CHAPTER XI—THE DISCIPLINING OF MISS VAN RENSAELAR
“On, of course, Dorothy, do as you like! If you’d rather play tennis with the Wyoming Novelty than go down to the village with me, go ahead. Don’t think for a moment that I care!”
Imogene leaned idly back among the pillows, while Dorothy studied the rug with a flushed face.
“You know it isn’t that I’d rather, Imogene; but Virginia and I made an agreement that I’d teach her some tennis serves, and she’d teach me to ride. She’s given me two lessons already, and now that the indoor courts are fixed I thought we’d play this afternoon, that’s all.”
“Go and play then. Don’t mind me. I’m comfortable!”
Dorothy was silent for a moment. “I don’t see why you dislike Virginia so, Imogene,” she said at last.
“Dislike her? I don’t dislike her, or like her either for that matter. I don’t care one way or the other. My friends have never been brought up in the backwoods, and don’t weep over dead cow-boys; but, of course, you’re at liberty to choose yours wherever you like.”
The sarcasm in Imogene’s tone was biting. Dorothy struggled with a strong desire to defend Virginia, and another as strong to keep in Imogene’s favor. Completely ashamed of herself, she said nothing, and Imogene mercifully changed the subject.
“Has our Dutch aristocrat returned your penknife?”
“Not yet. How about your hammer?”
“I haven’t seen it since she borrowed it, and I’ve ruined my nail-file trying to open the box of cake mother sent. She has her nerve! I found this on my desk this afternoon.”
She showed Dorothy a slip of paper on which was written in a heavy black hand:
“Have borrowed your ink for the afternoon.
“K. van R.”
“You don’t mean to say she came in when there was no one here, and just took it!” gasped Dorothy.
“Oh, Vivian was here, I guess, but Viv hasn’t the nerve of a rabbit. If Her Highness had chosen to take the room, Viv would have gone along. But I’m going to do something very soon. I’m sick of this!”
An imperious knock sounded on the door, and without waiting to be bidden, the knocker entered. It was Miss Van Rensaelar herself, who, late in coming to St. Helen’s, had arrived two weeks before. She was dressed in dark blue velvet with ermine furs, and looked undeniably handsome, with her blue eyes and faultless complexion. In one white-gloved hand she gingerly held an ink-bottle, which she extended.
“Here is your ink,” she announced somewhat haughtily. “I’m sure I’m obliged. I forgot the hammer, but you can get it from my room if you need it. I go to the city for dinner. Good-by.”
Imogene did not rise. “Good-by,” she said in a tone which quite matched Miss Van Rensaelar’s. “You might have the goodness to place the ink on my desk. It belongs there.”
“Indeed!” Miss Van Rensaelar sniffed the air, but crossed the room with the ink-bottle, which she deposited upon the desk. Then she crossed again, her head a trifle higher if possible, and went out the door, which she left wide open.
Imogene was furious. She rose from the couch to give vent to her feelings by slamming the door, but encountered Priscilla and Virginia just about to enter. Had she not wished to share her rage, she might not have been so gracious.
“Come in,” she said, “and hear the latest!”
“What’s she done now?” Priscilla whispered. “We met her in the hall, but she didn’t deign to speak. Is she going to town to dine with the Holland ambassador, or what?”
“I don’t know or care whom she’s going to see,” stormed Imogene, “but I know one thing! I’m not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. Borrowing everything is bad enough; but when it comes to lording it over the whole house, it’s time to do something! Besides, she’s a Freshman!”
“She isn’t exactly a Freshman,” said Virginia, not noting Imogene’s displeasure. “Miss Wallace says she’s been to several girls’ schools on the Hudson already, but she doesn’t stay. She’s sort of a special, I guess. She’s nearly eighteen, you know.”
“I wasn’t favored with a knowledge of her age,” Imogene continued frigidly. “But I repeat, it’s time to do something!”
“But what can we do?” asked Priscilla. “Of course we can refuse to lend our things, but that—”
“That isn’t what I mean. I mean we ought to show her that she isn’t everything in The Hermitage, or in all St. Helen’s. She thinks she is! But she isn’t! In college she’d be made to black boots, or run errands. I have a friend at Harvard and he told me all about the things they make fresh Freshmen do.”
The thought of the haughty, velvet-clad Miss Van Rensaelar blacking boots was too much for Virginia and she laughed, thereby increasing Imogene’s displeasure. Vivian arrived just at this point of the conversation, falling over the rug as she entered, which awkward proceeding greatly disturbed her room-mate.
“For mercy’s sake, Viv, save the furniture, and do close the door! This isn’t open house!”
