CHAPTER VI—ST. HELEN’S AND THE HERMITAGE
St. Helen’s lay a mile west of the station, and half a mile from the village itself, through whose quiet, elm-shaded streets they were soon driving in the big, open carriage. The girls pointed out to Virginia the places of especial interest—the little white church which they attended on Sundays; Mrs. Brown’s cottage, where pumpkin pies and “heavenly chocolate cake” might be purchased, if not too frequently; and, chief of attractions, the “Forget-me-not,” whose sundaes, once eaten, were never forgotten.
At the little post-office, another girl joined them, and was in turn embraced quite as rapturously by Priscilla and Dorothy as Mary had been. She was introduced to Virginia as Anne Hill, Mary’s roommate, and another Senior.
“The two sharks and faculty pets of St. Helen’s,” observed Dorothy, supplementing the introduction, and including Mary and Anne with a wave of her pretty hand,
Virginia had not the vaguest idea of what a shark might be. Most apparently, not a fish; but she saw that Dorothy’s remark embarrassed both Mary and Anne. She liked Anne at once. She was rather short and plump, with a sweet face and soft Southern accent.
“She comes from Virginia,” Priscilla said in a whisper to her new room-mate, as they drove along.
Virginia divided her attention between her great interest in the country and her absorbing eagerness to hear all that the girls had to say, for Mary and Anne were kept busy answering Priscilla’s and Dorothy’s questions. Yes, Imogene Meredith had returned, and she and Vivian Winters were rooming together as they did last year. Miss Green was to be in The Hermitage—(a long sigh from Priscilla and Dorothy)—but the adorable Miss Wallace was to be there likewise. The fortunate girl, who was to be blessed with Dorothy’s Navajo rug, and, incidentally, with Dorothy herself, was new, and a protégée of Miss Wallace’s. (Sighs of envy from all.) Her name was Lucile Du Bose, and Miss Wallace had become acquainted with her in France through mutual friends. She was doubtless very nice, but a little shy and apparently lonely, and Miss Wallace had asked as a special favor to herself that the girls try to make her feel at home. Moreover, Miss Wallace had proposed Dorothy as a room-mate.
“That settles it,” announced Dorothy. “I shall be angelic to Lucile, even if she’s positively hopeless; since I’m doing Miss Wallace a favor!”
“Who has the big up-stairs room?” asked Priscilla.
Mary and Anne laughed. “Somebody very important,” said Anne in her pretty Southern accent. “She hasn’t come herself, but she has trunks and bags enough for the whole family, and they keep on coming. Up to this noon there were three trunks, two bags, a shawl strap, and four express packages. And the trunks and bags are all marked ‘K. Van R.— New York’ in big letters. Mary and I were so wild with curiosity that we had the impoliteness to turn over one of the express packages to see the name on it, and ’twas ‘Miss Katrina Van Rensaelar.’ We asked Miss Green about her, but gleaned no information except that she would be here in a few days, and was to room alone, as her guardian had especially requested it.”
“Dear me! How select!” observed Dorothy.
“She ought to be Katrina Van Tassel, like Katrina in ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’” said Virginia, whereupon every one laughed, and Mary said that “Sleepy Hollow” would be a very appropriate name for the room, as the girls who had it last year never heard the rising bell, and were invariably late for breakfast.
“We’re getting very near now, Virginia,” said her new room-mate. And, a moment later, they drove through some stone gate-posts and up a lovely curving road bordered by pines, which edged the woodland on either side.
“There are always hepaticas here in the spring the first of any place,” they told her.
Then they crossed a rustic bridge over a little brook, after which the pines gave way to maples and oaks, on either side of which were open fields and meadows. They snow-shoed here, they told her; and in the spring the ground was fairly blue with violets. Now the roadsides, as well as the land near the brook, were yellow with goldenrod and purple with asters, her mother’s flowers. The road commenced to be more hilly above the meadow, and as the horses walked slowly along, Virginia noticed with interest the shrubs and trees which grew in tangled masses on either side. She knew the sumac, now in its autumn scarlet, and the birches; but there were many which she had never seen, and she missed the service-berry and the buck-brush, which bordered the Wyoming roads, the cottonwoods and her own dear quaking-asps, which always seemed so merry and friendly in the fall. What a lovely place for a school, she kept thinking to herself, as they climbed the hill, and, suddenly leaving the wood road behind, came out upon an open campus, dotted here and there with fine old elms and maples.
