"She stood there an image of grace, her chin bent lovingly down to her violin"
"Now, Hope, do just try this with me."
"Dolly—Miss Benham must be tired; she must want to rest," broke in Jimmy, his face flushing, his tone revealing his mortification.
Hope saw the flush, and noted the tone. She could not add to his mortification, and going back to the music-stand, she said quietly,—
"Oh, it is one of those pretty folk-songs. Yes, I'll try it with you; I'm not tired."
And so it was in this way that Kate Van der Berg's prophecy was fulfilled.
"I knew it would come about, I knew it, I knew it!" cried Kate, triumphantly, when Myra Donaldson told her what had happened, "for I never saw such a persistent girl in my life as Dorothea,—so persistent and so thick-skinned."
"But Hope couldn't help giving in to her," explained Myra; "she was so sorry for Dorothea's cousin."
"Of course. I do wonder if Dorothea was clever enough to see that,—to plan it, perhaps."
"No, I don't think she planned it, and I don't think she saw in the least why Hope gave in to her. She probably thought Hope had the leisure just then, and felt like it."
"Well, she is the queerest girl; but her cousin is a dear little fellow. My brother Schuyler and Peter Van Loon like him immensely. Schuyler likes him so much he wants to get him to come up and visit us this summer. I hope he will; he knows everything about a boat, and that means a great deal in the way of a good time with us."
"Why don't you invite Dorothea to come up with him?"
"Yes, why don't I?" and Kate laughed. Then all at once she burst out seriously: "How she did go on at the party; and look here, Myra, I'll tell you something if you won't speak of it to any one,—any one but Hope,—I've told Hope."
"No, I won't say a word about it."
"Well, you saw how she carried on,—flirted in that silly, loud way with Raymond Armitage?"
"Yes."
"Well, what do you think? She—she's carrying on the flirtation still."
"No—no, you don't mean it!"
"I do."
"How is she carrying it on?"
"The next day after the party, the next morning,—that's day before yesterday,—I was down early, hunting for my carnelian pin; I'd dropped it somewhere, and I thought it might be in the reception-room, as I missed it soon after I had left the room to go upstairs the night before. I found it at last under a chair by the window. It was a little bent, and I stood at the window trying to straighten it, when I saw three or four of the Institute boys coming along on their way to school. One of them was Raymond Armitage; and as he passed by, I heard him say to the others,—
"'I have a note from my sister that I've got to leave here. Walk on slowly, and I'll catch up with you.'
"Ann was in the hall dusting, and so his ring was answered immediately; and as the reception-room door was ajar, I heard him say to her,—
"'Will you give this note to Miss Dorothea Dering?'
"Then I knew that he dropped something, some piece of money, into the girl's hand, for I could hear her say,—
"'Oh, thank you, sir, I'll go right up with it now,' which she did the instant she had closed the door."
"Well, if I ever!"
"Wait a minute; this isn't all. Just after luncheon that very day, mamma called and took me down town to be measured for my new jacket. After that was over, I sat waiting in the carriage, while mamma went into a shop to give an order. Michael drew up just beyond to make room for another carriage, and that brought us right in front of Huyler's; and there, through the clear glass of the door, I saw Dorothea Dering and Raymond Armitage laughing and talking together at the ice-cream soda counter."
"Of all—"
"But wait again; this isn't all. At the same hour after luncheon to-day, as I came along the corridor past Dorothea's room, I saw Ann standing at the open door, and whipping out from under her apron what I knew at once was a box of candy, and I heard her say, 'The same young gentleman as sent the note, miss.' Now, what do you think of all this?"
"I think it is perfectly disgusting. What are you going to do about it? Something ought to be done to stop it."
"What can I do?"
"Oughtn't you to tell Miss Marr?"
"Yes, I suppose I ought, if nothing else will do; but I hate to be a tell-tale. Boys never tell tales of each other. I've got brothers, you know, and I've heard them talk so much about that. I've heard Schuyler say that girls grew up to be women gossips because they tattle so much at school. If I thought it would do any good, I would speak to Dorothea; but she would resent it, and would very likely tell me, in her blunt way, that she could manage her own affairs, and that I'd better mind my own business, or something of that kind."
"Yes, I suppose that she would; but it is our business as well as hers, when she is doing something that is going to hurt the school. What did Hope say when you told her about it?"
"She said it ought to be stopped some way, just for that reason,—that it would hurt the school dreadfully, as well as Dorothea, and nearly kill Miss Marr."
"Of course it would; it's so vulgar and cheap. When did that cousin of Dorothea's go back?"
"Yesterday."