Poor Vivian, a little uncertain as to whether or not she was welcome, straightened the rug and closed the door. Then she sat beside Virginia, who had made room for her on the couch.
“We might ask Mary. Maybe she’d have an idea,” Priscilla suggested a little timidly, but Imogene did not receive the suggestion very kindly.
“Oh, I’m sick of this monitor business! Don’t say a word to Mary. Whatever is done can be done without her first assistance. I’m going to think of something before I go to bed to-night.”
“She makes me think of Dick when he first came to the ranch,” said Virginia. “He acted as though he were better than the other men, and knew a lot more, though he was only eighteen. He used to like to dress up and go to town at night, as though he were above them all. The men grew tired of his overbearing ways, and Jim and Alex decided he needed some discipline. So, one night when he had gone to town in his best clothes, they placed a big bucket of water over the bunk-house door, and arranged it so that when any one opened the door from the outside it would fall and drench him. Dick came home about midnight; and the men all lay in bed, waiting for him to open the door. He opened it, and down came all the water. Jim told father the next day that Dick just stood there wet through, and never said a word. But he understood, and after that he wasn’t snobbish any more, but just one of the men, and they liked him a great deal better. I know I thought ’twas mean when Jim told father, but father said it was just what Dick needed to help make a man of him.”
They had all listened to Virginia’s story. Somehow they always did listen when Virginia told a story for it was sure to be interesting. Imogene, though she stared out of the window while Virginia told it, was really listening most attentively of all; for, as Virginia talked, into her scheming mind flashed an idea, by the carrying out of which she might attain a two-fold purpose—namely, the desired disciplining of Miss Van Rensaelar, and the revenging of certain wrongs for which she held Virginia responsible.
Imogene did dislike Virginia, for no other reasons in the world than that the other girls liked her, and that their friendliness gave Virginia prominence at St. Helen’s. Virginia did not seek popularity or influence, therefore she had both; but Imogene for two years had sought for both, and moreover had used every means to attain them. This year she saw her popularity waning. Even Dorothy did not seem to care so much for her. Instead she liked Virginia—a bitter pill for Imogene to swallow. As for influence, Imogene Meredith did possess a strong influence over her associates, but its strength did not lie in its goodness. Moreover, Imogene remembered a certain talk with Miss Wallace on the occasion of Virginia’s trouble with Miss Green; and the memory of that talk still rankled bitterly. She would get even with Virginia, and show St. Helen’s that this Wyoming girl was not such a wonder after all. So as Virginia told her story and the others listened, Imogene smiled to herself and planned her revenge, Miss Van Rensaelar for the moment almost forgotten.
“Aren’t you going to play tennis, Dorothy?” Virginia asked as she finished.
Dorothy hesitated. “Can’t we play to-morrow, Virginia?” she asked, embarrassed. “I promised Imogene I’d walk to the village with her.”
“Of course. It doesn’t matter. Come on, Vivian. Priscilla and you and I’ll play; and if Lucile doesn’t want to make a fourth, we’ll get Bess Shepard from Overlook. She said this morning that she’d like to play.”
So while the others crossed the campus toward the gymnasium, Imogene and Dorothy started for Hillcrest, and upon arriving went to the “Forget-me-not,” while the sallow-faced youth before mentioned served them hot chocolate, and lingered unnecessarily in Imogene’s neighborhood. On the way home, peace having been restored between them, Imogene divulged her secret plan to Dorothy, or at least the half of it which she cared to divulge,—namely that upon their arrival home while every one was preparing for dinner, a pail of water be suspended over Miss Van Rensaelar’s door, so that upon her return she might be surprised into a more docile manner toward her housemates.
Dorothy giggled at the picture of the soaked Katrina, but obstacles presented themselves to her mind.
“It will be funny, but I think you’ll get the worst of it instead of Katrina.”
“How, I’d like to know?”
“Well, you’re sure to be found out, because you can’t fib about it, and there’s so few of us in The Hermitage that all of us will be asked. Then, besides, it’s funny, but I’m not so sure it’s a joke. I think it’s sort of mean.” Dorothy said the last somewhat hesitatingly, noting the expression coming over Imogene’s face.
“Don’t be such a wet-blanket, Dot! Besides, I don’t see how you’re so sure I’ll be found out. You certainly won’t tell, and Viv won’t dare to; and you know how St. Helen’s feels about telling tales anyway. Besides, it’s not my plan. You know who suggested it just this afternoon.” And into Imogene’s eyes crept a crafty expression, which told Dorothy more than her words.
“Oh, Imogene!” she cried, really indignant. “You know that isn’t true! Virginia didn’t propose it at all! She was just telling a story! You don’t mean you’d do it yourself, and then lay the blame on Virginia!”