“And this is St. Helen’s,” the girls told her, as they followed the elm-shaded driveway, while her delighted eyes wandered across the lawns to the gray stone buildings, upon which the ivy was already turning red.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly, “just as lovely as mother used to tell me. You see, years ago my mother came here to school, too.”
Perhaps the softness of her voice told the girls more than she herself had done, for they were silent for a moment. Then Mary said,
“Miss King wanted me to bring Virginia over to the office as soon as she came, so you girls can go on to The Hermitage. You might as well leave your bag in the carriage, Virginia. They’ll put it in your room.”
Miss King’s office was in the largest of the gray stone buildings, which, Mary told Virginia, held the gymnasium, the big assembly hall, some recitation rooms, and the offices of the principal and other important personages.
“You’ll love Miss King,” Mary reassured her, perhaps guessing that Virginia felt a little shy. “You see, she doesn’t teach any more, and she leaves most of the care of the girls to the younger teachers; but she always conducts chapel, and arranges with each girl separately about her studies. It’s wonderful how she knows every girl in St. Helen’s, and she’s interested in every little thing that concerns us. We just love her!”
They went up the steps, and into a large, open hall, at the end of which a fire blazed in a big stone fire-place.
“We don’t really need a fire now,” Mary explained, “but Miss King says it seems more homelike and cheerful when the girls come in.”
From the hall many doors led to different rooms, and through two big central ones they passed into a large office. A young woman at the desk rose to greet them.
“You’re to take the young lady to Miss King’s private office, Miss Williams,” she said.
Mary thanked her, and crossing the room, rapped upon the door of an inner office. A sweet, cheery voice said, “Come in,” and they entered a large sunny room, by the western window of which sat a gray-haired lady, who rose with girlish eagerness to greet them.
“I have been waiting for you, my dears,” she said, and Virginia thought she had never heard such a sweet voice. “And I have been waiting years for you, Virginia,” she continued. “Come to the window. I want to look at my dear Mary Webster’s little girl.”
She took them by either hand, and drew them to the window. Then she took off Virginia’s hat, and with tears in her sweet, almost sad blue eyes studied the girl’s face.
“My dear,” she said at last, “you don’t look like your mother, and yet you do. Your eyes are gray, while hers were blue, but the light in them is just the same, and your mouth is hers. But it is only fair that you should look also like that fine father of yours whom your mother brought to see me eighteen years ago. It was twenty years ago that Mary Webster left St. Helen’s the sadder for her leaving; and now the same St. Helen’s is gladder for her coming again in her little daughter. Oh, my dear, my dear, how glad I am to have you here!”
With that her blue eyes quite brimmed over with tears, and she held Virginia close a moment and kissed her.
A lump rose in Virginia’s throat and she could not speak. The dear memory of her mother, and more than all else, the genuine praise and appreciation of her father, the first she had heard since she came East, with the exception of Aunt Nan’s compliment, quite overcame her. Tears filled her eyes, and her chin quivered, when she tried to thank Miss King. But the dear lady understood, and, still holding her hand, turned to talk with Mary until Virginia should be herself again.
“And, now,” she said gayly, a few moments later, “you’re both to have tea with me, for I’ve told Miss Weston I’m not to be interrupted on any condition. We don’t have girls from Wyoming every day, do we, Mary? You like my room, Virginia?” For Virginia’s eyes were wandering about the room, charmed with everything.
“I just love it, Miss King,” she said, in her natural, unaffected way. “It makes me think of a sunny autumn afternoon at home. The walls are just the color of our brown foot-hills, and the yellow curtains against them are like the sunlight on the hills. And I love the marigolds on the table, I always have them in mother’s garden at home. She loved them so.”
“I’m so glad it seems like that to you,” Miss King told her, “because it always makes me think of October, my favorite month.” And she looked about contentedly at the soft brown walls, the pale yellow silk curtains, the darker furniture, and the bowl of yellow and brown marigolds which saw their reflection in the polished table. The pictures were largely soft landscapes in sepia, Corot’s and Millet’s; but here and there was hung a water color in a sunny, golden frame.
“I wanted a restful room with soft colors, and soothing pictures—not profound, energy-inspiring ones—for in this room I rest and read and talk with my girls. And some way it satisfies me—the way I have furnished and arranged it. Now, Virginia, I want to know about that wonderful country of yours. You must tell us while we drink our tea.”