"He was staying with some relatives, wasn't he?"
"Yes, cousins, I believe."
"Why couldn't somebody tell them? They might stop it; and it must be stopped, or—you know what Miss Marr might do? She might, you know, send her home,—expel her at once."
"Yes, I thought of that; and that was one reason I had for not telling her."
"Oh, it's all so silly! What fun could there be in sneaking off to drink ice-cream soda with Raymond Armitage?"
"No particular fun in the soda itself. The fun to Dorothea was just the sneaking off. You can see she thinks she's having 'great larks,' as she'd call it,—is being independent and having adventures and being a great flirt, and that Raymond Armitage admires her for it. And Raymond Armitage is simply laughing in his sleeve at her. Oh, I should think any girl would have better sense, better taste; and Anna Fleming talks about her family."
"But she isn't the only one of her family. There's her cousin; look at him: he's a little gentleman if ever there was one. What would he say to her if he knew? And just think! there she was back again, playing on her violin with him as cool as you please, directly after her lark, and no doubt pluming herself on it."
"I wonder what excuse she made to get off as she did?"
"Excuse? You don't suppose she made any excuse? Not she. She just skipped out, in the rest hour, when Miss Marr and the other teachers were off duty; and she managed to come back at the right time. Oh, it makes me more and more indignant the longer I think of it, for it's a bigger shame because Miss Marr is so nice about our school parties and our receptions, and treats us like ladies, and trusts us to be ladies, and not to deceive her. But hark! it's striking six, and I must get ready for dinner."
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Yes, I suppose that is the best thing for me to do; but oh, Hope! you don't know, you can't think how I dread it."
"Yes, I can think;" and Hope laughed a little.
"She'll be so angry she'll say horrid things to me."
"Yes, you may count on that."
"When would you tell her?"
"I'd go now and tell her this very minute, it ought to be done at once."
"Oh, dear! well, I'll take your advice, and you'll wait for me here, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll wait for you here and study up my history lesson."
"All right; and wish me courage and success." Then, with a little nod and a rueful smile, Kate Van der Berg went on her mission to Dorothea; for it had finally, after much consultation between the three friends, been thought best for Kate to go straight to Dorothea and appeal to her.
Dorothea was at the desk in her room writing a note as Kate entered,—a note she hastily turned over blank side up as she saw her visitor. There was a rather flurried look on her face, as Kate said, "Am I interrupting you?" though she answered readily enough, "Oh, no; I thought it was one of the servants when you knocked, that's all." Then, not very cordially, "Won't you sit down?"
This was not a very promising beginning, and Kate's heart began to fail her. At this point, however, she caught sight of a photograph. It was the photograph of Raymond Armitage, and her courage returned.
Dorothea had seen her glance of recognition, and remarked coolly: "Isn't it like him? He's very handsome, I think, don't you?"
"I—I don't know," stammered Kate; then, throwing all hesitation to the winds, she began to speak, and this she did at the start in the kindest, gentlest way in the world, telling of what she had seen and heard, as she had told Hope and Myra, and winding up with: "I felt that I ought to speak to you—to tell you what you might not know—how much all this would affect Miss Marr and injure yourself; that if—if she heard—if she knew—she might—might write to your parents, and ask them—to—to take you home."
"Oh, I see—expel me, that's what you mean. The old cat, she won't do any such thing! I never saw anything like the way you all go on over that woman. I like her well enough. I was tremendously taken with her and her tailor gowns when I first came, but I didn't bow down before her as the rest of you did, and I have never believed she was of so much consequence as she was set up to be; and as for her throwing away a lot of money by sending a girl off for being a little independent and having a little fun in her own way, she's too smart to do any such thing. My gracious! I should think I had tried to set the house on fire by the fuss you make! And what have I done? Just had a little sociable time with an acquaintance without asking leave of her High-and-Mightiness."
Kate had hard work to control herself. At the phrase "old cat," her very soul had risen up in revolt. To speak in such terms of Miss Marr!—Miss Marr, who was so fine and sweet, so considerate and sympathetic, who was indeed like an older girl friend to them all. And then, "What have I done? Just had a little sociable time with an acquaintance, without asking leave of her High-and-Mightiness." Kate lifted up her chin suddenly, as she recalled these words, and as coolly as she could, said,—
"I suppose you know that if you had asked for leave to write notes to Raymond Armitage, and to receive them from him, and to make appointments with him to go down town, and all that, it would have done no good,—that, of course, Miss Marr, or any head of a school, would not have given you permission."
"No, of course they wouldn't; but that's only one of the stiff little bars that boarding-schools set up."