Imogene saw that she had made a mistake.
“Who’s talking about blaming anybody? I guess I’m willing to take the blame for my own actions. Don’t get so excited! I didn’t exactly mean she proposed it. I just meant that I’d never have thought of such a good plan if it hadn’t been for her.”
Dorothy was not convinced. She never felt quite sure of Imogene, though she couldn’t seem to help being fascinated by her.
“You see,” she said hesitatingly, “if you had meant that Virginia suggested it, I’d think—”
“Well, think what?”
“I’d think that—? that maybe you laughed on purpose that night down-stairs.”
Imogene shrugged her shoulders, and looked, for her, rather uncomfortable.
“Isn’t any one allowed to laugh, if anything strikes her funny? You’re suspicious, Dorothy!”
But quarreling would not do if Dorothy’s help were to be relied upon. Besides, the subject was distasteful, not to say dangerous. Imogene changed it hurriedly, and, by the time they reached The Hermitage, the plan had once more assumed at least an honest aspect, and Dorothy was once more laughing at the thought of the drenched Katrina.
Meanwhile Miss Van Rensaelar was being entertained in the city, and regaling her friends with tales of the hopelessness of St. Helen’s in general, and The Hermitage in particular. Such regulations as to hours! Such babyish girls! No style! No callers! No amusements, except tennis and basketball, and riding on impossible horses!
The truth was the trouble lay in Katrina Van Rensaelar, and not in St. Helen’s. Katrina, “on account of having been detained by illness at a Long Island house-party,” had not arrived at St. Helen’s until after Thanksgiving. She was too late to enter any of the regular classes, and had been ranked as a “Special.” The term really suited Katrina, for she was a special type of girl to which St. Helen’s had not often been accustomed. She had too little desire for study and too much money—too little friendliness and too many ancestors.
Now, the possession of too many ancestors is difficult property to handle, especially in boarding-school, unless you are very expert in concealing your ownership. Katrina was not expert. On the contrary, disdaining concealment, she openly avowed her ownership, and on the few occasions in which she had been known to engage in conversation, had announced that she was of the only original Dutch patroon stock of New York. There were girls at St. Helen’s who were every bit as snobbish as Katrina with perhaps less to be snobbish about—Imogene was one—but somehow they had learned that if one wished to be popular, she concealed as far as possible her personal prejudices toward family and fortune.
Katrina, glad to be away from St. Helen’s and to see some “life,” as she termed it, accepted with thanks an invitation to remain over night in the city. Her friends telegraphed her intention to Miss King, promising to bring her in by machine early in the morning. Miss Green and Miss Wallace were accordingly informed of the fact that she would not return, but, as such irregularities were not encouraged, said nothing of her absence to the girls.
That night Vivian was a trifle late for supper, for truth to tell it had been Vivian whom Imogene had delegated to creep up-stairs with the water-filled pail, and hang it on a nail already provided above the door.
“You’re lighter on your feet than I am, Viv,” she had explained, “and no one will hear you. Just because you hang it there doesn’t mean that you’re to blame at all. And remember, if to-night Miss Green questions you, you’re to say, ‘That’s the way they discipline snobbish cow-boys in Wyoming.’”
Poor, short-sighted little Vivian, glad to be again in the favor of her adored Imogene, obediently hung the pail upon the nail, and descended to the dining-room, looking embarrassed as she took her seat. Miss Wallace’s keen eyes noted the embarrassment, and caught also a shade of disapproval cross Imogene’s face.
“You must have washed in a hurry, Vivian,” whispered the unconscious Virginia, who sat next her. “There are drops all over your collar.”
Vivian, more embarrassed than ever, raised her napkin to wipe the drops. Supper proceeded, but Miss Wallace had her clew.
All through study-hours, while the others worked, unconscious of any excitement, Dorothy, Imogene, and Vivian waited with bated breath for the return of Miss Van Rensaelar. But she did not come. At nine-thirty she had not returned, and there was nothing to do but go to bed and lie awake listening. The clock struck ten, and stealthy steps were heard in the corridor. Could that be Katrina returning? No, for she would never soften her tread for fear of disturbing the sleepers. Who could it be? Whoever it was was going up the stairs, for they creaked a little. The girls held their breaths for one long moment. Then—a frightful splash, followed immediately by a crash and an unearthly shriek, rent The Hermitage. Those awake and those who had been sleeping rushed into the hall, in which the light was still burning. Down the-stairs came a person in a gray flannel wrapper, which clung in wet folds about her shivering figure, and from every fold of which ran rivulets of water. The person’s scant locks were plastered to her head, save in front, where from every curl-paper dripped drops as from an icicle. It was Miss Green! Frightened, furious, forbidding Miss Green!
