Hail, Columbia!
Irene, finding herself in her new form, looked round inquiringly. A few
of the girls with whom she had taken coffee were seated at desks in the
same room, but the rest of the faces were unfamiliar. Her teacher
entered her name on the register, and seemed to expect her to understand
the lesson which was in progress, but the subject was much in advance of
what she had hitherto learned at Miss Gordon's, and it was very
difficult for her to pick up the threads of it. She grew more and more
bewildered as the afternoon passed on, and though Miss Bickford gave her
several hints, and even stopped the class once to explain a point, Irene
felt that most of the instruction had been completely over her head. It
was with a sense of intense relief that she heard the closing bell ring,
and presently filed with the rest of the school into the dining-room for
tea. Her place at table was between two girls who utterly ignored her
presence, and did not address a single remark to her. Each talked
diligently to the neighbor on either side, but poor Irene seemed an
insulator in the electric current of conversation, and had perforce to
eat her meal in dead silence. She was walking away afterwards in a most
depressed condition of mind, when at the door some one touched her on
the arm.
"You're wanted in the senior recreation room," said a brisk voice.
"Rachel has convened a general meeting and told me to tell you. So hurry
up and don't keep folks waiting. We want to get off to tennis."
Marveling why her actions should hinder the tennis of the rest of the
community, Irene obeyed the message, and presented herself in the room
where she had been introduced on her arrival. It was now full of girls
of all ages, some sitting, some standing, and some squatting on the
floor. Rachel Moseley, the owner of the long dark pigtail, seemed in a
position of command, for she motioned Irene to a vacant chair, then
rapped on the table with a ruler to ensure silence. She had to tap not
once but several times, and finally called:
"When you've all done talking I'll begin." There was an instant hush at
that, and, though a few faint snickers were heard, most of the audience
composed itself decently to listen to the voice of authority.
"I've called this meeting," began Rachel, "because to-day an unusual
thing has happened. Three new girls have arrived, although the term is
well under way. By the rules of our society they must give some account
of themselves, and we must explain what is required from them. Will they
kindly stand up?"
Blushing considerably Irene rose to her feet, in company with the
dark-eyed damsel who had crossed in the same steamer with her from
Naples, and the fair-haired child whom she had privately christened
Little Flaxen.
"Name and nationality?" demanded Rachel, pencil and note-book in hand.
She wrote down Irene Beverley, British, without further comment; the
fact was evidently too obvious for discussion. At "Mabel Hughes,
Australian, born in Patagonia," she demurred slightly, and she hesitated
altogether at "Désirée Legrand."
"_That's_ not English!" she objected. "We don't reckon to take Frenchies
here, you know!"
"But I'm _not_ French," came the high-pitched voice of the little,
fair-haired girl. "I'm as English as anybody. I am _indeed_!"
"Then why have you got a French name?"
"Legrand isn't French--we come from Jersey."
"Very much on the borderland," sniffed Rachel. "What about Désirée? Not
much wholesome Anglo-Saxon there at any rate."
"I was called Désirée because I was so very much desired. Mother says it
just fits me."
An indignant titter went round the room and Rachel frowned.
"I'm afraid you won't find yourself so much desired here," she said
sarcastically. "I'll enter you British, though I have my doubts. Now
come along, all three of you, and lay your hands on this book. You've
got to take an oath of allegiance. I'll repeat the words, and you must
say them after me:
"'I hereby promise and vow that being of Anglo-Saxon birth I will uphold
the integrity of Great Britain and her colonies and of the United States
of America, and strive my utmost to maintain their credit in a foreign
land.' Now then, do you understand what your oath means?"
Her eyes rested on Irene as she asked the question. That much
embarrassed damsel stuttered hesitatingly:
"We're not to trouble our heads about learning foreign languages?"
A delighted chuckle came from several members of the audience at this
interpretation of the vow. Rachel hastily condescended to explain.
"Oh, no! You'll have to study French and Italian, but what we mean is
for goodness' sake don't stick on all the airs and graces that some of
these foreign girls do. Remember we're plain, wholesome, straightforward
Anglo-Saxons, who play games and say what we mean, and call a spade a
spade and have done with it. Whatever Italian friends you may make
during the holidays please forget them during term-time, and try and
imagine that the Villa Camellia stands in Kent or Massachusetts. Do you
understand my drift now?"
