DOROTHY IS APPROACHED
Dorothy rested with such thoroughness, that when the doctor came to see her next day he told her with a laugh that she was a fraud so far as being an invalid was concerned, and that she could go to work again as soon as she liked.
Her head was fearfully sore, of course, and if she moved quickly she had a queer, dizzy sensation, but otherwise she did not seem much the worse, and she was back in her Form-room before the work of the morning had ended.
Every one was very nice to her. There was almost an affectionate ring in Rhoda’s tone when making inquiry as to how she felt, and Dorothy was a little ashamed of her own private feeling against Rhoda. Then Daisy Goatby giggled in a silly fashion, and Rhoda’s face turned purply-red with anger.
Work went all the more easily because of the rest she had had, and Dorothy thought the doctor must be something of a wizard to understand so completely what was really best for her. There was more zest in doing to-day, and the hours went so fast that evening came even more quickly than usual.
Jessie Wayne’s foot was still bad, and she had not come up to the study. The other girls had taken her books down to her, and she was given a quiet corner in the prep room of the Lower Fifth; so the three girls were alone upstairs.
Being alone, the chance to find out Dorothy’s position with regard to Rhoda was much too good to be passed by, and sitting at ease in a low chair by the gas fire, Hazel started on her task.
Dorothy listened in silence, and in very real dismay, while they told her what Dora had overheard; but she sat quite still when they had done, making no attempt at clearing the matter up.
“Why don’t you say something, Dorothy?” Hazel’s tone was a trifle sharp, for there was an almost guilty look on Dorothy’s face, as if she were the culprit, and not Rhoda at all.
“There is nothing I can say.” Dorothy wriggled uneasily in her chair, and her hands moved her books in a restless fashion, for she wanted to plunge into work and forget all about the disagreeable thing which always lurked in her mind with regard to Rhoda.
“You do admit you know something which makes Rhoda afraid of you?” persisted Hazel.
“Oh, she need not be afraid of me; I shall not do her any harm.” Dorothy spoke hurriedly. She was afraid of being drawn into some admission which might give away her knowledge of what Rhoda had done.
“I think you ought to tell, Dorothy,” Hazel said. “It is all very well to keep silent because you don’t like to do Rhoda any harm; but when a girl sets out to work such mischief as Rhoda tried to do yesterday, it is quite time something is done to stop her.”
“You can’t call it real proof that Rhoda did give me that knock-out blow yesterday,” said Dorothy slowly. “Or even supposing that she did, you can’t be certain it was anything but an accident. When one is excited—really wrought up, as we all were—there is not much accounting for what happens.”
“Still, she might have owned up.” Hazel meant to have the last word on the subject, and Dorothy made a wry face—then laughed in a rather forced manner.
“It would not have been an easy thing to have owned up if it had been an accident; while, if the blow had been meant to knock me over, it would have been impossible to have explained it. In any case, she would think that the least said the soonest mended.”
“What about her coaching Daisy and Joan, so that your Form position should be lowered?” Hazel’s brows were drawn together in a heavy frown; she left off lounging, and sat erect in her chair looking at Dorothy.
“Rather a brainy idea, don’t you think?” Dorothy seemed disposed to be flippant, but she was nervous still, as was shown by her restless opening and shutting of her books. “When I want to get you and Margaret lowered in your Form position I will prod a couple of girls into working really hard, and then we shall all three mount in triumph over your diminished heads. Oh, it will be a great piece of strategy—only I don’t quite see how I am going to get the time to do my work, and that of the other girls too. That is the weak point in the affair, and will need thinking out.”
“Look here, Dorothy, you are just playing with us, and it is a shocking waste of time, because we have got our work to do before we go to bed.” Margaret slid a friendly hand into Dorothy’s as she spoke. “Will you tell us what you know about Rhoda? You see, she is a candidate for the Mutton Bone; she is climbing high in the Form, and it is up to us to see that the prize goes only to some one worthy of it.”
“It is because she is a candidate that my tongue should be tied,” answered Dorothy. “When Rhoda asserted that there was nothing to prevent her from being enrolled she took all the responsibility for herself into her own hands, and so I have nothing to do with it.”
“You will keep silent, and let her win the Lamb Bursary?” cried Hazel in a shocked tone.
“I won’t let her win the Lamb Bursary if I can help it. I jolly well want to win it myself,” laughed Dorothy; and then she simply refused to say any more, declaring that she must get on with her work.
There was silence in the study after that—a quiet so profound that some one, coming and opening the door suddenly, fled away again with a little cry of surprise at finding it lighted and occupied.
Dorothy turned as white as paper. She was thinking of the night when she had been up there alone, and had been so scared at the opening of the door.
“Now, who is playing pranks in such a silly fashion, I wonder?” said Hazel crossly, and jumping up, she went into the passage to find out.
