"Whatever happens." When Hope said this, she had little thought that anything further in connection with the matter was to happen. She had spoken out of her deep pity and sympathy, to soothe and sustain Dorothea through a hard crisis,—to soothe and sustain and strengthen her to do the courageous thing. She was quite sure, as she had said, that neither Bessie nor Kate would tell the story of the arrested invitation; but she made it still surer by exacting a solemn promise from them not to do so,—a promise as solemnly kept as it was made. And yet, and yet, somehow and from somewhere—was it through Mrs. Armitage or Raymond, both of whom had given their word to Bessie to make no mention of the subject?—a whisper of the truth, found its way, before the week was over, into the schoolroom circle. And before the week was over, Dorothea knew it! She knew it by the suddenly withdrawn glances as she looked up; she knew it by the suddenly changed conversation as she approached; she knew it by numberless little signs and indications in all directions. And Hope, when she was presently beset by eager questions from one and another,—Had she heard? and what did she think? and could it be true?—poor Hope had hard work to fence and parry and hold her ground without violating the truth. She succeeded at last, however, in silencing her questioners; but she was perfectly well aware that she had only silenced them as far as she herself was concerned.
Kate Van der Berg also had a good deal of the same trying experience, and bore it less amiably.
"I'm sick to death of the whole subject," she said at length to Hope. "I wish to mercy Dorothea Dering had never entered this house! But don't be alarmed!" as she caught a startled look from Hope; "I'm not going to back down. I'll be good to her, and I do pity her."
"Pity her! I should think anybody might pity her," cried Hope, with almost a sob. "It simply breaks my heart to see her."
And to Dorothea, who came to her with this further trouble,—who said to her, "You see, you see, it has all come out just as I thought it would,"—to Dorothea she was an angel indeed, this sweet-souled Hope,—an angel of real help in the stanch devotion of her companionship, and the constant influence it exerted in soothing and encouraging her to accept the condition of things as they were, and make the best of them by making no aggressive protest. It was not easy for Dorothea to pursue this course, and Hope could not help admiring the new spirit of dignity which she seemed to develop in sticking to it.
But there was a new element of knowledge coming to Dorothea through her bitter experience. She had always heretofore been ready to fight against any and every opposition, as I have shown. Now, for the first time, she was beginning to feel the pressure of that great power of the great world which we call the sentiment of society, and dimly but surely to perceive that she must submit to it, or at least that, if she tried to fight against it, it would be to her own destruction. But this new sense of things, valuable though it was in its present restraining influence and its promise of right development, did not tend to make Dorothea feel easier or happier at the moment. Rather, the restraint chafed and depressed her. In spite of this depression, however, she said no more about going back to Brookside. She was discovering for herself that Hope was right,—that it would be not only cowardly for her to run away, but prejudicial to her interests in every direction. But how difficult it was for her to live through these days with apparent calmness, only Hope guessed. What Hope did not guess was the extent and power of her own helpfulness at this crisis. Dorothea, however, was fully aware of it; and one day,—it was the morning after the Valentine party,—when the girls had naturally been very voluble in their reminiscences of the evening, she said to Hope,—
"Hope, you've helped me to live through this thing, and I shall always remember it, and always, always love you for it. But for you I could never have stayed here and stood things,—never, never, never!"
Yet not then had she received the full measure of Hope's help. It was when the days went by, and she found that the curiosity about herself had subsided, she also found that in the indifference that had succeeded this curiosity there was a shadow of something that she could give no name to,—that she could not at once understand,—but that by and by she came to know was that shadow of the world's disapproval that she had been made acquainted with through Mrs. Armitage. It was then, when the girl felt herself in the settled atmosphere of this shadow, that Hope showed the full measure of her power to help.
Not immediately realizing the condition of things, she could not comprehend what seemed to her Dorothea's persistent shrinking from the companionship of the others, and at last remonstrated with her in this wise:—
"Dorothea, you mustn't keep by yourself, and neglect the girls, as you do. It isn't right or sensible."