"She took Hope's violin from her hands"
Hope nodded.
"But this is a pretty little violin,—sort of quaint-looking," went on Dolly, amiably. She was fast recovering her spirits, forgetting her grievances and homesickness in her present interest, with her accustomed alacrity.
"Yes, I think it is pretty," Hope answered quietly.
"Very pretty; I really think it is prettier than mine, and what a nice red color it has! Who made it, do you know?"
"An Italian named Montagnana."
"Oh! does he have a shop in London? Did your teacher get it for you there?"
"No, I don't think he was ever in London, even when he was living. But he died a great while ago. He lived in Cremona first, then in Venice."
"In Cremona! How long ago?"
"Well, he was a pupil of Stradivari, and he lived in Cremona in the year 1740, and after he had studied for a time with Stradivari, he went to Venice, where the manufacture of violins was very flourishing."
"What! this is a real Cremona violin?" cried Dolly. "Why—why, Mr. Andrews, my teacher, said that they were very rare, and when you did succeed in getting hold of one that it took a lot of money to buy it."
Hope made no response to this speech; and Dolly, looking up at her, caught the expression of her face, and hastened to say,—
"I didn't mean that I didn't believe it was a Cremona violin; but I was so astonished, you know, because I'd heard Mr. Andrews go on so about Cremona violins."
Hope was old enough now to see that Dolly was honest in her excuse,—that she had really meant no offence,—and, relenting a little, replied,—
"Yes, I suppose it is hard to find a genuine old Cremona; but my first teacher was an old German musician, and his brother, who is a dealer in violins in Paris, procured this for me."
"But didn't it cost a lot of money?"
"It was expensive."
Dolly would have given a great deal to know just how expensive was that beautiful little instrument, with its nice red color; but even she couldn't bring herself to ask the question outright of that tall, reserved girl, who was so perfectly polite and yet so far off from her. Who was this girl, anyway, she thought,—this girl, no older than herself, whose father could and would buy a Cremona violin for her? Her own father—the Hon. James Dering—was a rich man, and a generous one, but he would have laughed at the proposition of buying a Cremona violin for his daughter. Why, Cremona violins were for professionals—when they could get them—and enthusiastic collectors. But perhaps—perhaps this girl was going to be a professional. With this new idea in her mind, Dolly gave another glance at Hope. A professional? No, that could not be. A girl who was preparing to be a professional wouldn't be here at Miss Marr's school. But a Cremona violin! Dolly wouldn't have been at all astonished if a girl had shown her a fine watch-case set about with diamonds. Mary had a very valuable watch of that kind, and she herself had the promise of one like it when she was as old as Mary. It didn't occur to her that a Cremona violin was a piece of property that was yearly advancing in value; that it was, in fact, a better investment, as the phrase is, than diamonds even. She had heard her father say often that diamonds would always bring their market value, and that they were therefore very safe property to hold, though not bringing in any interest. That a violin of any kind could have this property value did not enter her head, and Hope's possession grew more and more puzzling to her. Hope all the time had a keen sense of her companion's wonder and curiosity, and was half amused, half irritated by it. But she succeeded very well in concealing the state of her feelings, and was as polite as ever, even when Dolly nearly dropped the precious Cremona, only giving utterance to a little gasping "Oh!" Dolly herself was rather frightened at the possible accident, and was glad to hand the instrument back to its owner. As she did so, she asked suddenly,—
"Have you lived abroad? Did you take lessons abroad?"
"Yes, I have lived abroad, and I took lessons nearly all the time I was away."
"Where were you,—in Germany?"
"No, in Paris part of the time and part of the time in London."
"How jolly!"
"Yes, it was rather jolly sometimes, though both my French and English teachers were very exacting, and made me work hard."
"Oh! I don't mean the work,—the violin lessons; I mean the living in London and Paris," answered Dolly, frankly.
Hope couldn't help laughing at this frankness.
