"It's the very kind of place I've always longed for!" she declared—"old-fashioned enough to be picturesque, yet with every modern comfort: a good coach-house and stable, a meadow large enough to keep a Jersey cow in, a splendid tennis court, and the best golf links in the neighbourhood close by. Another advantage is that Alison can go to Avondale College. The house is so near to the station that she can travel by train into Coleminster every day, and return at four o'clock. I'm never able to make up my mind to spare her to go to a boarding school; but, on the other hand, I don't approve of girls being taught at home by private governesses. The College exactly solves the problem. No one can say I'm not giving her a good education, and yet I shall see her every day, and have her all Saturday and Sunday with me. It's no use possessing a daughter unless she can be something of a companion, and I always think Nature meant a mother to bring up her own child, particularly when she's a precious only chick like mine."
Alison had no memory of her father, who had died in her infancy. Her mother had been as both parents to her, and had supplied the place of brothers and sisters as well. Poor Mrs. Clarke could not help fussing over her one treasure, and Alison's education, amusements, clothes, and, above all, health, were her supreme interests in life. The girl was inclined to be delicate; she had suffered as a child from bronchial asthma, and though she had partly outgrown the tendency, an occasional attack still alarmed her mother.
It was largely on Alison's account that Mrs. Clarke had taken Lindenlea. She thought the open, breezy situation on the top of a hill likely to suit her far better than the house at Leamstead, which had been situated too close to the river; and she knew that the neighbourhood of Coleminster was considered specially bracing for those troubled with throat or chest complaints. At fourteen Alison was one of those over-coddled, petted, worshipped only daughters who occasionally, in defiance of all ordinary rules, seem to escape becoming pampered and selfish. She had a very sweet and sensible disposition, and a strong sense of justice. In her heart of hearts she hated to be spoilt or in any way favoured. She would have liked to be one of a large family, and she greatly envied girls with younger brothers and sisters to care for. Dearly as she loved her mother, it was often a real trial to her to be idolized in public. She was quick to catch the amused smile of visitors who listened while her praises were sung, and the everlasting subject of her health was discussed; and to detect the disapproval with which they noticed her numerous indulgences. She felt it unfair that strangers, and even friends, seemed to consider her selfish for receiving all the good things showered upon her. She could not disappoint her mother by refusing any of them, though she would gladly have handed them on to someone less fortunate than herself. To her credit, she never once allowed her mother to suspect that this over-fond and anxious affection made her appear singular, and occasionally even a subject of ridicule among other girls. She submitted quite patiently to the cosseting and worrying about her health, only sighing a little over the superfluous wraps and needless tonics, and wishing, though never for less love, certainly for less close and fretting attention.
Perhaps as the direct result of this adoration at home, Alison was a pleasant companion at school, quite ready to give up her own way on occasion, and enjoying the sensation of sharing alike with everyone else. She was soon on good terms with her classmates, for she was merry and humorous as well as accommodating. Her friendship with Dorothy increased daily. As they travelled backwards and forwards by train together they were necessarily thrown much in each other's company, and they earned the nicknames of "David" and "Jonathan" in the Form.
The contrast between the circumstances and the upbringing of the two girls could not, however, have been stronger. Miss Sherbourne, in adopting Dorothy, had undertaken a charge that was a heavy if self-imposed burden upon her small means. Rigid economy was the rule at Holly Cottage; no luxuries could be afforded, and pleasures were mostly of a kind that did not involve any great expenditure. It was rarely that Aunt Barbara indulged herself even to the extent of a concert ticket or a piece of new music. A fresh piano was out of the question, so she managed to coax a good deal of melody from the old one. If it had not been for the help of her writing she could not have sent Dorothy to the College, and, as it was, such extras as dancing lessons were impossible.
Though Dorothy clearly understood the necessity for economy, she often secretly chafed against it. She was a girl who liked to shine before her schoolfellows, and she felt keenly that she lacked their advantages. It was hard, when all were talking of a play or an exhibition, to have to confess that she had not been, and to hear the others say pityingly: "Why, Dorothy, you never go anywhere!" Her clothes, made by Aunt Barbara at home, though beautifully neat and quite sufficient for a schoolgirl, could not compete with the pretty dresses worn by many of her companions; and she did not possess even a watch, much less bangles and chains such as Hope Lawson was fond of displaying.
The knowledge of her dependent position, which Aunt Barbara had so carefully kept hidden, came to her as the most serious of her drawbacks. She could not help brooding over it, and the more she dwelt upon the subject the more disconsolate and discontented she became. Aunt Barbara, whose loving eyes were quick to notice, saw only too clearly the phase through which Dorothy was passing; but she knew that the girl must fight her own battle before she learnt to set the right value on this world's possessions, and to discover for herself what things are really of worth. With Dorothy's character Miss Sherbourne often felt as though she were working in the dark. She did her best to impress her own personality upon the child, but every now and then some unexpected trait—a legacy, perhaps, from an unknown ancestor—would crop up and make her realize how strong is the force of heredity in our natures. She recognized that at the present crisis "preaching" would be useless, and could only trust that patience and forbearance would indirectly bring about the desired effect.
"Auntie," said Dorothy, as she ate her breakfast one morning, about a month after the term began, "I don't like Hope Lawson since she got the Wardenship. She hasn't improved."
"How's that? I thought she was a tolerably nice girl," answered Miss Sherbourne.
"She wasn't at all bad before, but she's changed. She and Blanche Hall and Irene Jackson go together now, and they simply sit upon all the rest of the class."