"And you wouldn't want to do such things half as much if there were no bars against them."
"But what harm is there in 'such things,' as you call them? Suppose my cousin Jimmy was at boarding-school, and took a notion to write a note to a girl, and to meet her down town and drink ice-cream soda with her, would any teacher think he had done such a dreadful thing,—a thing for which he deserved to be expelled?"
"They'd think he had done wrong in going against the laws of the school, but it wouldn't do him the harm that it would a girl, because a girl is supposed to be a little differently situated from a boy. If she has been brought up like a lady, she isn't expected to be planning meetings with young men on the sly. She is supposed to have a little dignity; and as everybody knows that no boy would think of proposing such silly out-of-the-way things to a girl unless he had been encouraged by her to dare them, so the girl who is found to have gone on in such silly ways is talked about as bold and unladylike, and that is an injury that may leave a black and blue spot on her forever; and you must see, if you will stop to think about it a minute, that such a girl would injure the school she happened to be in,—would leave a black and blue spot on that."
Kate had tried to be very forbearing at the start; but as she was confronted by Dorothea's density, as she saw how vain and foolish, not to say ignorant, were her estimates, her patience gave way, and she spoke the whole of her mind then and there, without reserve and without softening her words. It is needless to say that Dorothea was furious to be called by implication bold and unladylike, and a possible injury to the school. Out of this fury she burst forth,—
"I never, never in all my life heard of such impudence! You to talk of being brought up like a lady! You are the most conceited, meddling, unladylike girl I ever met! What business is it of yours, anyway? Who set you up to manage this school? You think you can manage everybody, and that you know more about society and propriety than anybody else. You're nothing but a Dutch girl, anyway; and as for being expelled from this school, I'll expel myself if this kind of interference is to be allowed. I'm about tired, anyhow, of such a peeking, prying, puss-puss-in-the-corner place. Miss Marr is making you into a little lot of primmy old maids just as fast as she can; and I for one—"
But Kate did not wait to hear any more of this outburst. She did not dare, in fact, to trust herself to reply. Hope, who was sitting curled up in the library waiting, as she had promised, heard the quick, flying footsteps, as they came along, and said to herself, "She's had a horrid time, I know." But how horrid she had not imagined until poor Kate poured forth the story. It was a very honestly told story,—not a word of her own part in it omitted in the whole detail. But as she thus honestly, and with just her own peculiar lift of the head and emphatic way, repeated all she had said, Hope's lips began to twitch, and at last she began to laugh.
"How mean of you!" cried Kate. Then she joined in the laugh, as she realized how little adapted her words had been to soften Dorothea, and how fully adapted to rousing her resentment and rebellion.
"But I began beautifully, Hope. I was as mild and persuasive as possible; but when she called Miss Marr 'an old cat,' I couldn't keep on being mild and persuasive. How could I?"
"I think it must have been hard work, and I don't wonder you said just what you did; and perhaps, after all, the plain truth, though it makes her so angry now, will have the most effect in the end."
"Yes, in the end; but—but, Hope, what I've been afraid of is that she'll do something right away,—something reckless and daring, just to show she isn't afraid of anything and doesn't care."
"Oh, I didn't think of that; but I don't believe she will. She'll remember what you said about Miss Marr's writing to her parents, and that will stop her."
"I don't know," responded Kate, doubtfully. "She looked to me as if she would brave anything, she was so angry."
For a day or two the three—Hope and Myra and Kate—were on the qui vive, expecting some catastrophe; but as at the close of the second day everything seemed to go on as usual, and Dorothea, with the exception of holding aloof from them, was the same as ever, they relaxed a little of their apprehension.
Once or twice in these days they had noticed that Bessie Armitage had regarded Dorothea with a queer, quizzical sort of look,—"Just as if she knew something was or had been going on," Myra declared.
Hope laughed at this declaration. What could Bessie know? She was not a boarding-pupil, only "an outsider," as they called the girls who were the day pupils; and the outsiders never knew what was going on in the house unless some one of the boarding-girls told them, and there was certainly no one to tell Bessie about this affair.
"Perhaps Raymond may have told his sister," suggested Myra.