"Oh, yes!" sighed Mabel languidly. "Anglo-American patriotism,
crystallized in a nutshell, I suppose! _I'm_ not going to offend your
prejudices, I'm sure!"
"You'd better not, or you'll hear about it," said Rachel, looking at her
sharply. "Well, girls, that's the wind-up. The three freshies are
admitted and you've witnessed their vows. Just jolly well take care they
keep them, that's all. Juniors are due now at netball practice, and any
seniors who want the tennis courts----"
But Rachel's sentence went unfinished for her listeners were tired of
sitting still, and the second they found themselves dismissed had jumped
up and fled from the room.
"Now that that ordeal's over I guess you may smooth out the kinks in
your forehead, honey!" said a serene voice at Irene's elbow.
Turning quickly she saw the short girl who had braved Rachel's possible
wrath and had offered her coffee on her arrival. It was a pleasant face
that gazed into hers, not exactly beautiful, but with a charm that
eclipsed all mere ordinary prettiness; the sparkling gray eyes were
dark-fringed, the cheeks were like wild roses under their freckles, the
tip-tilted little nose held an element of audacious sauciness, and
dimples lay at the corners of the wide, smiling mouth.
"I'm Priscilla Proctor, called Peachy for short. Oh, yes, I knew all
about you beforehand, although you happen to be the newest girl. Dad
wrote me a whole page--wonderful for him!--and said he'd stayed at your
house in London, and I was to tack myself on to you and show you round,
and see you didn't fret and all the rest of it. Are you wanting a crony,
temporary or otherwise? Then here I am at your service. Link an arm and
we'll parade the place. I guess by the time we've finished there's not
much you won't know about the Villa Camellia."
"Have you been here long?" asked Irene, accepting the proffered arm with
alacrity, and submitting to be led away by her cicerone.
"Just a year. Cried myself to a puddle when I first came, but I like it
now. I didn't realize who you were when you first arrived, or I'd have
given you a tip or two straight away. Thank goodness you're fairly in
favor with Rachel at any rate. Any one who starts by offending her has a
bad term. I don't envy Mabel Hughes. That girl will get a few
eye-openers before she's much older, and serve her right. She rooms with
you? Well, I'm sorry for you. I wish there was a spare bed in our
dormitory, but we're full up to overflowing. Now then, I've brought you
out by the side door to show you what we consider the best view of the
garden. Ah, I thought it would make your eyes pop out! It's _some_ view,
isn't it?"
The garden of the Villa Camellia was certainly one of the greatest
assets of the school, and to Irene, who had been transported straight
from the desolation of a London suburb in January, it seemed like a
vision of a different world. The long terrace, with its marble
balustrade, edged a high cliff that overtopped the sea, while at present
the setting sun was lighting up the white houses of the distant outline
of Naples, and was touching the purple slopes of Vesuvius with gold.
Pillars and archways formed a pergola, from which hung roses and
festoons of the trumpetflower; from the groves near at hand came the
sweet strong scent of orange blossoms, and the little favorites of an
English spring, forget-me-nots, pink daisies, and pansies, lifted
contented heads from the border below. In the basin of the great marble
fountain white arum lilies were blooming, geraniums trailed from tall
vases, and palms, bamboos, and other exotics backed the row of lemon
trees at the end of the paved walk. Here and there marble benches were
arranged round tables in specially constructed arbors.
"These are our summer classrooms," explained Peachy. "When it's
blazingly hot we do lessons here early in the mornings, and it's
ripping. No, we don't use them at this time of the year, because the
marble is cold to sit upon, and the garden is damp really, although it
looks so jolly. You should see it in a sirocco wind! You wouldn't want
to have classes outside then, you bet! It's luck you're in the
Transition form. If you'd been one of Miss Rodger's elect eleven, or one
of Miss Brewster's lambs, I'd have had to chum with you by stealth. I'd
have managed it somehow, of course, to please Dad, but it isn't done
here openly. School etiquette is like the law of the Medes and Persians.
We keep to our own forms. Hello! There's Sheila Yonge. Sheila! If you
can find any Camellia Buds that aren't playing tennis bring them along
right here for a little powwow with Irene."
