AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH
There had, indeed, been strange happenings at Oak Knowe. Beginning on
that first day of Dorothy's life there, with the crash outside the
dining-room door. That had been caused by the tripping and falling
with a loaded tray of one of the best waitresses employed. Afterward
it was discovered that a wire had been stretched across the doorway,
low down near to the floor, and not easily noticeable in the dim
passage. Who had done this thing?
Miss Tross-Kingdon paid scant attention to the incident, apparently,
although she caused a very thorough investigation to be secretly made.
Nothing came of it.
Matters went so wrong in the servants' quarters that they became
demoralized and several threatened to leave. Thefts from one and
another were frequent; yet as often the missing article was found in
some unusual place where, as Dawkins declared:
"Nobody but a crazy person would ha' puttin' it."
One morning the _chef's_ spotless marble molding-board was found
decorated by a death's-head and bones, done in red paint, and his
angry accusations of his fellow-workers brought the Lady Principal to
the kitchen to restore peace. But peace did not last long. The head
laundress, who personally "did up" the finest pieces in "the wash,"
found her pile of them deluged with blueing, so that her work had to
be done all over again. These were but samples of the strange
happenings; and though most of the servants had been so long at Oak
Knowe that they considered it their real home, some of the most loyal
to its interests felt they couldn't endure this state of things much
longer.
Then had come the fright of little Grace, followed by that of the
housemaid, whom no arguments could calm, and who rushed out of Miss
Muriel's parlor as she rushed into it, departing that hour for good
and all and to spread far and near ill reports of the great school.
However, after that day nothing further happened. At a secret meeting
of the faculty it was decided to take no outward notice of these
disturbances, but to keep silent watch until such a time as the
culprit, or culprits, should betray themselves.
"He or she is bound to do so, after a time. There's always a hitch
somewhere in such mischievous schemes and nothing worse than mortal
hands has performed this 'witch work,'" said the Bishop calmly,
though vexed that such foolishness could be found at his beloved Oak
Knowe.
Then for many days the disturbances ceased.
Dorothy fell into the daily life of the school with all her heart,
making friends with her mates in her own Form and even with some of
the older girls. Best of all, she had lost all fear of the Lady
Principal, whose heart she had won by her devotion to little
Millikins. She even begged forgiveness for Winifred, against whom the
teacher still felt some resentment; saying to Dolly:
"It isn't what she did--in itself--so much as her broken trust. She
has been with me so long, she has been taught so constantly, that I
feel indignant at her deception. Anything but deception, Dorothy.
Remember that a treacherous person is more to be feared than an openly
wicked one."
"But, dear Miss Muriel, Winifred will never cheat again. Never,
I know. She won't go off bounds a step now, even though her
'restriction's' taken off. And she keeps away from me till she makes
me feel dreadfully. Says she doesn't want to 'contaminate' and get
me into trouble again. Please let her go nutting this afternoon with
Miss Aldrich's class."
"Very well. She may go."
"One thing more, Miss Tross-Kingdon. When may I, may we, go to see
Robin?"
The lady smiled. A sudden memory of the scene upon which she had
entered that rainy evening of her first visit to the cottage amused
her, and she answered graciously:
"Probably on Saturday, if you wish. Though I am still doubtful whether
your guardians would approve."
"I can answer for them, dear Miss Muriel. They are just the kind that
would like me to go. Some of Aunt Betty's dearest friends are very
poor. She finds them honester and more generous than the rich ones. As
for darling Uncle Seth, he learned to be a regular blacksmith, just so
he could live among them on 'even terms,' he said. Yet he's the
wisest, best man in all the world."
In the Lady Principal's private opinion he was also the most
eccentric; but she did not dash Dorothy's enthusiasm further than to
say:
"To me it seems wisest to content one's self with the station in which
one has been born. To step aside from the normal path in life--"
Foreseeing a "lecture," Dorothy interrupted:
"Beg pardon, Miss Muriel, but there's Win yonder this minute, walking
with her head down as if she were worrying. She thought her father was
coming home next week and he isn't, and she's so disappointed. She's
reading his letter over again. She said, when I asked her why she was
so blue, that it didn't seem like home here any longer with you
offended, and he wasn't coming, and she had no real home anywhere. Oh!
you needn't be afraid of darling Win doing anything crooked again. Do
love her and take her back into your trust, and may I go now to tell
her she can go nutting and about Saturday, and may I hurry up?"
Without waiting an instant longer, Dorothy took permission for granted
and ran out of the house. In reality, she had grieved far more over
Winifred's punishment, by being kept on bounds and denied some other
privileges, than that lively young person had herself.