Dolly laughed a little too, but she was quite in earnest, nevertheless, and began another string of questions,—what Hope saw, where she went, what she bought, etc.
Hope's answers did not open the field of entertainment that Dolly expected, for galleries and museums and music and quiet pleasures of that kind were not what Dolly was thinking of in connection with Paris and London.
"But didn't you visit people, and go to theatres and things, and have fun?" she asked at length.
Hope smiled a queer, amused smile that Dolly didn't understand, as she answered: "I didn't go abroad to have fun of that sort, but I had a beautiful time."
"I suppose you had a beautiful time slaving away at that violin."
"I did, indeed," answered Hope, laughing outright.
"What a lot you must know about a violin!"
"I? Oh, no, no!"
Hope at that instant was putting a pile of music upon a little music-rack. Dolly caught sight of the upper sheet.
"What! you play those things of Bach? Well, you must know a lot!"
"No, I love a lot, and I've studied hard, that's all."
"I should say so; and here," turning over the pages, "are Mendelssohn and Beethoven and Chopin. Why, I should think you were studying to play in public. Oh! but here is something more frivolous, more in my style," pouncing upon a waltz. "Oh, I just dote on waltzes; try this now, do."
"Oh, no, not now; it is too late. We must have our lights out by ten, and it is fifteen minutes to ten this moment."
"Oh, bother!" and Dolly wrinkled up her forehead. "I hate to go to bed."
Hope's only reply to this remark was, "Then, if you'll excuse me and turn out the gas when you are ready, I'll say good-night, for I'm very tired;" and hastily retreating behind her screen, she left Dolly to her own devices.
Tired as she was, however, it was a long time before Hope could sleep. Dolly, too, lay awake for a while, thinking over the many incidents of the day. But her thoughts were not perplexed thoughts like Hope's. She had no hurt remembrance of the past to perplex her. She had not by any means entirely forgotten the little flower-girl, though she had forgotten her name; but the memory of her was a latent one, and was not for an instant stirred by her present companion's personality. Hope was quite a new acquaintance to her. It never occurred to Dolly that she had ever seen her before, unless she was really that girl whom she had seen with the Edlicotts last spring. It was one of Dolly's characteristics not to brood long over anything disagreeable; and lying there in the still darkness, and reflecting upon the incidents of the day, the little surprises and mortifications began to give way to a sense of interest and anticipation, the principal point of interest at the moment being Hope and her violin. Oddly enough, from the time that Dolly had seen Hope coming down the hall, and had received that courteous little greeting from her, she had been attracted towards her. The rather stiff politeness that had followed, if disappointing, had not been repelling, and the subsequent bedroom chat, with its revelation of musical accomplishments and foreign experiences, to say nothing of that wonderful Cremona violin, had made a fresh impression upon Dolly of such power that even Miss Marr's attractiveness became quite secondary in her mind.
Hope could not but see something of this. She was not flattered by it, however, for as she thought over it, she said to herself,—
"It is not the real Hope Benham who attracts her, but a young lady who has lived abroad, and who is rich enough to own a Cremona violin, and to play Bach and Beethoven studies upon it. If she knew that I was the girl who sold her the flowers at the Brookside station, things would be quite different."
CHAPTER X.
It was the next morning just after breakfast that Miss Marr, coming out of her little parlor, met Hope in the hall, and said to her,—
"I'm afraid you did not sleep well, my dear; you look heavy-eyed."
"No, I didn't sleep very well," answered Hope, coloring slightly.
"Did Miss Dering keep you awake?"
"Y—es, I suppose so—but—it wasn't so bad as I expected."
Miss Marr laughed. "Oh! it was not so bad as you expected. She wears better on further acquaintance. I'm glad to hear that, but I am afraid she's a great chatterer. However, her room will be in order to-night, so you won't be together again."