"Is she a 'buddy' yet?" whispered Sheila.
"Of course not! She's only been here a few hours. What a dear old silly
you are. Hunt up some of that crew all the same, and I'm yours forever.
Don't you understand the situation? Well, Irene's folks entertained Dad
in London and were just lovely to him--nursed him when he was sick and
took him round the shows when he got well. He's been bursting with
gratitude ever since, and he wrote and told me Irene was coming here and
I must pay her out--no, pay her back--pour coals of fire on her
head--Great Scott, I'm getting my similes mixed! I mean give her a right
down good time as far as I can, and make her think the Villa Camellia is
a dandy place. Twiggez-vous, chérie?"
"I twig!" laughed Sheila. "I'll beat up all I can muster," and she ran
lightly away along the terrace.
"A decent girl, though a little hard of comprehension," Peachy nodded
after her. "Doesn't she look adorable in that blue tam-o'-shanter?"
"She's awfully pretty!" agreed Irene readily.
"She'd be the beauty of the school if she'd any idea how to use her
advantages," sighed Peachy. "Give me her complexion and that classical
nose and--well, I guess I'd blaze out into a cinema star before I'd done
with life. I hope she won't be all day raking a few girls together.
She's not what you'd call quick. I've misjudged her. Here she comes with
half a dozen at least--and, oh, no, Sheila! You don't mean to say you've
brought candy? Well, you _are_ a sport! Let's squat under the mimosa
tree and hand it round."
The little group of Peachy's favorite friends who settled themselves
under the yellow mimosa bush to suck taffy and watch the flaming sunset
were all afterwards intimately bound up with Irene's school career. Each
was such a distinct personality that she sorted them out fairly
accurately on that first evening, and decided the particular order in
which they would rank in her affections.
There was Jess Cameron, a jolly Scottish lassie. She rolled her r's
when she spoke, and was a trifle matter-of-fact and practical, but was
evidently the dependable anchor of the rest of the scatter-brained crew,
the one who made the most sensible suggestions, and to whom--though they
teased her a little and called her "Grannie"--they all turned in the end
for help and advice. Jess was slightly out of her element in a southern
setting. Her appropriate background was moorland and heather and gray
loch, and driving clouds and a breeze with fine mist in it, that would
make you want to wrap a plaid round your shoulders and turn to the
luxury of a peat fire. Quite unconsciously she suggested all these
things. Peachy once described her as a living incarnation of one of
Scott's novels, for she was steeped in old traditions and legends and
superstitions, and could tell tales in the gloaming that sent eerie
shivers down the spines of her listeners, or would recite ballads with a
swing that took one back to the days of wandering minstrels. She was not
a girl to make a fuss over anybody, and she did not greet Irene with the
least effusion, but her plain "If you're a friend of Peachy's I'm glad
to see you," was genuine, and better than any amount of gush. Jess
undoubtedly had her faults; she was what her chums called "too
cock-sure," and she was apt to be severe in her judgments, flashing into
the righteous wrath of one whose standards are high, but her very
imperfections were "virtues gane a-gley," and she was a considerable
force in the molding of public opinion at the Villa Camellia.
If Jess, calm, canny, and reliable, stood for the spirit of the North,
attractive, persuasive, fascinating little Delia Watts represented the
South. She came from California, and was as quick and bright as a
humming-bird, constantly in harmless mischief, but seldom getting into
any serious trouble. Her highly strung temperament found school
restrictions irksome, and she was apt to blaze out into odd pranks which
in other girls might have met with sterner punishment. But Miss Morley
had a soft corner for Delia, and, though she did not exactly favor her,
she certainly made allowances for her excitability and her strongly
emotional disposition.
"Delia's like a marionette--always dancing to some hidden string," the
teacher remarked once to Miss Rodgers. "She mayn't be strong-minded but
she's immensely warm-hearted, and if we can only pull the love-string
she'll act the part we want. You can't force her into prim behavior;
she's as much a child of nature as the birds, and if you clip her wings
altogether you take away from her the very gift that perhaps God meant
her to use. Let me have the handling of the little sky-rocket, and I'll
do my best to keep her within bounds, but she's not the disposition to
'be made an example of' or to be set on the 'stool of repentance.' Five
minutes with Delia in private is worth more than a long public
admonition. You've only to look at her face to know her type."