"Raymond Armitage!" exclaimed Kate. "Not he; there are brothers and brothers. Raymond Armitage is not one of the brothers who are confidential with their sisters. It would be much more his way to tell a boy friend,—to tell him and brag about it to him. That's just the kind of boy Raymond Armitage is, in my opinion. I like Bessie, but I never liked that brother of hers. I never like boys who have such awfully flattering ways with girls. Raymond Armitage is always paying compliments to girls, always agreeing with everything they say, or pretending to. He—he's—I don't know just how to put it—but he's too conscious all the time. Now, there's Peter Van Loon and Victor Graham and that nice Jimmy Dering, they're polite enough for anybody; but they treat me as if I was a human being like themselves, and agree with me or disagree with me as they do with each other. They're honest, and that's the kind I like and trust, and I don't trust the other kind. I always feel as if these smiling, smirking, constantly agreeing kind were making fun of me."
"So do I," "And so do I," exclaimed Hope and Myra, in a breath.
CHAPTER XIX.
The next day was Saturday, and directly after a very early twelve-o'clock luncheon the girls were all going to the Park to skate. Miss Marr had a cold, and was not able to accompany them, as she usually did on these outings. She sent, in her stead, two of the under teachers,—Miss Stephens and Miss Thompson.
"And if we can't have Miss Marr, Stevey and Tommy are not bad," Kate Van der Berg declared, rather irreverently, as she ran up to her room to make herself ready. Several girls were following in her wake; amongst them was Dorothea, who suddenly retorted to Kate's words,—
"Perhaps some of us had quite as lief have Stevey and Tommy as Miss Marr."
It was the first time that Dorothea had responded even indirectly to any remarks of Kate's since their stormy interview; and though there was a sharp flavor in what was said, Kate held herself in, and did not reply to it. But one of the younger girls called out in protest,—
"Oh, how can you say that! There's nobody like Miss Marr. I never skate half so well with any one else as I do with her."
"Yes, but you are contented to skate her way, I suppose," flung back Dorothea, with a little disagreeable laugh.
"Course I am, because she knows just how; and so her way's better than mine," was the innocent answer to this.
"And I like my way best sometimes, and take it," returned Dorothea, with another disagreeable laugh.
Kate understood perfectly well that these flings were aimed at her, and not at little Lily Chester; but she was determined to take no notice of them.
Dorothea, however, in spite of this sudden outburst of rancor, seemed to be in excellent spirits, and laughed and talked with one and another of the girls with even more than her usual volubility. Arrived at the Park, however, her spirits seemed to flag. Kate, who had caught her quick, searching glance across the pond, thought at once: "She is disappointed in not finding somebody here that she expected. I wonder if it is Raymond Armitage?" But just at that moment a shrill halloo reached Kate, and wheeling about she saw Peter Van Loon, with her brother Schuyler and little Johnny, skating down the ice towards her, and Dorothea and her affairs vanished from her mind. It was some time later that she was curiously recalled to her, by Peter Van Loon suddenly exclaiming, "Hello, there's Armitage now, going off with the daffodil girl!"
"The daffodil girl!" What did he mean? Kate followed the direction of Peter's eyes, and saw Raymond Armitage with Dorothea, who had a lot of daffodils stuck in her belt,—a fresh offering, evidently, from her escort.
"But why do you call her the 'daffodil girl?'" asked Kate, wonderingly.
"Oh, you know she had such a lot of them when I first saw her—and with the yellow gown—she looked all daffodils, and I didn't know her name then."
"And so you called her 'the daffodil girl;'" and Kate laughed: this was so like Peter.
"Yes; so I called her the 'daffodil girl,'" assented Peter, smiling a little at Kate's laugh.
The pond by this time had become pretty well covered with skaters, and it was not easy to keep any one in view; but Dorothea was tall, and for a while the nodding plumes in her hat were distinctly visible to Kate and her companion, as they held on their way; but presently the nodding plumes turned in another direction, and they lost sight of them, and out of sight was out of mind again. In the mean time Hope, with Schuyler Van der Berg and little Johnny, was coursing about in the merriest manner, little Johnny proudly showing Hope how to use a hocky stick on the ice. In this absorbing occupation the two approached the spot where some of the attendants and chaperons of the different parties were made comfortable; and as they did so, Hope, to her surprise, saw Dorothea Dering leaving the ice in company with Raymond Armitage.
What did this mean? Dorothea was always the last one to leave the ice. But there was Miss Stephens—Miss Stephens would know what it meant; and skating up to her, Hope asked the question, and was told, in Miss Stephens's placid, easy way, that Miss Dering had got tired of skating, and Miss Bessie Armitage and her brother, who were just leaving, had taken charge of her to Miss Marr's.