Then followed one of the most memorable hours of Virginia’s school life. Years afterward the remembrance of it was to stay with her—a sweet and helpful influence. They sat in the brown and gold room, which the sun setting made more golden, and talked of school plans, of the new girls, of the summer just passed, and most of all of Virginia’s country, which neither Miss King nor Mary had seen. The subjects of their conversation were simple enough, but in some way the gray-haired woman by the window made everything said doubly memorable and precious; and when they left, as the school clock was striking five, they felt, as many before them had felt, strangely helped and strengthened.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” breathed Virginia, as they went down the steps together.
“Yes, she is,” Mary said thoughtfully. “And after I’ve been with her I wonder what it is about her that helps one so. She doesn’t say very much—she always makes you talk; but there’s just something beautiful about her that you always feel. I guess that’s why St. Helen’s is such a fine school.”
They took the long way around the campus so that Virginia might see the buildings. In addition to the large main one, there were two others, also of gray stone—one for recitations and the other containing the laboratories and Domestic Science rooms. There was also, Mary told her, in the pine woods below the hill, a little gray stone chapel, called St. Helen’s Retreat, where they held their vesper services, and where the girls were free to go when they wished. It was the quietest, dearest place, Mary said. She did not see how she had happened to forget to show Virginia the woodsy path that led to it, as they came up the driveway. The cottages for the girls were scattered about the campus. There were six of them,—King Cottage, West, Overlook, Hathaway, Willow, and The Hermitage. Each accommodated fifteen girls, with the exception of The Hermitage, which was smaller than the others and held but nine. Miss King did not like dormitories, Mary explained, as they went along. She thought they lacked a home feeling, and so St. Helen’s had never built dormitories for its girls. Moreover, in spite of many requests, Miss King limited her number of girls to eighty-five—a large enough family, she said, since she wished to know each member of it. The cottages did look homelike certainly, Virginia thought, with their wide porches, well-kept lawns, shrubs, and garden flowers. The Hermitage was the tiniest of them all, and stood quite apart from the others behind a clump of fir trees, through which a gravel path led to the cottage itself.
“Really, The Hermitage isn’t a very appropriate name for a house full of girls,” Mary said, as they drew nearer the little cottage; “but one of the older graduates gave the money for it and asked the privilege of naming it herself. So she selected that name on account of the location, forgetting that girls aren’t a bit like hermits.”
Virginia thought the name and location alike lovely; and as they passed through the fir trees and reached the porch which surrounded the house, her satisfaction was complete. Inside, The Hermitage was quite as attractive as its brown-shingled exterior. On the first floor were the living-room, with a wide stone fire-place and book-lined walls, the sunny, homelike dining-room, and the rooms of the two teachers. Up-stairs were the four rooms of the girls, each large and sunny, and opening upon a porch, and away up on the third floor was one large room, which was this year to be occupied by the mysterious Katrina Van Rensaelar.
All was hurry and bustle on the second floor of The Hermitage as Mary and Virginia went up the stairs. Five girls were frantically and unsystematically unpacking—pausing every other minute to go the rounds for the sake of exhibiting some new possession acquired during the summer. Two of the girls Virginia had not seen, and her new room-mate promptly introduced them.
“These are our next door neighbors, Virginia,” she said, “Imogene Meredith and Vivian Winters. And this is Virginia Hunter from the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming.”
“Indeed?” remarked the one called Imogene, raising her eyebrows and extending a rather languid hand. “Quite off the map, n’est-ce pas?” and she laughed.
She was tall with dark, extremely-dressed hair, and eyes that did not meet your own. Her dress was of the latest fashion, and she wore several pieces of expensive jewelry. Virginia was embarrassed by her easy, uninterested manner, and her strange laugh. Vivian Winters she liked better. Vivian was short with a sweet, childish face, and wistful blue eyes. She, too, was dressed far too lavishly for school, Virginia felt, but she liked her all the same, and did not feel at all embarrassed in replying to her pleasant little welcome. As she looked at them, she recalled the conversation she had heard between Priscilla and Dorothy in the train, and she thought she understood Priscilla’s feeling toward Imogene. But, perhaps, they were both mistaken, and she wouldn’t begin by being prejudiced. Just then Dorothy called Imogene to her room at the other end of the hall, and Priscilla took Virginia to their own room.