Simultaneously the girls laughed—innocent and guilty alike. No one could have helped it—at least not they, who were, for the most part, completely surprised. And Miss Green, it must be admitted, was excruciatingly funny. She stood in the middle of the hall, dripped and glared. When she could command her trembling voice:
“Mary Williams, you are a Senior monitor, and do you laugh at such outrageous conduct?”
“I—I beg your pardon, Miss Green,” stammered Mary. “I really couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
“Will you explain this occurrence?”
“I really can’t, Miss Green. I don’t know anything about it.”
At this juncture, hurried steps were heard on the stairs, and Miss Wallace mercifully appeared. When she saw Miss Green, her own lips quivered, but she restrained them. The shivering Miss Green explained the situation in a voice quivering with cold and anger. Then, as if her own conduct needed explanation:
“I went up-stairs merely to—to see if the windows were lowered, and this is what I received. Let us probe this disgusting matter to the bottom, Miss Wallace.”
“I think you should first get into dry things,” Miss Wallace suggested gently. “Then we will talk matters over. Girls, please go to your rooms.”
The girls obeyed.
“One moment, please,” Miss Green called imperiously. “Vivian, you were late at supper. Can you explain this matter. Answer me, can you?”
Poor frightened Vivian tried to look into Miss Green’s glaring eyes, but failed miserably. She stammered, hesitated, was silent.
“Answer me, Vivian. What sort of a method of procedure is this?”
“Please—please, Miss Green, it’s—it’s—”
“Well, it’s what?”
“It’s the way they discipline sn-snobbish c-cow-boys in Wyoming.”
Utter silence reigned for a few long seconds. Miss Green stared at each of the mystified girls, until her eye fell upon Virginia, most mystified of all.
“For the present, Virginia,” she said in measured tones, each one distinct, “I will inform you that methods which are in vogue upon a Wyoming ranch are not suitable in a young ladies’ boarding-school. I will see you later.”
She turned to go with Miss Wallace, still dripping, still glaring. Miss Wallace’s face had become stern.
“Go to your rooms, girls. There will be no talking to-night. Please remember, Mary.”
“Yes, Miss Wallace,” promised the Senior monitor.
But the mystified Virginia and her wholly indignant room-mate could not resist some whispers.
“It’s Imogene,” whispered Priscilla, on Virginia’s bed. “She made Vivian do it; and now she means to put the blame on you, just because you told that story about Dick.”
“Oh, she couldn’t be so mean, Priscilla!”
“Yes, she could. She’s just that kind. And if Miss Green blames you, I’m going to tell. I am!”
This, and much more, went on in whispers in their room, and, for that matter, in every other. No one could sleep, and a half hour later every girl heard Miss Wallace’s voice at Imogene’s door.
“Imogene, you are to come to my room at once. No, I don’t wish you, Vivian. At once, please, Imogene.”
It was fully an hour later when they heard Imogene reenter her room, but no one ventured either that night or in the morning to ask any questions. As for Virginia, she was summoned to no interview, and suffered no unjust reprimand, save Miss Green’s piercing words, which she wrote, with a half-smile, in the chapter, “Pertaining Especially to Decorum”:
“I will inform you that methods in vogue upon a Wyoming ranch are not suitable in a young ladies’ boarding-school.”
Miss Van Rensaelar, who returned the next morning, never knew what deluge she escaped. Imogene’s manner forbade any interferences, but apparently Vivian’s life with her room-mate for the next few days was anything but a happy one. Secret discussions were held in The Hermitage, and likewise in the other cottages, for the news had spread; but Imogene and Vivian never attended, and Dorothy, if present, was silent and strangely embarrassed.
A week later when the newness of the affair had passed away, and when other topics occasionally came up for conversation, some news announced by Miss Green to her classes swept through St. Helen’s like wild-fire. In recognition of years of faithful service, St. Helen’s had presented Miss Green with a fund, with the request that she go to Athens for two years’ study at the Classical School.
“Another vocation thrust upon her! Horrors! What will she do?” exclaimed Dorothy, at a meeting held in The Hermitage to discuss this unexpected, and, I am forced to say, welcome piece of information.
“Three cheers for St. Helen’s!” cried one Blackmore twin.
“And groans for Athens!” cried the other.
So just before Christmas, Miss Green departed for Athens; and at the same time, Katrina Van Rensaelar, deciding to seek education elsewhere, left for a place in which her ancestors would be more appreciated.
“And to be perfectly frank, daddy dear,” wrote Virginia, “it’s a welcome exodus!”