Dorothea tired of skating at this early hour? Why, they had but just begun! And where was Bessie? Miss Stephens had said, "Miss Bessie Armitage and her brother;" and she, Hope, had only seen the brother, Raymond Armitage. Perhaps, however, Bessie had gone on ahead; but—but—and a whole host of suppositions came crowding into Hope's mind. If it had been any other of the girls, none of these suppositions would have arisen. If Myra Donaldson or Anna Fleming had confessed to being tired, and had given out that she was going home under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her brother, who would have thought but that it was the most natural and proper thing in the world, and who—who would have thought of questioning the statement as it stood? But Dorothea, with her little plots and plans, had clearly shown herself another person entirely, and it was little wonder that Hope, under the circumstances, should suspect further plotting and planning.
"What is it,—what's up?" asked ten-year-old Johnny, as his companion suddenly forgot all interest in the hockey stick, and stood balancing herself on her skates, with a puzzled frown drawing her brows together.
For answer, Hope turned about with a "I don't know, Johnny, but we'll go and find Kate. I want to ask her something."
"All right;" and Johnny struck out to the left, where he saw his sister's Scotch skating-cap, with its glittering aigrette, shining in the sun.
"Tired of skating? Gone home?" cried Kate, when Hope told her story. "I don't believe it! Schuyler!"
"Oh, I wouldn't!" expostulated Hope.
"Yes, I'm going to ask Schuyler—I want to know—Schuyler, did Raymond Armitage come out in the same car with you?"
"Part way, but he left the car at Madison Square; he had ordered some theatre seats, and he stopped at the theatre to see if they were all right."
"Oh, and then he came on here to meet Bessie?"
"Bessie?"
"Yes; funny, though, I haven't seen her. Have you seen her?"
"No."
"And yet Hope says that Miss Stephens told her that Dorothea had got tired of skating, and gone home under the escort of Bessie Armitage and her brother."
"Miss Stephens?"
"Yes, Miss Stephens, one of the under-teachers, who is blind and deaf about some things,—a good, dear stupid, who thinks everybody is a lamb, and Raymond Armitage the Prince of Lambs, I suppose, and like the father of his country, and cannot tell a lie, and—"
"But perhaps Bessie was just ahead, and Miss Stephens did see her," put in Hope.
"And didn't take her for granted," scoffed Kate. Then, as she caught a look that her brother and Peter exchanged, she cried,—
"What is it? Peter!" bringing one little skate-clad foot down on the ice with an emphasis that sent out a shower of sparkles, "tell me instantly what you know. Don't you see, you two boys, that it's for the credit of the school,—of dear Miss Marr, of Dorothea (silly goose that she is), and all the rest of us,—that this kind of thing shall be nipped in the bud? Don't you see that you ought to tell what you know, that some of us can stop the foolishness, and save Dorothea from being sent home?"
"Come now, you don't mean that;" and Peter stopped short in that odd way of his.
"Yes, I do mean that Miss Marr would send Dorothea straight home if she heard of her going off for a lark with Raymond Armitage. She says at the start that her school is neither an infant school nor a reform school, and if she finds that girls of fifteen and sixteen don't know how to behave like ladies in the ordinary ways of good manners, they are not the kind of girls she wants in her house, and so she sends them out of it. There isn't any nagging or any little punishments. She advises us and talks to us in a nice friendly way at the beginning, and sometimes later; but she lets a girl alone enough to find out just what she is, and then, when she finds out that the girl has faults and habits that may injure the other girls, she won't have her in her school; and so now I want you to tell us—Hope and me—what you know about this going off with Raymond Armitage, so that—"
"You may go and tell Miss Marr, and have her pack the girl off home."
"Schuyler!"
"Oh, well, I didn't mean exactly that, of course; but what do you propose to do?"
"Stop the foolishness, whatever it is, that may be going on."
"Well, after what you told me the other day of your undertaking in that line with this particular party, I shouldn't think you'd attempt anything further with her."
"But somebody must do it. I don't like Dorothea, I didn't from the first; but I want her to have another chance, and I do so hate to have things come to the pass of her being expelled; it would be perfectly horrid for all of us. But we're only wasting time if you won't help us by telling—"
"But what is it you want to know?"
"What you know; in the first place, if Ray Armitage said that he was coming here to meet his sister, and if he expected her to be here?"
"Well, no; he didn't say anything about his sister."
"Did he say anything about Dorothea?"
"Yes."
"That he was coming here to meet her?"
"Yes."
"And that he was going to take her with him this afternoon to the matinée?"
"Yes."
"Then, oh, Schuyler, you must come with me down to the Madison Square Theatre and head them off!"
"Head them off! They've got there by this time."