Hope drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and her face showed unmistakable signs of relief. Miss Marr took note of these signs, and thought,—
"It is not like Hope to take prejudices against people. I wonder what it is that she finds so unbearable in this girl. It might help me a good deal if I knew."
A few guarded questions at once revealed Miss Marr's state of mind to Hope, and she immediately hastened to say,—
"I'm afraid I've given you a wrong impression; it is only a personal feeling with me, Miss Marr. I—I met this girl, Dorothea,—they called her 'Dolly' then,—five years ago, when I was only ten years old. She has forgotten me, but I never forgot her, for she spoke so rudely, so unkindly to me at the time, that I can't get over it. That's all. I dare say the other girls will like her, and I—I've nothing else against her."
Miss Marr touched Hope's cheek with her finger,—a caressing way she had at times, and said gently,—
"Thank you, Hope, for being so honest; I can always trust you."
Hope had been with Miss Marr for the past year, and had won her confidence and love by the fine sweet strain of her character.
"She's such an upright, sympathetic little soul, I can trust her with anything," the Frenchwoman had said to her friends.
It was one of these friends,—the wife of a scientific man,—that the Benhams had become acquainted with in Paris, who had suggested Hope as a pupil to Miss Marr, and told her something of John Benham's career.
"Such an interesting man," the friend had said, in summing up her account of him,—"what we call a self-made man, because he has had to cultivate his tastes by books and private study unhelped by the schools; but God-made after the finest pattern if ever a man was, and with a nice sensible wife and this dearest little daughter, whom they have so wisely determined to send home to their own country to complete her education."
Angelique Marr recalled these words as she looked at Hope. It was just at that moment that a door farther down the corridor was energetically flung open, and Miss Dorothea Dering appeared with her arms full of books. Hope started, and was turning away in the other direction, when Dolly called out,—
"Oh! Miss—Miss—er—er—Benham, wait a minute; I want to ask you something."
Hope waited, putting a detaining hand at the same time upon Miss Marr, who made a movement to step back into her parlor.
"I wanted to ask you," said Dolly, as she hurried up, "if you would let me practise with you sometimes. You play a great deal higher kind of music than I do, but I can play better things, and I've got a lovely violin duet that I want awfully to practise with somebody; and if you only would!" with an appealing glance at Hope.
There was a slight pause, in which Miss Marr regarded Hope with a little curiosity. Hope Benham's violin-playing was known throughout the school as something out of the common, and the best of the piano pupils felt that they were hardly up to playing her accompaniments; and here was this new-comer proposing a violin duet with her! What would be Hope's answer to this proposition? There was only the slightest possible pause; then came this answer,—
"My violin practice is very rigidly confined to the studies that my teacher gives me, and he is very unwilling that I should play anything else."
"Oh, music-teachers are always that way! I don't mind 'em," cried Dolly, airily; "and anyway, you can try some things with me in off times, can't she, Miss Marr?"
"Oh, I never encourage pupils to disobey a teacher," answered Miss Marr, a little amused at Dolly's density in appealing thus to her.
"Of course not. I forgot; you don't seem like a teacher or anything of that sort yourself to me; you seem somehow like one of us," said Dolly. Then turning again to Hope, with a confident nod,—
"You just ask your teacher if you can't play with me at off times, won't you?"
Hope murmured something vague in the way of reply, but Dolly had no doubt that her proposition would be carried into effect in due season. In the mean time, as it had not yet been decided about her own violin lessons, she determined to practise what she could by herself, and at odd intervals after this there was heard issuing from her room a variety of shrill scrapings, at which the girls would shrug their shoulders, and shake their heads at one another. One day Kate Van der Berg accosted Hope with this question,—
"When do you begin practising that duet with Miss Dering?"
"Oh, how did you hear about that?"
"Not from you, Miss Closemouth."
"But Miss Marr, I know, didn't speak of it."
"No, Miss Dorothea Dering herself told us that when things were all settled, the classes arranged, etc., you were going to practise a violin duet with her."