Dora Selwyn had two girls in with her; they declared that they had heard nothing—but as they were all talking at once when Hazel went into the room, this was not wonderful.
In the next study Rhoda Fleming was busily writing at the table, while Daisy dozed in a chair on one side of the gas fire, and Joan appeared to be fast asleep on the other side.
These also declared that they had heard nothing; and as the room of the Upper Fifth was empty, and there was no one in the private room of the mistresses, the affair was a bit of a mystery.
Hazel had sharp eyes; she had noticed that Rhoda’s hand was trembling, and that her writing was not clear and decided. She had seen Daisy wink at Joan, and she came to certain conclusions in her own mind—only, as she had no proof, it seemed better to wait and say nothing. So she went back to the study to tell Margaret and Dorothy that evidently some one had come to play a silly prank on them, only had been scared to find that they were all wide awake and at work.
Dorothy stayed awake a good long time that night, thinking matters over, and trying to find out what was the wisest course to take. She was disposed to go to Rhoda and tell her what she had heard, and to say that there was no need for Rhoda to fear her, as there was no danger of her speaking.
When morning came this did not look so easy, and yet it seemed the best thing to do. The trouble was to get the chance of a few quiet words with Rhoda, and the whole day passed without such a thing being possible.
It was two days later before her chance came. But when she tried to start on something which would lead up to the thing she wanted to say, Rhoda swung round with an impatient air, speaking sharply, “You and I do not care so much for each other that we need to hang round in corners gossiping.”
“There is something I wanted to say to you rather badly,” said Dorothy, laying fast hold of her courage, and looking straight at the other.
Rhoda flinched. “Well, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it—so there you are.” She yawned widely, then asked, with a sudden change of tone, if Dorothy’s head was better, or if it was still sore.
“It is getting better, thank you.” Dorothy spoke cheerfully, and then she burst out hurriedly, “I wanted to say to you that there is no need for you to be afraid of me, or—or of what I may say.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Rhoda, with such offence in her tone that Dorothy flushed and floundered hopelessly.
“I—I mean just what I say—merely that, and nothing more.” Dorothy looked straight at Rhoda, who flushed, while a look of fear came into her eyes, and she turned away without another word.
After that, things were more strained than before. There was a thinly veiled insolence in Rhoda’s way of treating Dorothy which was fearfully trying to bear. But if they had to come in contact with each other when people were present, then there was a kind of gentle pity in Rhoda’s way of behaving which was more exasperating still.
Dorothy carried her head very high, and she kept her face serene and smiling, but sometimes the strain of it all was about as much as she could stand up under.
One thing helped her to be patient under it all. Her Form position was mounting again. Daisy Goatby and Joan Fletcher had dropped below her, and by the last week of term she had risen above Rhoda again. Great was the jubilation in the No. 1 study on the night when this was discovered. Hazel and Margaret made a ridiculous paper cap, with which they adorned Dorothy, and Jessie Wayne presented her with a huge paper rosette in honour of the event.
“I foresee that you will have us down next term, Dorothy, and then, instead of celebrating, we shall sit in sackcloth and ashes, grousing over our hard lot in being beaten,” laughed Hazel, as she settled the paper hat rakishly askew on Dorothy’s head, and fell back a step to admire the effect.
“There won’t be much danger of that unless we get to work,” answered Dorothy, and then they settled down to steady grind, which lasted until bedtime.
Next morning there was a letter from Tom for Dorothy, which bothered her not a little.
Twice already that term Tom had come to her for money. They each had the same amount of pocket-money, but he did not seem able to make his last. He was always in a state of destitution; he was very often in debt.
The letter this morning stated that if she could not let him have five shillings that day he would be disgraced, the family would be disgraced, and the doors of a prison might yawn to let him in.
That was silly, of course, and she frowned at his indulging in nonsense at such a time. She had the five shillings, and she could let him have it; but it seemed to her grossly unfair that he should spend his own money and hers too.
The boys were coming over that evening, and Tom asked that he might have the money then. Dorothy decided that the time had come for her to put her foot down firmly on this question of always standing prepared to help him out when he was stoney.
That afternoon they were busy in the gym practising a new set of exercises, and Dorothy was endeavouring to hang by one hand from the cross-bar, while she swung gently to and fro with her right foot held in her left hand—she was succeeding quite well too, and was feeling rather proud of herself—when a chance remark from Blanche Felmore caught her ear.
“The boys are having a fine run of luck this term,” said Blanche, as she poised lightly on the top of the bar to which Dorothy was clinging. “Bob sent me ten shillings yesterday as a present; he says he has won a pot of money this week.”
“How did he do it?” asked a girl standing near.
“They get up sweepstakes among themselves, and they get a lot of fun out of it too,” said Blanche. “Bob told me that half of the boys are nearly cleaned out this week, and——”
Just then Dorothy’s hold gave way, and she fell in a heap, hearing no more, as Blanche fell too.