A Dixie School Girl

by Gabrielle E. Jackson

The older girls had grown rebellious almost to a unit, and the entire school was terror-stricken or hysterical, the inevitable outcome of a discipline which had steadily grown more severe and arbitrary; a nagging surveillance which only incited in the pupils a wild desire to do the very things of which they were unjustly suspected and accused. They were never trusted, their simplest, most innocent acts were misconstrued, their word doubted, and, as in Beverly’s case, Miss Woodhull had more than once cruelly baited and insulted them.

Truly, “the years had wrought strangenesses in her,” and a more short-sighted policy than she had adopted for the past five it would be hard to conceive.

Mrs. Bonnell and some of the teachers had been painfully alive to all this for a long time. Two or three of the instructors had resigned and sought positions elsewhere, unable to work in the unhappy atmosphere which Miss Woodhull created.

Once Mrs. Bonnell had bearded the lioness in her den and striven to remonstrate with her, which had drawn upon her devoted head such a storm of resentment that she had then and there tendered her resignation also. At that point Miss Woodhull, realizing how entirely dependent she was upon Mrs. Bonnell’s perfect management of Leslie Manor had actually apologized and begged Mrs. Bonnell to remain. She excused her language upon the score of excessive fatigue after so many years of unremitting work. “Unremitting?” Mrs. Bonnell smiled but accepted the apology. Her livelihood depended upon her own work, and she also loved the place and had many friends in that part of the world. But the idea of Miss Woodhull’s “arduous work” was certainly amusing. Miss Woodhull never did a thing (but criticise) from one day’s end to the next. She had long since given up all classes, and now merely presided as the autocrat of the establishment, unloved by any, feared by many, disliked by all. If Miss Stetson and Miss Baylis really did like her they also shared the fear she inspired.

More than one upheaval had occurred in the course of the school’s existence, but had always been quickly hushed up, though vague rumors had circulated throughout the community. During later years, however, more than one girl had “been dismissed,” so Miss Woodhull stated, “for unbecoming conduct.” The girls themselves told different stories. For the past three years Dr. and Mrs. Kilton had been quietly trying to purchase Leslie Manor through agents in Richmond, for a good bit of inside information had come to them regarding the manner in which matters were shaping there, and their pride in the community, and in Warren County, shrank from some possible crisis which would bring upon it an unpleasant notoriety.

In one sense the girls in Leslie Manor were well cared for. Their physical and personal welfare were safe in Mrs. Bonnell’s hands and the instruction was thorough and excellent. But in the wise development of character, in the trustful, happy confidence which girlhood should know, in the harmony which is girlhood’s right, or the harmless frolicing, and healthful bodily development from spontaneous activities, they were sadly lacking. Everything was cut and dried. All things ordered from Miss Woodhull’s austere standpoint. No wonder that the school harbored “Pettys” and “Eleanors” and “Electras” and a few other oddities. Until this year it had never sheltered a “Beverly,” and this same Beverly was likely to prove, though with no such intention upon her part, its Waterloo.

And thus stood affairs that Sunday evening after Beverly’s flight, and then from a source least expected Bomb Number 1 was hurled.

All day long Electra Sanderson had been strangely silent. At eight o’clock she marched down to Miss Woodhull’s study, rapped upon the door, and was bidden enter. That lady sat with her hand upon the telephone receiver, about to remove it. She now fully realized that Admiral Seldon must be communicated with at once. She must face the music this time. She almost hailed Electra with joy as the source of a brief respite.

Electra crossed the room, rested one hand upon the corner of Miss Woodhull’s desk, plucked up her courage and plunged in head first:

“You scolded Beverly Ashby for receivin’ a letter she didn’t get. It wasn’t hers at all. It was Petty Gaylord’s. I saw her receive it. I don’t want to tell tales, but I wont have Beverly blamed for something she never done—did. She’s always been nice and polite to me and Petty aint been. Eleanor Allen stole that letter and brought it down here to you just to get Beverly into trouble. I saw her do it. She took it right out of Beverly’s history book. Petty dropped it in history class and never knew what had become of it. The next morning Beverly came into our room and told Petty that she had picked it up to return it to her but when she opened her book to get it it was gone, but Petty wouldn’t believe her and said awful things to her till Beverly just looked at her the way she can look when she despises people (well Miss Woodhull knew that look) and went out of the room. But Eleanor had that letter all the time, ’cause I saw her sneak into Beverly’s room and snitch it. I don’t know what she wanted with it, but after I saw her take it I watched her every single minute. I thought she would give it to Petty, of course, they’re so stuck on each other, but she didn’t. She just kept and kept it for some mucker trick, and when I saw her comin’ down to your study last night I knew just as well as anything what she was up to. She hates Beverly just because she won’t have anything to do with her and laughs at Petty and her mash. Petty’s just dead in love with that feller at Annapolis. Now if you don’t believe what I’ve told you you can just send for both of them and ask them yourself. I don’t care a cent what you do for I’m going to leave this hateful school tomorrow and you can’t stop me. And I’ll tell dad all about this fracas too. I hate you and everything in the school—so there, now!” and with this final explosion Eleanor turned and fled from the room. Erin Go Bra! If Eleanor’s story had not collapsed Miss Woodhull her English certainly would have compassed that result. She fell back upon her chair panting. Just then her phone rang: BOMB No. 2.