"She spoke to Miss Marr and to me about it," answered Hope, evasively.
"Oh, she spoke to Miss Marr and you about it, and Miss Marr and you didn't say 'Yes,' and you thought that would be enough of an answer; and it would, ordinarily, but it won't in this case, you'll see, my dear. Miss Dorothea Dering is used to having her own way, and, Hope, I'm of the opinion she'll have it now."
Hope straightened her slim figure, and that little pucker came into her forehead that Kate Van der Berg knew so well, whereat Kate laughed, and said gayly,—
"How ungrateful you are, Hope!"
"Ungrateful! how am I ungrateful?"
"Not to embrace your opportunities and respond to such overtures. Hope, what is it that you dislike about Dorothea Dering? I saw from the first that you had taken a dislike to her."
Hope flushed uncomfortably.
"And she seems to admire you immensely. What is it? What have you seen in her? what do you know about her?"
"I don't know anything about her for anybody else, only I—It is entirely my feeling; it needn't prejudice anybody else," cried Hope, dismayed.
Kate Van der Berg was a warm-hearted, demonstrative girl, and at the trouble in Hope's voice and in her face she flung her arms around her, and said,—
"There, there, never mind about her or what I said. It's all right; or you are all right, whatever she may be."
Hope put her cheek down upon Kate's shoulder for a moment; then suddenly lifting her head, she burst out,—
"No, no, you mustn't think as you do, that there's anything very bad that I'm holding back. I mustn't let you think so; it would be wicked in me. It is only just about myself,—something that she said to me long ago,—five years ago. She's forgotten it; she's forgotten me. I only met her for a few minutes, two or three times."
"The disagreeable thing! I shall hate her!" Kate cried impulsively.
"No, no, don't say so. I dare say you would have liked her if I—if I could have kept what I felt to myself, and I thought I did, I thought I did. Oh, dear!" and Hope stopped abruptly, as she realized that her own excitement was making matters worse.
"Liked her! Not if she could have said anything bad enough to hurt you like this,—to have hurt you for five years."
"It doesn't hurt me as it did then, but I remember it."
"Well, that shows what a hurt it must have been."
"What she said was out of ignorance. She didn't know any better," Hope went on, determined to do the honorable thing by her childish enemy.
"I don't believe she knows much better now. Oh, you needn't try to smooth it all over to me, you little conscientious thing; it's of no use."
"But, Kate, promise me one thing,—that you won't—you won't talk to the other girls about it."
"Yes, I'll promise you that I'll be as mum as an oyster."
"And you won't—you won't be—"
"Disagreeable to her?" interrupted Kate, laughing. "Well, I'll try not to be; I'll take pattern by you, and be so politely fascinating that she'll ask me to play duets with her."
Hope could not help laughing at this, but all the time she felt disturbed and troubled. Kate Van der Berg had playfully jibed at her for her conscientiousness. Kate thought she was over-conscientious, and she might have been sometimes, for she was a sensitive creature, with high notions and ideas of truth and justice and honor, and her father had developed these ideas by his advice and counsel. One of the things that he had impressed upon her was never to take advantage of any one, especially any one that you had had a quarrel with. "Fair play, my dear, always; remember that, and so you must remember to be open and above board after you've had any differences with people, and never let yourself say or hint damaging things about them, to prejudice others," was one of his favorite pieces of counsel, put in one form and another, at various times. Hope thought of these words even when she joined in Kate Van der Berg's laughter. She thought of them after Kate had left her, and all through the rest of the day they would start up to torment her. At last she said to herself: "This is over-conscientious, for I didn't mean to prejudice any one against Dolly Dering. I tried not to show how I felt, and if I didn't succeed, it isn't my fault; but I'm a great goose to fuss so. Kate will keep her promise, I know, and Miss Dorothea Dering won't be unpopular because of anything I have said."