Winifred was ashamed, but she wasn't unhappy. Only now this letter of
her father's, and the longing to see him, had sobered her greatly. Yet
she was ready enough for the next amusement that might offer and
looked up eagerly as Dorothy ran towards her across the lawn, crying:
"Don't look so forlorn, Win! We can go--you can go--"
"They can go!" finished the other, her mood quickly changing at sight
of Dorothy's beaming face. "Where can they go, how can they go, when
can they go, Teacher?"
"Nutting, with Miss Aldrich's class. On their feet. With baskets and
bags and the boot-boy with poles to thresh the trees and carry the
nuts! and on Saturday to old John's cottage to hear the Robin sing!"
"Oh! do you mean it? Do you? Then I know I'm all right with Miss
Muriel again and I must go and thank her."
Away hurried the impulsive girl and in the Lady Principal's room was
presently an interview that was delightful to both. For in her heart,
beneath a cold manner, Miss Tross-Kingdon kept a warm love for this
wild pupil of hers; and was as ready to believe in Winifred's promises
as the girl was to make them.
The late autumn day was uncommonly fine. Not only Miss Aldrich, but
most of the other teachers, were to take their classes to a distant
forest on their annual nutting excursion, from which, this year,
Winifred had felt she would be excluded. Miss Aldrich was not her own
class director, but the girls in it were her especial friends and
belonged to her gymnasium class. They were all "Commons," except
Marjorie Lancaster, a gentle little "Peer," whom haughty Gwendolyn
kept well reminded of her rank.
"I don't like your being so chummy with those girls, and, worst of
all, with that Dorothy Calvert. She's a pert sort of girl, with no
manner at all. Why, Marjorie, I've seen her leaning against the Bishop
just as if he were a post! _The Bishop_, mind you!"
"Well, if he wanted her to, what harm, Gwen? Somebody said he knew her
people over in the States and that's why she was sent away up here to
his school. I like her ever so much. She's so full of fun and so
willing to help a girl, any girl, with her lessons. She learns so easy
and I'm so stupid!" protested Marjorie, who was, indeed, more noted
for her failures than her successes at recitations.
"But I don't like it. If you must have an intimate, why not choose her
from 'our set'?"
"The 'Commons' are lots jollier. They're not all the time thinking
about their clothes, or who's higher ranked than another. I'm thankful
I belong with the Aldrich ten. We have splendid times."
Gwendolyn sighed. She found it very difficult to keep many of her
"set" up to their duty as peers of the realm. "Class distinction" fell
from her nimble tongue a dozen times a day in reprimands to other
"Peers" who would hobnob with untitled schoolmates despite all she
could do; and now to preserve Marjorie from mingling too much with the
"Commons," she declared:
"Well, if you won't come with us, I shall go with you. My director
will let me. She always does let me do about as I like. She's lots
more agreeable than the Lady Principal, who ought to appreciate what I
try to do for the good of the school. When I told her how Florita
Sheraton had complained she just couldn't get enough to eat here, she
was cross as two sticks and said: 'Gwendolyn, if you are a real
Honorable, you'll not descend to tale-bearing!' Hateful thing. And she
comes of a titled family, too, somebody said. Yes, I'm sure my teacher
will let me."
"Even a worm will turn," and mild little Marjorie murmured under her
breath:
"I wish she wouldn't! But, of course, she will, 'cause it's the
easiest way to get along. Yet you'll spoil sport--sure!"
But the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was already moving away to
announce her intention to her greatly relieved director. For it was
usually the case, that wherever this young aristocrat went, trouble
followed; for, like the 'twelfth juryman,' she never could understand
why the 'eleven contrary ones' didn't agree with _him_.
Nobody stayed at Oak Knowe, that day, who was able to join this
outing: and when nearly three hundred girls take the road, they are a
goodly sight worth seeing. Each had been provided with her own little
parcel of lunch packed in the small basket that was to be carried home
full of nuts, and each carried a stout alpenstock, such as the
experienced teachers had found a help on their pupils' long walks.
"A walk that is less than five miles long is no walk at all for
healthy girls," had been Dr. Winston's remark; adding, for the Lady
Principal's ear alone: "That'll take the kinks out of them and they'll
give you less trouble, skylarking. Teach them the art of walking and
let them go!"
To escape Gwendolyn, Marjorie had hurried to the fore of her "Ten" and
slipped her arm into Winifred's, who had expected Dorothy instead. But
she couldn't refuse Marjorie's pleading:
"Don't look like you didn't want me, Winnie dear. Gwen is bound so to
take care of me and I don't need her care. I don't see any difference
between you 'Commons' and we 'Peers' except that you're nicer."
"Why, of course, I want you, Marjorie. Can you see Dorothy Calvert
anywhere behind? It's so narrow here and the hedge so thick I can't
look back."
