“No,” returned Sallie, “she’s as new as you are.”
Henrietta and the French teacher were enemies from the beginning. Henrietta, having lived in France and having had an excellent French governess for a number of years, could chatter in French like a little magpie. Madame chattered too and Henrietta made a discovery. Madame’s French was ungrammatical. Madame was distinctly uneducated and decidedly lower class—no fit instructor for a girls’ school. Yet at first Madame behaved circumspectly; although she told fascinating tales of life in Paris, there was much that she did not tell. She barely hinted at romantic incidents in her own life. Her husband had been a milliner. They had come to the States where after two years death had descended upon her so noble Alphonse, and it had become necessary for Madame to teach “in some pig of a school” in order to earn money so that she might in time return to her so beautiful France.
Madame Bolande knew that Henrietta was aware of all her shortcomings as a teacher; for Henrietta frequently pointed out Madame’s sometimes laughable errors. Naturally, the Frenchwoman both hated and feared “That so bad Mees Henrietta,” and that young person was quite unable to respect her teacher; so there were lively sessions in class when mocking Henrietta goaded Madame so nearly to frenzy that Madame fairly shrieked with rage. All this resulted in exceedingly bad marks for Henrietta, who really deserved good ones for her French and very bad ones for her conduct; but Madame did not discriminate. She gave her the very blackest marks she could fish from the depths of her ink bottle.
Miss Woodruff, on the other hand, bathed frequently in real water, wore her smooth hair in the neatest of knobs and was undoubtedly a well educated woman; and, in some ways, an excellent teacher. She taught English and mathematics, for instance, in a way to inspire respect for her deep knowledge; but her manner of doing it was frequently unpleasant. The girls frankly hated her at times because she heaped ridicule upon them when they failed. She was often cold and cuttingly sarcastic when a little sympathy would perhaps have accomplished more.
Day after day, Bettie, who was stupid anyway in mathematics, quailed under the large lady’s biting sarcasm and grew more and more confused as to numbers; until, as she put it afterwards, she didn’t know whether she was shingling a ceiling or plastering a roof with nineteen quarts of ice cream picked from twenty-seven apple trees, at three cents a yard.
Maude Wilder, who liked Bettie, and who had suffered considerably on her own account, eyed Miss Woodruff balefully and plotted revenge.
The girls loved Maude. She wasn’t a pretty girl, but her pale brown eyes with amber lights in them twinkled delightfully and the corners of her mouth crinkled easily into whimsical smiles. Almost anything amused Maude and she was quite apt to become amused at the wrong moment. Also she was able to amuse other persons.
The pupils at Highland Hall were supposed to respond to roll call each morning with a French phrase—a different one each day. Miss Woodruff stood at her desk on the platform, listening intently; while all the pupils sat demurely at their desks, also listening.
Maude had one phrase—and only one. She made it do the work of a great many. With a twinkle in her eye, day after day, Maude folded her hands demurely and responded blandly: “Nous avons des raisins blancs et noirs mais pas de cerises.” (We have white and black grapes but no cherries.)
“But, Maude,” Miss Woodruff would say, “that is very good but I shall expect a different phrase tomorrow. You’ve used that one long enough.”