like a gallery, were marble statues,pictures, and inlaid cabinets; and the floor was spread with Turkeyrugs. From the window she could see a tennis lawn and a vinery. Afterthe modest proportions of Holly Cottage, it all seemed so spacious andhandsome that Dorothy sighed.

  "What a lovely house to live in!" she thought. "Alison is lucky. She'sno foundling. I wish I had half her things. I wonder why some girls haveso much more than others?"

  Quite unconscious of the storm of envy that she had roused, Alisonwalked on. She was so accustomed to her surroundings that it neverstruck her how they might appear to anyone else, and her sole thoughtwas of the tableaux.

  "Here's the chest," she cried, lifting the lid in triumph, andcommencing to pull out some of the dresses. "This is the Norwegianpeasant's--I knew it was on the top. Let me try the skirt by yours. Oh,it is too short after all! Then you must have the mediaeval one. Look!Isn't it a beauty?--all trimmed with gold lace and spangles."

  Dorothy examined the costume with appreciation, but shook her headruefully.

  "You don't imagine that would meet round my waist?" she enquired. "Itlooks about eighteen inches. For whom was it made?"

  "Mother, before she was married. I always tell her, g
irls must have beenlike wasps in those days. Try the Cavalier's. Oh, I don't believe youcan wear that either! You're so big! I wish I could lop a little offyou. Can't you possibly squeeze into this?"

  "I would if I could, but no--I'm several sizes too large. Haven't youanything else?"

  "Not so nice. These are quite the best. You see, they're made of reallygood materials, and the others are only of glazed calico and sateen.I'll tell you how we'll manage. We must put several costumes together.Take off your coat and hat and I'll show you. Now, if you have themediaeval dress on first, we can tuck the bodice inside, and drape theCavalier's cloak like a pannier to cover the waist. The Norwegian bodicegoes quite well with it, and that's big enough, at any rate. Now thisgauze scarf round your shoulder, and this big hat, and there you are.Oh, it's lovely!"

  "What am I intended to be?" asked Dorothy, looking down at hermiscellaneous finery.

  "A Venetian lady in the time of the Doges. It is after the picture inthe drawing-room. Oh, it is like! It's simply splendid--you've no ideahow good!"

  "What picture?"

  "The portrait of Aunt Madeleine in fancy dress. Why, Dorothy, you'rejust the living image of it! Come downstairs at once and let me showyou. It's perfect."

  Quite carried away by her own enthusiasm, Alison dragged Dorothy alongthe landing, the latter much encumbered by her long skirt and thenecessity for holding on most of the articles of her attire.

  "Don't go so fast," she implored; "I'm losing the pannier, and the hat'snearly bobbing off. If you'll hold the train behind, I may managebetter."

  "All right; but then I can't see you--the back view isn't nearly sonice. This way--I have to steer you like a ship. Here's thedrawing-room. Now, take a good look in the glass first, and then pleaseadmire the picture."

  The face that greeted Dorothy in the mirror was the prettiest version ofherself that she had ever seen. The quaint costume, the scarf, and thebig hat suited her admirably; the excitement and fun had broughtunwonted roses to her cheeks, and her eyes were as bright as stars. Shehad had no idea that it was possible for her to look so well, and thesurprise heightened the colour which was so becoming.

  "Now the picture--look straight from yourself to the picture!" commandedAlison.

  The portrait hanging on the opposite wall was that of a young lady ofperhaps seventeen. The face was pretty, with grey eyes and regularfeatures; the splendid Venetian dress set off to advantage the darkcurls and the graceful turn of the neck; the slender hands held a lute,and the lips looked as if they had just closed after finishing the lastrefrain of a song. Whether it was the effect of the costume or not,there certainly was some resemblance between the face in the paintingand that of the girl who was scrutinizing it. Dorothy could see that forherself, though the likeness did not seem so striking to her as itappeared to her friend.

  "You're the absolute image!" declared Alison. "It might have beenpainted directly from you. Bruce!" (to a servant who was crossing thehall) "Bruce, come here! I want you to look. Did you ever see anythingso exact? Isn't she Aunt Madeleine to the life?"

  Bruce gazed contemplatively from the painted face to the living one.

  "The young lady certainly favours the picture," she said. "I supposeit's the dress, and the way her hair's done. Miss Alison, your tea'sready. I've put it in the library this afternoon."

  "Then bring another cup. Dorothy, you must stay and have tea with me.Yes, you must! You don't know how I hate being alone, and Mother won'tbe home till seven. Oh, do, do! You can't think how much I want you."

  "But I shall miss the 5.30!"

  "Never mind, you'll get the next train. Isn't there one at six? Bruce,fetch the railway guide please. Oh, thanks! Now then, Coleminster toHurford--where are we? Latchworth--yes, there's one at 6.5. Dorothy,you'll have oceans of time. I can't let you go without tea."