So the matter rested, and the days went on, the school arrangements settling into order, and the school companionships falling into the usual adjustment by personal choice. When everything seemed to be running smoothly, Dolly came forward again with her proposition. It was one afternoon when she heard the sound of a violin floating down from the music-room. It was the first time she had heard it, and obeying her headlong impulse, she ran swiftly up the stairs and knocked at the door. A voice called out, "Come in;" and obeying it, she found herself not only in the presence of Hope, but of Kate Van der Berg, Myra Donaldson,—Hope's lately returned room-mate,—and Anna Fleming. Myra was seated at the piano, a sheet of music before her, waiting for Hope to signal to her. All the girls looked up and bowed as Dolly entered, but no one spoke. They were intent upon watching Hope, who, bow in hand, was carefully testing the strings that she had just tightened.
Dolly came round and stood beside Kate Van der Berg at the back of the piano, which was a parlor grand placed half-way down the room. She started to whisper, "What is it they—" but was checked by Kate's "Hush! hush!" and just then the bow was brought to bear softly upon the strings, as Hope began playing the sonata in F major by Beethoven. Once or twice as the music progressed, Kate glanced at Dolly with a new interest. What was this cool intruder—for such Kate dubbed her—thinking as she listened to these exquisitely rendered strains? Was she properly astonished and ashamed of herself for proposing to join such a performer in a violin duet? Dolly's face betrayed nothing, however. She simply stood perfectly still, leaning a little forward against the piano, her big black eyes fixed in a steady gaze, now upon Hope's violin bow, and now upon Hope herself. She stood thus until near the close, when the difficult and delightful passages approach the climax. Then her eyes wandered, her features relaxed, and when the end came, she was ready with a little outburst of vigorous applause, which she followed up with,—
"You ought to play in public at concerts. But how you must have worked! I'm not up to the classic, and I can't play like you, anyway. What I like, what I love, is dance music,—waltzes,—and I've got the loveliest duet in that time. It'll be as easy as A B C too. I'll run and get it now, and my violin, and you just try it with me, and—oh, say, have you asked your teacher what I told you to? You haven't? Well, never mind for anybody's permission. 'T won't take you long; I'll—"
"You really must excuse me, but I can't play any more now," interrupted Hope's voice, as Dolly turned to go for her violin.
"Oh, dear, I wish I'd come sooner, before you had started off on that long thing. But will you play with me to-morrow about this time? Or why not to-night after dinner?"
"But," with a queer little smile, "I haven't asked my teacher's permission yet."
"No, and I don't believe you care two pins about that," answered Dolly.
"Well, I don't believe it would be of any use," responded Hope, guardedly.
"Then say to-night after dinner."
"To-night after dinner I had promised to read French with Kate Van der Berg."
"Oh, well, there'll be time enough for that too; and you won't mind, will you, if she plays with me first?" addressing Kate.
"Mind? I shall mind a great deal," Kate made haste to reply. "I know how it is when these musical people get started; they never know when to stop. No, she's promised to me to-night, and I'm not going to let her off."
All this was said in a bright, laughing way, that hadn't an atom of unfriendliness in the tone of it; and Dolly had not the faintest idea that her proposition was being decidedly snubbed, as she listened. The other girls were wiser. The moment that Hope refused to play in the way she did, they knew that the proposition was distasteful to her; and when Kate Van der Berg came to the support of this refusal with that quick, bright decision, they knew that she knew more than they did why the proposition was distasteful.
Anna Fleming, who was Kate's room-mate, said to her a little later,—
"Kate, didn't you think it was rather disobliging of Hope Benham not to play that duet with Dorothea Dering?"
"Disobliging! Well, that is a way to put it. I think it was the most forward, presuming—what my brother Schuyler would call 'the cheekiest thing' for that girl to take it for granted that such a violinist as Hope Benham would want to practise her little rubbishy waltzes with her."