From her outer place and lower height Marjorie could stoop and peer
around the curve, and gleefully cried:
"Of all things! The girls have paired off so as to leave Gwen and
Dolly together at the very end! Another class is so close behind they
can't change very well and I wonder what Gwendolyn will do!"
"I'm sorry for Dolly, but she'll get on. Gwen has pretended not to see
her so many times that Dorothy can hardly put up with it. Under all
her good nature she has a hot temper. You'd ought to have seen her
pitch into one of the scullery boys for tormenting a cat. And she said
once that she'd make Gwendolyn like her yet or know the reason why.
Now's her chance to try it! It's all that silly imagination of Gwen's
that makes her act so. Made up her mind that Dolly is a 'charity'
girl, when anybody with common sense would know better. There are some
at Oak Knowe, course: we all know that, for it's one of the Bishop's
notions he must give any girl an education who wants it and can't pay
for it. But I don't know which ones are; do you?"
"No, indeed! And if I did, I'd never let them know I knew."
"Of course you wouldn't. No gentlewoman would, except that stuck-up
Gwen. Her mother, Lady Jane's so different. She's almost as jolly and
simple as her brother, Dr. Winston. But her Honorable young daughter
just makes me tired! Peek again. What are they doing now?"
"The 'Peer' is walking like a soldier on parade, stiff as can be,
thumping her alpenstock up and down plumpety-plump, hard as nails. But
Dorothy seems to be chattering away like a good one!"
Winifred stooped and peered between the bobbing rows of girls and
branches of trees and caught Dorothy's eye, to whom she beckoned:
"Forward!" But Dorothy smilingly signaled "No!"
"Well, _one_ of that pair is happy, but it isn't Lady Jane's daughter!
I fancy we'd best leave them to 'fight it out on that line,'" decided
Winifred, facing about again. "I know Queen Baltimore will down
Honorable England at the end."
Despite her own stiffness, Dorothy's continued chatter at last began
to interest Gwendolyn, and the perfect good nature with which she
accepted the marked coldness of the haughty girl to make her ashamed.
Also, she was surprised to see how the girl from the States enjoyed
the novelty of everything Canadian. The wild flowers especially
interested her, and Gwendolyn was compelled to admire the stranger's
love and knowledge of growing things.
With more decency than she had hitherto shown, she finally asked:
"However did you come to know so much botany, Miss Calvert?"
"Why, my Uncle Seth, the Blacksmith, taught me; he lived in the woods
and loved them to that degree--my heart! he would no sooner hurt a
plant than a person! He was that way. Some people are, who make
friends of little things. And he was so happy, always, in his smithy
under the Great Tree, which people from all the countryside came to
see, it was so monstrous big. Oh! I wish you could see dear Uncle
Seth, sitting at the smithy door, reading or talking to the blacksmith
inside at the anvil, a man who worked for him and adored him."
The Honorable Gwendolyn stiffened again, and walked along in freezing
silence. She would have joined some other girl ahead, but none invited
her, and she was too proud to beg for a place beside those who should
have felt it an honor to have her. Besides, pride kept her to her
place in the rear.
"Huh! I'll show this Yankee farrier's niece that I am above caring who
is near me. But it's horrid to be forced into such a position and I
wish I hadn't come. Goodness! how her tongue runs! And now what freak
sets her 'Oh-ing!' and 'Ah-ing!' that style?" ran Gwendolyn's
thoughts, and she showed her annoyance by asking:
"Miss Calvert, will you oblige me by not screaming quite so loud? It's
wretched form and gets on my nerves, for I'm not used to that sort of
thing."
"Neither am I!" laughed Dorothy; "but you see, I never saw anything
so lovely as that glimpse before. I couldn't help crying out--we came
upon it so suddenly. Do see yonder!"
Her finger pointed westward, then was promptly drawn back, as she
admitted:
"Pointing is 'bad form,' too, I've been taught. But do look--do look!
It's just like fairyland!"
Gwendolyn did look, though rather against her will, and paused, as
charmed as Dorothy, but in a quieter fashion. She was a considerable
artist and her gift in painting her one great talent. Oddly enough,
too, she cared less for the praise of others than for the delight of
handling her brush.
Beyond, a sudden break in the thick wood revealed a tumbling
waterfall, descending from a cliff by almost regular steps into a
sunlit pool below. Bordering it on both sides were trees of gorgeous
coloring and mountain ashes laden with their brilliant berries; while
a shimmering vapor rose from the pool beneath, half veiling the little
cascade, foaming white upon the rocks.