“There’s a huge box here for you,” she said, as they went down the hall. “It nearly fills the room.”
“Oh, it’s my saddle here already!” cried Virginia. “It is a huge box, isn’t it?”
“Your—what?” asked the amazed Priscilla, and listened open-mouthed while Virginia explained, and told her about Jim and the others. So interested did she become that before they realized it, the supper-bell had rung, and found them sitting side by side on the big box, friends already.
“I never heard anything so interesting in all my life,” exclaimed Priscilla, as they searched for hairbrushes and towels among their confused luggage. “And will you really teach me to ride?”
“Why, of course, I will. You’ll love it! Oh, I’m sorry to be late the very first night!”
“That’s the best time of all, because they expect it then. Besides, Miss Green’s dining out, and Miss Wallace—you’ll love her!—took Lucile Du Bose to town to see the oculist. Mary’s in charge tonight, and she’ll excuse us.”
“Is Mary part teacher?” Virginia asked, puzzled.
No, not that exactly, Priscilla explained; but each year the girls of the different cottages elected one of their number who would be a Senior the next year to be a kind of cottage monitor, to take charge of the table and study hours when the teachers were out.
It was an honor to be elected, because it meant that the girls considered you trustworthy; and every one at St. Helen’s knew and trusted Mary Williams.
Virginia admired Mary more than ever. It must be wonderful, she thought as she tied her hair-ribbon and searched for a clean handkerchief, to be trusted by every one in school. Could they say that of her when she became a Senior?
“What are you, Priscilla?” she asked as they went down-stairs.
“I’m a Junior,” said Priscilla, “and so are Dorothy and Imogene. Anne is a Senior like Mary. Vivian’s a Sophomore, and Lucile Du Bose, too, they say. As for Miss Van Rensaelar, no one knows. Maybe she’s a post-grad. She sounds very grand.”
That evening they finished unpacking, and by nine o’clock their room was quite settled. The Navajo rugs were on the floor—the envy of the house. The saddle-box they had covered, and with pillows it made quite a picturesque divan. Of course, the effect was lessened in the mind of any one who might attempt to sink down upon it, but it looked well, and there were chairs enough without it. Each cot was covered with afghan and pillows. Even the pictures were hung, and their few treasured books, of which Virginia discovered to her joy Priscilla was as fond as she, were placed in the little wall book-case from Virginia’s room at home. Altogether the big room had a cheery, homelike atmosphere, and they both felt very happy.
Before going to bed they visited their neighbors. Mary and Anne’s room they found not unlike their own, only there were even more books about, and an adorable tea-table with brass kettle and little alcohol lamp, for Seniors were allowed to serve tea on Saturday afternoons. Dorothy’s room was in a sad state of upheaval, the Navajo rug, carefully spread on the floor, being the only sign of an attempt at settlement. Dorothy herself was curled up on the couch, deep in a magazine. Her room-mate had not returned she said, so why arrange things? Their ideas might not harmonize.
The room opposite their own, occupied by Imogene and Vivian, was settled in a most unsettled manner. Virginia thought as she entered that never in her life had she seen so many things in one room. One entire wall was festooned with a dreaded fish-net, in which were caught literally hundreds of relatives, friends, and acquaintances; the other walls were covered with pennants. The couches were so piled with pillows that one could not find room to sit down; the dressers were loaded with costly silver toilet articles, and more friends in silver frames; even the curtains were heavy with souvenirs, which were pinned to them. There were no books, except a few school-books, tucked under the desk, and no pictures, save highly decorated posters, wedged among the pennants, where a few inches of bare space had not been allowed to remain uncovered. It all gave Virginia a kind of stifled sensation, and she was glad to return to their own room when the nine-thirty bell had rung.
It was strange to crawl into her cot-bed opposite Priscilla; strange to talk in whispers for a few moments, and then to say “Good-night.” For a few more moments she wondered with a wave of homesickness, more for her father than for herself, what they were all doing at home. Were they sleeping while the mountains kept their silent night watch? No, that could not be, for the time was different. Colonel Standish had explained that to her on the journey East. Dear Colonel Standish! What was that difference? Was it two hours earlier at Hillcrest? Then it would be only eight o’clock at home. Or was it—? But her tired head, so weary from the day’s excitement, refused to reckon differences in time, and Virginia fell asleep.