"But she didn't know probably what a splendid player Hope was, when she first asked her."
"She knew, didn't she, after she had heard the sonata?"
"Yes, I suppose she had some idea, but she might not have been a very good judge. She said, you know, at once that she couldn't play like Hope, anyway."
"Yes, I heard her; so kind of her to say that," cried Kate, sarcastically.
Anna laughed. Then, "What's the matter with 'that girl,' as you call her?" she asked.
"Matter! well, I should think you could see as well as I that she is a forward sort of thing; that's all I've got against her," Kate concluded hastily, remembering her promise to Hope.
"Hope must have taken a great dislike to her."
"Why should you think that?"
"Because I never knew Hope Benham to set herself up on her violin-playing before, and refuse to play with anybody."
"Nobody has ever asked her to play a violin duet. It is she who has asked one of us to play an accompaniment for her now and then. You know that we should never have thought of going forward and offering to play for her."
"Oh, well, we knew all about her playing from Miss Marr. But you say nobody has ever asked her to play a violin duet. How about that little Vernon girl who left last term? Hope used to play with her a great deal, and Milly used to ask her too. Hope didn't care particularly for Milly Vernon."
"But she wanted to help her."
"And she wanted to be obliging too. Hope Benham has always been one of the kindest and most obliging girls in school."
"And she is now, but she has some sense and spirit, and probably doesn't mean to have a new-comer like Dorothea Dering take full possession of her on short acquaintance."
"Yes, it is a pretty short acquaintance," responded Anna, thoughtfully.
"That last remark of mine was a happy hit," thought Kate, triumphantly. "It has disposed of all the surmises about Hope's dislike, but," she further thought, "I wonder how this violin business is going to end. I prophesy that Miss Dorothea Dering will carry the day, and Hope will play that duet with her yet."
CHAPTER XI.
The first two months at school generally pass very quickly; after that, the time is apt to move a little slower. The first two months at Miss Marr's school passed so quickly that the girls all confessed themselves "so surprised" when December came with Christmas scarcely more than three weeks away. Miss Marr gave a vacation on Christmas week, when the boarding-girls, as those who were inmates of her house were called, could go to their homes, if not too far off, and return by New Year's eve, for it was a fixed rule that they must all be back by that time, and not one of them but was delighted to obey this rule, for not one of them would have lost Miss Marr's New Year's party, which, according to Kate Van der Berg, was the best fun of the year.
"But what do you do, what is the fun?" inquired Dolly Dering, who was present when Kate made the above statement.
"What do we do?" answered Kate. "Well, in the first place, on New Year's eve, we have a jolly little party of just ourselves,—we girls in the house, none of the outside girls, the day pupils,—and we play games, sing songs, tell stories, do anything, in fact, that we want to do, and at half-past ten there is a little light supper served, such as ices, and the most delicious frosted sponge-cakes, and seed-cakes, and then there is bread and butter, and hot cocoa for those that want it. After this we feel as fresh and rested as possible, and all ready to sit the old year out and the new year in."
"Oh, you don't do that?" cried Dolly, delightedly, for to sit up late was one of her ideas of happiness.
"We do just that"
"Well, and then?"
"Then," went on Kate, laughing, "we begin to grow a little quieter. We tell stories in lower voices; we watch the clock, and as it strikes twelve, we jump to our feet and all break out singing a New Year's song or hymn. Sometimes it is one thing and sometimes it is another. Last year it was Tennyson's
"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky:
The year is dying; let him die."
"And Hope's violin playing," exclaimed Myra Donaldson here. "Don't you remember how Hope played the violin last year? She just made it talk; don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes," went on Kate, hurriedly. "Hope played, and then we all wished each other a 'Happy New Year,' and went to bed. The next day—"
"What did she play?" asked Dolly, breaking in upon Kate here.