"No; they were going out on the other side, where they had just left Miss Stephens, because that was the way they would take to go straight to Miss Marr's. Don't you see? Ray Armitage's cunning! Now, if we go out on this side, and take the elevated, we shall get ahead of them, and—"
"Well, I just sha'n't do anything of the kind! I'd like to see myself playing private policeman like that! If the girl is such a blooming idiot as this, she won't pay any attention to you! No, I guess I don't try any such missionary work, to be laughed at by all the fellows in town."
"Laughed at!" A glance upward as she said this, and Kate caught the grin on Peter Van Loon's face, and burst forth: "Oh, that's all your manliness is worth! You're afraid,—afraid some other selfish fellows will laugh at you for doing your duty."
"'Tisn't my duty!"
"No, it isn't, Kate; he's right."
Kate turned about in astonishment, for it was Hope who had spoken, and Hope who went on speaking,—
"And you—you ought not to go, Kate; Dorothea would—would—"
"Be madder than ever. But what can be done?"
"I'll go."
"You?"
"Yes, with Mrs. Sibley. I've just caught sight of her; see, she is over there talking to Johnny. If I tell her how it is—what I want to do, she'll understand, she'll be glad to help; and Dorothea will listen to her, when she wouldn't to you or to me, I dare say."
"Well, that's a much more sensible plan than yours, Kate," commented Schuyler Van der Berg, as Hope darted off; "but all the same it's my opinion that Miss Dorothea Dering isn't going to be kept from that matinée performance, even if they catch her in time."
"Which they won't," spoke up Peter, as he looked at his watch.
CHAPTER XX.
And Peter was right; for, as Mrs. Sibley and Hope neared the theatre, they saw Dorothea's nodding plumes just disappearing through the wide open doorway.
"And we're too late," cried Hope,—"too late, after all."
"Too late to try to prevent the girl from going into the theatre,—yes, and I thought we should be when we started; there had been too much time lost before you spoke to me. We should have taken the car that preceded the one that we came in; but I doubt if it would have done any good if we had been earlier. But I'll tell you what we'll do now. We'll go in to the matinée ourselves. Miss Marr," smiling down at Hope, "would be perfectly willing that you should go under my chaperonage."
"Oh, yes, yes, of course."
"You see, in doing this, we may be able to help this foolish girl, after all, by taking her home under our escort, after the matinée is over. She will hurry out, naturally, to get home before dark, and I am sure even such a harum-scarum creature will see that it is wiser for her to go back to Miss Marr's in our company than with young Armitage."
"Mrs. Sibley, you don't think it is wrong, do you, for us to keep all this from Miss Marr,—to go on covering everything up from her while we try to get Dorothea out—out of all these queer ways of hers? It makes me feel as if—as if there might be something sly and underhand in going on like this,—something like being disloyal to Miss Marr, and deceiving her."
"You needn't worry about that, my dear. I know Angelique Marr, and I am sure it would be a relief to her to have Dorothea helped out of her queer ways, as you put it, by girls like you and Kate. Miss Marr knows perfectly well that a teacher's opposition wouldn't influence a girl like Dorothea favorably,—that it would be more likely to rouse a counter opposition. It is only girls of her own age who would be likely to influence her; and so, knowing this, the teacher has to be silent a good many times when she may suspect things that she would like to oppose; then, when the flagrant offence is forced upon her, there would be no alternative but to see that the offender was punished according to the stated rules of the school government, if the school itself was to be respected and to maintain its position."
Greatly comforted by these words, Hope followed Mrs. Sibley into the theatre. There had been no difficulty, even at this late moment, in obtaining very good back seats,—seats from which one could command an excellent view of the audience, if not of the stage; and Hope at once began a careful survey of this audience, her far-seeing young eyes roving rapidly from section to section in keen investigation. She was suddenly interrupted in this investigation by a whisper from Mrs. Sibley.
"Aren't you looking too far down in front? Isn't that the girl?"
"Where?"
"Two rows in front of us, to the right."
Hope looked in the direction indicated; and there, two rows in front, to the right, sure enough, was Dorothea.
She was laughing and whispering with her companion, evidently in the gayest spirits; and Hope's heart sank within her at the thought of what she had undertaken, as she caught sight of her. Why, oh, why, had she been so rash as to think of interfering with this girl in any way? For, as she regarded her there, she felt sure that she would look upon their suggestion of taking her home as an interference, to be resented and rejected. "Even such a harum-scarum creature will see that it is wiser for her to go back to Miss Marr in our company than with young Armitage," Mrs. Sibley had confidently declared. But Mrs. Sibley didn't know Dorothea, Hope now reflected, as there came crowding up to her, at the sight of that handsome, arrogant face, all her own bitter knowledge of her. And with this knowledge, why—why had she been so rash? And to have brought kind, sweet Mrs. Sibley here to be, perhaps, insulted; for if Dorothea did resent their suggestion, she wouldn't hesitate to express herself with her usual freedom. For a moment, overcome by all these thoughts, poor Hope had a mind to say to Mrs. Sibley: "Our plan won't be of the slightest use. Dorothea won't accept our offer, and we might as well give it up." The next moment, ashamed of her cowardice, she said to herself: "How can I be so mean? It's my duty to go ahead and try to carry out what I've undertaken. If I fail—if Dorothea does turn upon me, I must bear it,—that's all."
