These were not many in number; that number “strictly limited” to those whose guardians were willing to pay an extremely high tuition price. But it is just to add that the price was well deserved. While known as a “fashionable” establishment it was yet a most thorough one, affording its graduates as complete an education as they could have obtained at a woman’s college. In that respect, Jessica’s new home had been well chosen.
“Young ladies, I have the pleasure to present to you, Miss Jessica Trent, of Sobrante, California. I trust that you will make her very happy among you. Miss Rhinelander, Miss Trent’s desk will be next your own in the study-room. Kindly do the honors of our house.”
“Yes, madam, with great pleasure,” answered a tall, dark-eyed girl, moving forward with an air as composed and self-possessed as that of the schoolmistress herself. With a graceful, sweeping courtesy, she offered her hand to the newcomer, who accepted it gratefully enough, yet with the feeling that nothing mattered now.
Helen Rhinelander was instantly offended. She was the leader in the school, by reason of her ability and social position. Also, by a certain sort of arrogance which impressed her followers as something extremely fine and full of “distinction.” To be “distingué” was, at Madame Mearsom’s, the height of elegance.
Now, Miss Rhinelander’s glance swept Jessica’s simple costume, of that unadorned blue flannel her mother so greatly liked, and there was disdain in the glance. This disdain was observed and copied by a few.
“Helen’s own clothes are very simple—but then! They are of the finest, and cut with such a grace. She is style itself. Why, she’s stylish even in her nightgown!” had remarked one young miss to another, and had tried to make her own dressmaker copy this “style”—with poor result.
“Dowd!” “Common!” “pretty enough, but—Oh! my!” “She’s simply impossible! I doubt if even Madam can make that new girl over into anybody presentable.” “I think it’s a shame to admit such people to our school. My father sends me here because he believed it to be so very exclusive. She isn’t exclusive. She might be anybody. She might even live—anywhere.” “Looks as if she came from California, or some other outlandish place.” “She’s a dear. How sad she looks and how brave, not to cry when she’s so longing to.” “I’ve heard about her. She was the girl that was found in the garden of Madam Dalrymple’s mansion in Washington Square; when it was burned another girl, a flower-girl, saved her life.” These were the unspoken opinions that greeted Jessica.
“Helen—Helen isn’t—nice!” whispered Aubrey Huntington to her chum and satellite. Now when a schoolgirl is dubbed “not nice” by her mates, the chances are that she is extremely disagreeable. Also, a person may be that, yet remain perfectly well bred.
Helen prided herself on her breeding, yet she did not hesitate to elevate her eyebrows slightly, as she conducted Jessica to a low chair in the pleasantest corner of the room, where one could look out on the broad Avenue, with its passing throngs and vehicles, and through which a soft September breeze was blowing.
Jessica accepted the chair with a low “Thank you,” and turned her face toward the window. The breeze cooled her cheek, that burned beneath the glances of all these strangers, yet the throngs outside but served to increase her own loneliness. In fancy she could hear the “chug-chug” of the train bearing her dear ones far away; and before she knew it the tears were streaming down her face and she could see nothing even of the throngs. She did not attempt to stay them, she could not. Neither did she lift her handkerchief to wipe them off. She was ashamed of her own weakness, it was so un-Waldron-y, and she hoped none of those bright creatures yonder had seen it.