"Oh, she played—she played—"
"Robert Franz's 'Good-night' song and Behr's 'Good-morning,'" struck in Myra again, impatient at Kate's hesitation.
"Oh, I know Franz's 'Good-night,' and doesn't the 'Good morning' go like this?" asked Dolly, beginning to whistle the air of Behr's.
"Yes, that is it, and I played the accompaniment," answered Myra. "It was just delicious. We all cried, for it seemed as if the violin sang the very words."
"I never heard either of them on the violin, but my sister sings them both," said Dolly.
"I think these were arranged for the violin by Hope's teacher, specially for Hope," exclaimed Myra. "I think Hope—"
"Don't you want to hear what we did the next day and the next evening?" called out Kate, exasperated at Myra's harping on Hope and her violin to Dolly.
"Oh, yes;" and Dolly brightened up expectantly. Myra, at that moment receiving a sharp little reminder under the table from Kate's foot, and another reminder from Kate's warning look, subsided into silence, while Kate took up her story of New Year's day and evening.
"Of course, after that midnight watch, we breakfasted late,—oh, so late! and the best part of it was, we breakfasted in our rooms."
"In your rooms?" exclaimed Dolly.
"Yes, at ten o'clock, tap, tap, came on our doors, and enter Susette with a tray, on which was a delicious breakfast for two, and a dear little bouquet of flowers for each of us. Isn't Miss Marr a dear to think of such things?"
"Will she do the same this year?" questioned Dolly, eagerly.
"Oh, yes; she has always done the same in the main things,—the evening luncheon or little supper on New Year's eve, the sitting out, then the breakfast, and the reception party New Year's night. She only varies some of the details."
"Oh, you have an evening party New Year's night?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Who is invited? Who comes?"
"Well, I can tell you one thing,—that everybody comes who is lucky enough to be invited, and the invited are all the outside girls and one friend of each; that is, each girl can invite one friend. We boarding-girls have the same privilege. I always invite one of my relations, and isn't there a scramble amongst them to see which it shall be?"
"And what do you do at the party?"
Kate looked a little disgusted at this question. "What do we do? We do what most people do at a party," she answered rather tartly.
"Well, what I meant was, do you dance?" asked Dolly, in a half-apologetic tone.
"Dance? I should think we did, and we have music, and at the very end the best fun of all."
"I shouldn't think it would be such great fun, just to dance with girls."
"You are not obliged to dance with girls."
"What! You don't mean—that there are young fellows—men?"
"There are boys,—that's what I call them,—boys like my brother Schuyler. Schuyler is seventeen."
Dolly gave a long drawn "Oh!" It was evidently an "Oh" of relief; but directly she asked, with demure mischief,—
"Can't you have 'em over seventeen?"
Kate laughed. "Well, we can't have regular grown-ups, you know, and we don't want them. But we can have them all the way from fifteen to eighteen, I believe."
"How odd! Doesn't Miss Marr think we are up to conversation with grown-up young gentlemen?"
"She thinks probably that 'grown-up gentlemen,' as you call them,—gentlemen out in society,—wouldn't care to come to a school-girl party, and that it is much more suitable to have boys of our own age,—boys we all know, or most of us know, at any rate, and who have something the same interests that we have,—school interests, and things of that kind. For my part, I shouldn't know what to say to gentlemen so much older than myself."
"Oh, wouldn't you?" cried Dolly, with an air—a knowing sort of air—that exasperated Kate. "I have a grown-up sister, and I've seen a good many of her gentlemen visitors. I never found it hard to talk to them," went on Dolly, with a still more knowing air.
"And I have a grown-up brother," retorted Kate, "and I've heard him tell how men go on about half-grown girls and their forwardness and boldness and pertness, and how they—the young men—disliked that kind of thing, or else amused themselves with it for a little while, and then made fun of it."
Dolly's face had flushed scarlet at these words, and at the end she burst forth angrily,—
"I suppose you mean that when I talked with my sister's, I must have been forward and bold and pert."