  It seemed a pity, when she was there, not to stay, so Dorothy argued. Ofcourse, Aunt Barbara would be getting rather anxious, but her mind wouldsoon be set at rest afterwards, and Dorothy was not given to troublingvery much about other people's fears.

  "It's twenty-five past now," she said, looking at the Sevres clock thatstood on a bracket. "I should have a fearful rush to catch the 5.30."

  "You couldn't do it, so that settles the matter. Take off your costumeand come to the library. Oh, never mind folding the things up; Brucewill do that. Leave them anywhere."

  A dainty little tea awaited the girls in the library, an attractive roomto Dorothy, with its bookcases, filled with beautifully-bound volumes;its big lacquered cabinet, and the many curios and Eastern weapons thatadorned the walls.

  "Where do all these things come from?" she asked, gazing round withinterest while Alison wielded the teapot.

  "Most of them are from India. My father was out there. Uncle David is atDelhi still, only perhaps he's coming home next year for good. AuntMadeleine died at Madras."

  "The one in the picture?"

  "Yes; she and Uncle David had only been married quite a short time. Shewas Mother's twin sister; but they weren't the least scrap alike--AuntMadeleine was dark, and Mother is so very fair. Wasn't it funny fortwins? You're far more like Aunt Madeleine than Mother is. That's quiteabsurd, isn't it?"

  "Quite," agreed Dorothy.

  "Uncle David sends me such lovely presents from India," continuedAlison, who liked to talk when she could find a listener. "I've allsorts of little scented boxes and things carved in ivory. I simply mustshow some of them to you. I'll get them in half a second," and away shefled, returning to spread the table with her treasures.

  To Dorothy the meal was a mixture of cake, filigree ornaments,blackberry jam, and sandalwood boxes.

  "I wish we had some of the roseleaf preserve left," remarked Alison. "Itwas the queerest stuff--rather too sickly, but I should like you to havetasted it; it came from Kashmir. Look here, I want to give you one ofthese boxes; yes, you must take it! I've so many others, and I'd loveyou to have it. I'm going to put it in your pocket, and I shall be veryoffended if you take it out."

  Alison crammed the box into Dorothy's pocket as she spoke. It was thegreatest pleasure to her to give a present, and she would willinglyhave bestowed far more of her treasures if she had thought there was alikelihood of their being accepted. She had enough delicacy and tact,however, to understand that her proud little friend would not care to bepatronized, so she restrained her generosity for the present.

  "It's so delightful to have you here!" she continued. "Wouldn't it belovely if you could come for a whole Saturday, or to stay the night sometime? I'm going to ask Mother to ask you. We'd have such a jubilee! Canyou play poker patience? Oh, I love it too! And I've the sweetest weepacks of cards you ever saw. I want to show you my stamps and my crests.I've got two big books full, and some are really rare ones. I'll bringthe stamps now."

  "Alison, I simply can't stay!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Look at the time!Why, I shall just have to race to the station!"

  "Oh, bother! Yes, you'll have to fly. I always allow five minutes. I'venever tried running, because Mother says I mustn't--it makes me cough.Where are your hat and coat? Why, of course, we left them on thelanding. You haven't finished your cake----"

  "Never mind!" cried Dorothy, who was already out of the door andhastening upstairs to fetch her outdoor garments. "Oh, it's been sojolly to come and see you, Alison! I have enjoyed it. Just hold mycoat--thanks. I'm putting on my hat wrong way about! Bother! I'll alterit in the train. Where are my satchel and umbrella? Good-bye; I shalljust have to sprint."

  Alison stood looking regretfully down the drive as her friend hurriedaway. She was loath to part with her, and turned indoors with a sigh.She dearly loved young companions, and the beautiful house and its manytreasures seemed dull without a congenial soul of her own age with whomto "go shares". She was full of Dorothy's visit when her mother returnedhome, and poured out a most excited and rather jumbled account of it.

  "It just suddenly occurred to me to ask her, you know, Mother, because Idid so want her to try on those c
ostumes. She put on the mediaeval one,and the Cavalier's cloak and hat, and the Norwegian bodice, and then shelooked exactly like the picture of Aunt Madeleine. Wasn't it queer?"

  "I dare say the combination of costumes made quite a good copy of theVenetian dress," responded Mrs. Clarke.

  "But it wasn't the dress that was so like--it was Dorothy. You never sawanything so funny, Mother! She was the absolute image of theportrait--far more like than I am to you. Even Bruce saw it."

  "You take after your father, not me."

  "I don't know who Dorothy takes after, and I don't suppose she doeseither. She's never seen her father or mother. She doesn't even know whothey were. Isn't it horrid for her?"