And with this resolve, she directed her attention to the stage. It was only when the curtain fell after the first act that she glanced again towards the pair to the right. She was just in time to see Mr. Raymond Armitage bowing with effusion to a party of ladies several seats in front; and then, evidently with a word of explanation and excuse to Dorothea, he jumped up and went forward to speak to them. The youngest of the party was a very elegant young woman, whose notice seemed to be much appreciated by Mr. Raymond Armitage, as he bent before her. The other ladies, too, were apparently of consequence to him. But when Hope saw him linger beyond the moment of greeting, her glance wandered back to Dorothea. What did Dorothea think of being left to herself like this by her fine escort? There might be the excuse of some message or other, for his leaving her for a moment, but to linger moment by moment for his own pleasure,—yes, that was it,—how would Miss Dorothea take this? A sudden turn of her head showed Hope pretty plainly how she took it, for in place of the gay satisfaction that had made her face radiant, there was a very unmistakable look of astonishment and mortification.
Mrs. Sibley, who had also been observant of this little by-play, here whispered to Hope,—
"How rude to leave her like that!"
"And how mortified she is—look!" responded Hope.
Several times after this they saw him make a movement as if to return to his place, but each time some word addressed to him by one of the ladies would be enough to detain him. When finally he did return, the orchestra was playing the last of its selections before the rising of the curtain again. That he was profuse in his apologies, the two interested observers could plainly perceive. They could also perceive that Dorothea was by no means disposed to accept these apologies in a benignant spirit. At last, however, he seemed to make his peace in a measure, for a half smile began to hover about Dorothea's lips, and by the time the curtain had risen again, and the merry little play that was on the boards was again making everybody laugh, Dorothea was joining in the laugh as heartily as any one. The play ended in a little whirlwind of applause. In the midst of this, Mrs. Sibley noticed that young Armitage was hurrying his companion off in great haste, and whispered to Hope,—
"They are hurrying probably to catch the next car; and if we go put at once by the right aisle, we shall meet them face to face, and it will be quite easy for you then to propose to take Dorothea with us. She must see the point,—that it is much better for her to go back to Miss Marr's in our company, and be glad of the opportunity we offer her."
Hope nodded assent; but her heart quaked, as she followed Mrs. Sibley through the passages between the seats, and fancied that moment when she should meet Dorothea face to face and see her stare of astonishment, and then, oh, then, hear, perhaps, her scornful rejection of the opportunity offered her! But they were not to meet Dorothea face to face as they came out on that right aisle. A little delay in pushing through brought them behind instead of in front of the pair, and—
"No, I thank you, I can find the car by myself!" were the words that they heard on that instant; and the tone in which these words were delivered was sharp and angry, not the tone of friendly agreement. Evidently young Armitage had not waited for his companion to suggest that she had better return without his escort to Miss Marr's door, and evidently Dorothea had resented the fact that the suggestion had come from him.
"But you ought not to be angry with me," they heard him protest. "I shouldn't think of letting you go alone if it wasn't better for you. The car is on the line of your street, and you might meet—might meet—one of your teachers, you know, and that would make trouble for you. It's just to help you that I—"
"Oh, really, it's a pity you didn't think of this earlier before you said we would go back by the other line, where we shouldn't run the risk of meeting the teachers."
"Yes, I know; but as I have come to think it over, I see that the other cars will keep you out so much longer, I thought you would rather—"
"As you have come to think it over since you met your friends, you see that it will be more convenient for you not to take up the time by going round by the other line. Perhaps your friends want you to find their car for them. Anyway, whatever engagement you've made with them, don't keep them waiting for me; I can find my car by myself, as I said."
"Miss Dering!" in an expostulating tone, "I haven't made any engagement to hurry me away; I'm only going to dine at the Waldorf by and by with these friends,—they're Washington friends of my mother and Bessie,—but I needn't hurry, not the least, and of course I shall take you home by the other line if you like that best."