It was Kate's turn now to flush. She saw that in her irritation—Dolly was apt to irritate her—she had been unwarrantably rude, and swallowing her mortification, she at once made haste to say,—
"I beg your pardon, I—I shouldn't have spoken as I did. I am very sorry."
Dolly gave a quick glance at the speaker, hesitated a moment, as if waiting for something further, then jumped up and flounced out of the room with an angry impetus that there was no mistaking.
"Well, that is interesting, I must confess," ejaculated Kate. "I begged her pardon; what more did she want?"
"She wanted you to say that you hadn't the least idea of her in your mind,—that you didn't mean that she was forward or pert, and you said nothing of the sort; you only begged her pardon for having spoken as you did," explained Myra Donaldson, giggling a little.
"And that is what I meant,—just that,—that I was sorry for having spoken—"
"Your thoughts," said Myra, giggling again.
"Dorothea is generally a good-natured girl," spoke up Anna Fleming here, with a kind impulse to be just.
"Oh, I like Dorothea very well. I should like her better if she didn't bounce and flounce so. You can't say that her manners are as nice as they might be, can you?" said Myra, looking appealingly at Anna.
"N—o, I can't say that her manners are really nice," answered Anna.
"I think she is vulgar!" Kate suddenly snapped out, with a vehemence that quite startled the other two girls.
"Vulgar! why, Kate, she's one of the Boston Derings."
Kate made a little face, and then in a sarcastic voice, "Who are the Boston Derings?" she asked.
"Now, Kate, you know perfectly well that the Boston Derings belong to the best society in Massachusetts, and that they have always belonged to it from the first," protested Anna, getting things rather mixed in her eagerness.
"From the first!" repeated Kate, laughing derisively. "I suppose you mean from the time of Adam."
"Now, Kate, you know perfectly well what I mean. The Derings came from an old family."
"Like Sandy MacDougal."
"Eh—what—who is Sandy MacDougal?"
"Our gardener. He came straight to us from Scotland, and he's as proud as a peacock of his family. He says the MacDougals have been first-class gardeners for generations."
Myra Donaldson gave another of her giggles, but Anna did not join in her levity. Instead of that she said with dignity,—
"What I mean is an old family like the Van der Bergs."
Kate flushed rosy red. This was "a retort courteous," and for a moment she was dumb; but a moment after, she sat up in her chair, and cried laughingly,—
"The Van der Bergs are not proud, except of one thing in their family history."
"What's that?" inquired Anna, quickly.
Kate laughed again. "It is the performance of a long-ago ancestor,—a Dutch boatman named Van der Berg. It was in that early time when the Netherlanders were struggling against Spain to establish their own liberty and independence. William the Silent, Prince of Orange, you know, who had been the Netherlanders' best friend when he was at the head of their commonwealth, was dead, and his son, Maurice, Prince of Nassau, was working with John of olden Barneveld to help the Netherlanders, as his father had been doing, to become strong enough to get altogether out of the clutches of Spain. But how ridiculous of me to talk history to you like this, just because of that old story! To change the conversation, what is it you are knitting, Anna,—a shawl or a cape?"
"No, no, we don't want to change the conversation," protested Anna and Myra, who knew quite well what a delightful story-teller Kate was, and never more delightful than when she was "talking history,"—telling "true stories," as they expressed it. Neither of the girls was very fond of studying history, but they were very fond of listening to Kate whenever she would "talk it," or whenever she would pick out of it its—to them—labyrinthine mazes some stirring incident, and read it to them. So their protest now was very decisive against any change of conversation; and thus urged to go back to her subject, Kate went on with the story of her ancestor. She had not gone far, however, when she stopped short again, saying,—
"But wait! Motley tells the story so beautifully in his 'United Netherlands;' let me read it to you in his own words. It's too bad to try to tell it in my words; and here's the book right on this lower library shelf."