  "How is that?"

  "Oh, it's quite romantic! Some of the girls at school told me, but Idaren't say a word about it to Dorothy, she's so proud and reserved. Inever even hint at it. Miss Sherbourne--that's her aunt--at least, nother real aunt--oh! I'm getting muddled--well, Miss Sherbourne found herin the train when she was a baby--there was a dreadful railway accidentat a place called Greenfield, and that's why she's called DorothyGreenfield--but it isn't her proper name, because they don't knowthat--they never found out who she was--and Miss Sherbourne adopted her,and Dorothy always calls her Auntie, though she's no relation at all.And Hope Lawson says Dorothy's a charity child, and her parents may havebeen quite poor; but I'm sure she's a lady, because--well--because shesomehow seems to have it in her. I think she's just lovely, and I likeher better than anyone else at school."

  "Where did you hear this amazing story, Birdie?" exclaimed Mrs. Clarke.

  "I told you, Mother dear--at the Coll. All the girls know about it. Theycall Dorothy 'The Foundling' behind her back. Nobody dares to say it toher face, because she gets into such tantrums. I think it makes her sointeresting. She may be the daughter of a nobleman, for what anyoneknows. Just imagine! Suppose she found out that her father was a duke!Then she'd be Lady Dorothy. Don't you think, Mother, she looksaristocratic? I do."

  "I think you're a very silly child," returned Mrs. Clarke, with adistinct tone of annoyance in her voice. "You must not bring girls tothe house without asking me first."

  "But, Mother darling, you weren't in this afternoon, and I'd thought ofthe tableaux, and I couldn't arrange any of the parts until I knew whatdresses would fit Dorothy. I simply had to get her to come and try themon. And it was such fun having her to tea. Mayn't I ask her to spend theday here next Saturday? Oh, and if you would let her stay until Monday,we'd have such a glorious time!"

  "Certainly not; I couldn't think of such a thing," replied Mrs. Clarkdecisively.

  "But, Mother--Mother dearest--why not? You said yourself what a nicegirl she looked that first day we saw her in the train, and how glad youwere that I had her to travel to school with."

  "That was quite a different matter."

  "But why shouldn't I have her to the house? Oh, Mother, I told Dorothythat I meant to ask you to invite her, and if you don't I shall feel sosilly. What could I say to her? Mother sweetest, please, please!"

  "You have no right to give invitations without consulting me first,Birdie," said Mrs. Clarke, who looked more displeased than her daughterremembered ever having seen her before. "I cannot allow you to makefriends with girls of whom I know nothing."

  "But you'd know her if she came here, Motherkins."

  "I don't wish to--nor do I want you to continue the acquaintance. No,Birdie, it is impossible. I absolutely forbid you to ask this DorothyGreenfield here again."

  It was the first time Mrs. Clarke had ever set her will in directopposition to Alison's, and the spoilt child could hardly realize thatshe was not to be allowed, as usual, to do as she liked. She burst outinto a final appeal.

  "But, Mother, I love Dorothy! We're always together. You don't know whatchums we are at school. If you only guessed half of how much I want it,you'd say yes."

  "But I say no, Birdie," answered Mrs. Clarke, firm for once in her life."I strongly discourage this acquaintance, and you must not be morefriendly with Dorothy than you can help. I prefer you to travel toschool in another carriage."

  "How can I? What explanation could I possibly give? It would seem sopeculiar to cut her for no reason at all."

  "I suppose you will have to be civil, but you must not be intimate. Youare to see no more of her than you can help. It is very annoying thatshe goes by the same train. In such a large school as Avondale there aresurely plenty of other and more suitable girls with whom you can makefriends."

  "Not one so nice as Dorothy," gulped Alison, beginning to cry. "If you'donly ask her, and see for yourself!"

  "Birdie, I don't want to be cross with you, but you must understand,once and for all, that I will not have this girl at the house. No, Ishall not explain; it is quite enough for you that I forbid it. Don'tmention the subject to me again."

  Alison ran upstairs in floods of tears. She could not understand why hermother had taken this sudden prejudice against Dorothy. The thought ofbreaking off the friendship was misery to her; added to this, she was soused to getting her own way that it seemed strange to have anyreasonable request refused--and she considered this one to be mostreasonable. In matters of health she was accustomed to obey, to submitto be wrapped up in shawls, to put on galoshes, to be kept in bed anddosed and dieted; but where her health was not concerned she had almostinvariably been consulted, and her wishes gratified. It was the firsttime her mother had ever flatly refused to listen to her coaxings, orhad spoken to her with the least approach to severity, and such a stateof affairs was as unpleasant as it was unusual.

  "She really meant it, too," sobbed Alison. "Oh, dear! What am I to do?Dorothy'll think me such an atrocious sneak!"