For a moment Gwendolyn regarded the scene in silence but with shining
eyes and parted lips. Then she exclaimed:
"The very spot we've searched for so often and never found! 'The
Maiden's Bath,' it's called. I've heard about it so much. The story is
that there was an Indian girl so lovely and pure that it was thought a
mortal sin for mortal eyes to look upon her. She had devoted herself
to the service of the Great Spirit and, to reward her, He formed this
beautiful Bath for her use alone, hid it so deep in the heart of the
forest that no one could find it but she. There was but one trail
which led to it and--we've found it, we've found it! Hurry up! Come."
Dorothy stared. Here seemed a new Gwendolyn, whose tongue ran quite as
rapidly as her own had ever done, and whose haughty face was now
transformed by eager delight. As the young artist ran forward toward
the spot, Dolly noticed that no other girl was in sight. They two had
turned a little aside from the smoother path which the rest had taken,
Dorothy following the lure of some new wild flower and Gwendolyn
stiffly following her. Only a minute before the chatter and laughter
of many girls had filled the air; now, save for their own footsteps on
the fallen leaves, there was no sound.
"I wonder where the rest are! Did you see which way they went,
Gwendolyn?"
"No. I didn't notice. But they're just around the next turn, I fancy.
Oh! to think I've found the Bath at last. I must make a little sketch
of it and come back as soon as I can with my color box. How the studio
girls will envy me! Every time we've been in these woods we've
searched for it and now to come upon it all at once, never dreaming,
makes me proud! But--_don't you tell_. I'd begun something else for
next exhibition, but I shall drop that and do this. I'll get leave to
do it in my recreation hours in some empty class room, and bring it
out as a surprise. I wish I'd found it alone. I wish nobody knew it
but me. It must be kept a secret--so don't you dare to tell. Come on."
"Huh! I reckon if you'll stick to facts, it was I--not you--who found
it. I don't see why I should keep it secret. It doesn't belong to
either of us, it belongs to the whole world. I wish everybody who
loves beauty could enjoy it," answered Dorothy, warmly.
"Well, go tell then, tattle-tale! You might know a common girl like
you would be hateful to her betters, if she got a chance!" retorted
Gwendolyn, angrily.
It rose to Dorothy's lips to respond: "Tattle-tale and mischief-maker
is what all the girls know _you_ are!" but she kept the hard words
back, "counting ten" vigorously, and also listening for some sound of
her now invisible schoolmates. She wasn't a timid girl, but the
silence of this deep forest startled her, nor looking around could she
discover by what path they had come to this place.
Then Gwendolyn was hurrying forward, carrying the pocket-pad and
pencil without which she went nowhere, and careless of everything but
to get her sketch. So Dorothy followed, forgetting her resentment in
watching her companion. To see Gwen's head turning this way, then
that, squinting her eyes and holding her pencil before them, measuring
distance thus and seeking the "right light," interested the watcher
for the time.
Finally, the artist had secured a point which suited her and, seating
herself, rapidly drew a picture of one view. She worked so deftly and
confidently, that Dorothy's only feeling now was one of admiration.
Then a new position was sought and another sketch made, but Gwen
permitted no talk between them.
"I can't work and talk, too; please be still, can't you?" she asked,
looking up from her work.
And again the real earnestness of the girl she disliked made Dorothy
obedient, again rising to follow while Gwen chose another view still,
high up near the top of the wonderful cascade. Her face had grown pink
and animated and her eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
"I shall paint that misty-veil with a glaze of ultramarine. There
should be an underwash of madder, and maybe terre verte. Oh! if I can
only make it look one atom as I see it! We must come here again and
again, you and I, Miss Calvert, and you must--you simply _must_ keep
the secret of our finding till after I've exhibited my picture."
"All right. How long will it be before we can go find the others? you
know we can't gather any nuts right here. I don't see a single nut
tree."
"I don't know how long I shall be, and why care about nuts while we
can have--this?" returned Gwen, indifferently.
"Very well, I guess I'll take a nap. Seems terrible close in this
shut-in nook and my walk has made me sleepy. I reckon I'll take a nap.
Wake me up when you get through."
So saying, Dorothy curled down upon a mass of mighty ferns, laid her
head on her arm and went to sleep. For how long she never knew, but
her awakening was sudden and startling. She had been roused from a
dream of Bellevieu, her Baltimore home, and of dear Aunt Betty feeding
her pets, the Great Danes.
Brushing the slumber from her eyes, she gazed about her, wondering for
an instant, where she was. Then--that frantic shriek again:
"Help! Help! I'm dr--"
The cry died in a gurgle and Dorothy sprang to her feet in terror. She
had warned Gwendolyn not to take that high seat so close to that
slippery rock, from beneath which the cascade began its downward flow.
"If you fall, it will be straight into the pool. Do be careful, Gwen,
how you move."
But the warning had been useless--Gwendolyn was already in the pool.