And Miss Rodgers, who stood no nonsense from really naughty and
turbulent girls, yielded in this case, and left the exclusive management
of Delia in the hands of her partner.
Of the seven damsels who sat under the yellow feathery flowers of the
mimosa bush, three of them--Peachy, Jess, and Delia--talked so hard and
continuously that none of the others had a chance to chip in with
anything more than an occasional yes or no. Irene realized in a vague
way that Esther Cartmel was plain and stodgy looking, but that every now
and then a world of light suddenly flashed into her eyes, and
transfigured her for the brief moment; that Sheila Yonge giggled at all
Peachy's remarks, and that Mary Fergusson was a pale and weak copy of
Jess, and slavishly followed her lead in everything. It was the seventh
member of the little party, however, who particularly attracted her
attention. Lorna Carson was quiet, probably from sheer lack of
opportunity to speak, but her pale face was interesting and her dark
eyes met Irene's with a curious questioning glance. It was almost as if
she were asking "Have we known each other before?" Irene could not help
looking at her, and ransacking the side cupboards of her memory to try
to light upon some forgotten clew as to why the face should seem half
familiar.
"Have I seen her in London? Or is she like some one else? No, I can't
fix her at all. Surely I must have dreamed about her," mused Irene,
while aloud she said, almost as if compelled to speak:
"Have you been long at school here? Are you English, or American, or
colonial, or what?"
"A little bit of anything you like," smiled Lorna. "Rachel gets very
muddled about me. I've such a sneaking weakness for Naples that I
believe she thinks I'm an Italian at heart. That's a crime Rachel
absolutely can't forgive. 'Foreign' is the last word in her vocabulary."
"So I gathered when she made me take that oath. I suppose she's head
girl and that's why she rules the roost? Is she decent or does she keep
you petrified? I don't know whether I'm expected to say 'Bow-wow,' or to
listen in respectful humility when she deigns to notice me."
"You'd better not have any 'bow-wows' with Rachel," broke in Peachy,
"though you just jolly well have to wag your tail the way she wants.
She's not bad on the whole, but rather a tyrant, and it would do her all
the good in the world if some day somebody had the courage to knock
sparks out of her. We do what we can in a mild way," (here the other
chuckled) "but she's got the ears of both Miss Rodgers and Miss Morley,
and if you go on the rampage against her you only land yourself in a
scrape. Of course, for purposes of protection the Transition girls have
to unite and----"
"Peachy! Take care!" exclaimed Jess warningly.
Peachy blushed crimson under her freckles.
"I wasn't telling anything!" she retorted. "I suppose Irene----"
"_Do_ shut up!"
"Well Agnes said herself----"
"It doesn't matter what Agnes said."
"She's fixed----"
"Peachy Proctor, if you blab like this you'll be tarred and feathered.
Girl alive, can't you keep a still tongue in your head? If you'd lived
in the Middle Ages you'd have ended your days in a dungeon!"
Jess spoke hotly, and, by the general scandalized look on the faces of
the others, Irene judged that luckless Peachy must have been on the
verge of betraying some secret. She tactfully turned the conversation
with a remark upon the beauty of the sunset, and the clanging of the
garden bell opportunely broke up the gathering, and sent the girls
hurrying helter-skelter along the terrace in the direction of the house.
Irene paused for a moment to look back at the sea and the sky, and the
distant twinkling lights, and to curtsy to the crescent moon that hung
like a good omen in the dome of blue. There was a scent of fragrant
lemon blossoms in the air, and she trod fallen rose petals under her
feet. Suddenly a remembrance of the desolation of Miss Gordon's garden
in a February fog swept across her mental vision. Whatever trials she
might encounter here--and she did not expect her new life to be absolute
Paradise--the environment of this school in the south was perfect and
would make up for many disadvantages.
"Give me sunshine and flowers and I'll always worry on somehow," she
murmured, plucking a little crimson rose, and tucking it into her dress
for a mascot, then ran with flying footsteps under the orange trees to
catch up with her companions, who were already mounting the marble steps
that led to the Villa Camellia.