"But I don't like it best—now. I—I—"
Hope here caught sight of Dorothea's face,—the quivering lips, the eyes that were striving against tears,—and obeying a swift, warm impulse of pity and sympathy, forgot her fears in it, and called out softly,—
"Dorothea! Dorothea!"
Dorothea turned a startled glance behind her at this call. Then, "What! you here, Hope?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, with Mrs. Sibley."
"Oh, and you're going straight home—to Miss Marr's? Mrs. Sibley is to take you?" stepping back to Hope's side.
"Yes."
"And may I—will you let me come with you?" in a whisper, and clutching Hope's wrist nervously.
"Yes, oh, yes; I was going to ask you if you wouldn't like to come with us."
"Were you?" A quick glance at Hope from the black eyes still struggling against tears, a closer clutch upon Hope's wrist, then a sudden conquering of the quivering lips, and, "I needn't keep you waiting any longer, I have found friends who will take me home," Mr. Raymond Armitage was told with a dignity that surprised and rather abashed him. Hope, too, was surprised at the real dignity displayed, and slid her hand into the hand that was clutching her wrist, with a sudden movement of approbation and sympathy. Dorothea gave a quick start, and turned an inquiring look upon Hope's face at this movement,—a look that seemed to ask, "Do you really feel like this toward me?"
With wise forethought, Mrs. Sibley, on leaving the Park, had directed her coachman, who was awaiting her with the carriage at that point to drive round to the theatre and await her there. If he did not find her ready for him at once, he was to return at four o'clock. She had thus provided for either result of her expedition. If the elevated, swift though it was, did not enable them to reach the theatre in time to interview Dorothea as she arrived, the carriage would be on hand at four to take her back with them after the play, for Mrs. Sibley had no manner of doubt from the first that the girl would go with them, though she little thought it would be under the present conditions.
Indeed, she had looked forward to a very different state of things; and sure though she felt of ultimate success, she fully expected to bring it about by adroit management. Instead of this, however, here was this difficult-to-be-dealt-with Dorothea not only willing, but gratefully glad, to avail herself of the opportunity offered her.
CHAPTER XXI.
"And you mean that you won't tell her about Ray Armitage's rudeness?"
"No, I won't tell her if you feel like this,—if you don't want me to tell her."
"Of course I don't want you to, but of course I expected that you would tell her; she's such a chum of yours. I know it would have been the first thing I should have done with a chum of mine."
"Well, I should have spoken of it to Kate, naturally, but for your feeling; and she would have been very nice about it, just as indignant and disgusted with him as I am."
"Perhaps so; but she's tried to do me good and failed too much to be very sorry for anything that would mortify me; and I know if she heard of this rudeness to me, she'd think it served me right,—would teach me a lesson."
Hope couldn't help laughing a little at this. Then she said suddenly, "How do you know that I don't feel just the same?"
"Oh, I know you don't exactly approve of me; but you haven't cut me up as she has, and then tried to set me right in that superior way; and you haven't meddled with me or my affairs."
"You don't know what I have done. You took it for granted that I happened to go to the theatre with Mrs. Sibley to please myself, that I happened to be behind you, and so happened to hear your talk with Raymond Armitage. But I didn't go there to please myself. I went there on purpose to—to meddle with you and your affairs!"
"What in the world do you mean?"
"I'll tell you." And then and there Hope told the whole story of her meddling, and why she did it,—the whole story, from the moment she had observed Dorothea leaving the Park with Raymond Armitage to her own departure with Mrs. Sibley; and this, of course, included the consultation with Kate, and the information regarding Raymond Armitage's movements that was wrung from Schuyler Van der Berg. As she neared the end of this story, Hope rose from her chair. Dorothea would not now desire her presence, as she had desired it a few minutes ago when they entered the house together after Mrs. Sibley had left them, and when, full of relief and gratitude, she had said: "Oh, do come up to my room for a few minutes! I want to ask you something." No, she would no longer desire her presence, even with the added relief,—the added debt of gratitude for Hope's voluntary offer to say nothing of Raymond Armitage's rudeness. She would not only no longer desire her presence, but she would doubtless turn upon her with hot resentment, as she had turned upon Kate on a previous occasion; and it was to avoid the outburst of this resentment that Hope rose to make herself ready to leave the room when she had come to the end of her story. But as she said her last word, as she turned to go,—
"Don't, don't go!" was called after her, in a queer stifled voice, not at all like Dorothea's usual high loud tones when she was protesting against anything,—a queer stifled voice that had—could it be possible?—a sound of tears in it? and—and there was a look in Dorothea's eyes,—yes, a look, as if the tears were there too, were almost ready to fall.
