PEER AND COMMONER
The lights flashed out. The ghostly wrappings fell from the figures
which had been halted by the sudden apparition that had selected poor
John Gilpin as its victim, though, in knocking him down it had knocked
common sense back into his head. For as he lay sprawled on the floor
the thrusts of that demoniac head continued and now, instead of
frightening, angered him. For there was something familiar in the
action of his assailant. Recovering his breath, he sat up and seized
the horns that were prodding his Sunday suit, and yelled:
"Quit that, Baal, you old rascal! Dressin' up like the Old Boy, be ye?
Well, you never could ha' picked out a closer fit! But I'll strip ye
bare--you cantankerous old goat, you Baal!"
Away flew the mask of the evil spirit which some ingenious hand had
fastened to the animal's head, and up rose such a shout of laughter as
made the great room ring. The recent "ghosts" swarmed about the pair,
still in masks and costumes, and a lively chase of Baal followed.
The goat had broken away from the irate old man, as soon as might be,
and John had risen stiffly to his feet. But his bashfulness was past.
Also, his lameness was again forgotten, as one masquerader after
another whirled about him, catching his coat skirts or his arm and
laughingly daring him:
"Guess who I am!"
He didn't even try, but entered into the fun with as great zest as any
youngster present, and it must be admitted, making a greater noise
than any. Around and around the great hall sped the goat, somebody
having mischievously closed the doors to prevent its escape; and
across and about chased the merrymakers, tossing off their masks to
see and careless now who guessed their identity.
"Baal!" "Baal here!" "Who owns him? Where did he come from?" "What
makes him so slippery? I wonder if he's been greased!"
At last answered the farmer:
"I guess I could tell you who owns him, but I'd better not. I don't
want to get nobody into trouble, much as he deserves it."
"'He?' Is it a 'he' then and not one of the girls?" demanded Winifred.
But he did not inform her, merely asking when it would be time to bob
for apples.
"Because I know they're prime. They come out Dame's choisest bar'l.
Grew on a tree she'll let nobody touch, not even me."
"Apples! Apples! My turn first!" cried Florita Sheraton, stooping her
fat body above the "caldron" into which some of the fruit had been
tossed. But she failed, of course, her frantic efforts to plant her
white teeth in any one of the apples resulting only in the wetting of
her paper crown and ruff, as well as the ripping of her hastily made
"robe." Then the others crowded around the great kettle, good
naturedly pushing first comers aside while but a few succeeded in
obtaining a prize. Old John was one of these; so gay and lively that
the audience found him the most amusing feature of the entertainment.
Till finally Mrs. Locke gained courage to cross to his side and
whisper something in his ear; at which he looked, abashed and with a
furtive glance in the direction of the Lady Principal, he murmured:
"Right you be. I 'low I've forgot myself and I'm afraid she'd blush to
see me so cuttin' up again. And too, I clean forgot that bag! I'll
step-an'-fetch it right away."
With his disappearance half the noise and nonsense ended, but more
than satisfaction greeted his return, with Jack, the boot-boy, in
close attendance. The latter bore in each hand a jug of freshly made
sweet cider but his expression was not a happy one, and he kept a
watchful eye upon the old man he followed. The latter carried two
baskets; one heavy with well cracked nuts, the other as light with its
heap of white popped corn. Bowing low to the Lady Principal he
remarked:
"With your permission, Ma'am;" then set the articles down beside the
"caldron," clapping his hands to attract the schoolgirls' attention
and bid them gather around his "treat" to enjoy it. Then, stumbling
over a fallen mask, he sternly ordered Jack:
"Get to work and clear these things up, and don't you forget to save
Baal's, for, likely, 'twill be needed again."
At which the boot-boy's face turned crimson, though that might have
come from stooping.
Nobody waited a second invitation to enjoy the good things that John's
thoughtfulness had provided; but, sitting on the floor around his
baskets, they made him act the host in dispensing fair portions to
all, a maid having quickly brought plates, nutpicks and cups for their
service.
After the feast followed games and dances galore, till the hour grew
late for schoolgirls, and the Bishop begged:
"Before we part, my children, please give us a little music. A song
from the Minims, a bit from the Sevenths on the piano, and a violin
melody from our girl from the South. For it is she, really, who is
responsible for this delightful party. Now she has coaxed us into
trying it once, I propose that we make Hallowe'en an annual junketing
affair, and--All in favor of so doing say 'Aye.'"
After which the "Ayes" and hand claps were so deafening, that the good
man bowed his head as if before a storm. Then the room quieted and the
music followed; but when it came to Dorothy's turn she was nowhere to
be seen. Girlish cries for "Queenie!" "Miss Dixie!" "Dolly! Dolly
Doodles!" "Miss Calvert to the front!" failed to bring her.
"Gone to 'step-an'-fetch' her fiddle--or Mr. Gilpin's, maybe!"
suggested Winifred, with a mischievous glance at the old man who sat
on the floor in the midst of the girls, gay now as any of them and
still urging them to take "just a han'ful more" of the nuts he had
been at such pains to crack for them.
But neither Dorothy nor "fiddle" appeared; and the festivities came to
a close without her.
"Queer where Queenie went to!" said Florita, walking along the hall
toward her dormitory, "and as queer, too, where that goat came from."
"Seemed to be an old acquaintance of the farmer's, didn't it? He
called it 'Baal,' as if that was its name; and wasn't it too funny for
words? to see him chasing after it, catching it and letting it slip
away so, till Jack caught it and led it away. From the way he acted I
believe _he_ was the one who owns it and rigged it up so," said
Ernesta, beside her.
"Well, no matter. I'm so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open! But
what a glorious time we've had; and what a mess Assembly Hall is in."
"Who cares? We're had the fun and now Jack and the scullery boy will
have to put it in order for us. Matron'll see to that. Good night."
They parted, each entering her own cubicle and each wondering somewhat
why Dorothy did not come to hers. Commonly she was the most prompt of
all in retiring and this was long past the usual hour. Could they have
seen her at that moment their surprise would have been even greater.
Long before, while the feast was at its height, the girl had quietly
slipped away.
Despite the fun she had so heartily enjoyed, thoughts of the visit to
Gwendolyn's sick room, which she had made just before it, kept coming
into her mind: and her thoughts running thus:
"Gwen was ill, she really was, although Lady Jane seemed to think her
only whimsical. She looked so unhappy and maybe partly because she
couldn't be in this first Hallowe'en party. It was too bad. I felt as
if she must come and when I said so to Winnie she just laughed and
answered: 'Serves her right. Gwendolyn has always felt herself the top
of the heap, that nothing could go on just right if she didn't boss
the job. Now she'll find out that a little "Commoner" like you can do
what no "Peer" ever did. Don't go worrying over that girl, Queen
Baltimore. A lesson or two like this will do her good. She'd be as
nice as anybody if it wasn't for her wretched stuck-up-ness. Miss
Muriel says it's no harm to be proud if it's pride of the right sort.
But pride of rank--Huh! How can anybody help where they're born or who
their parents are? Don't you be silly, too, Dorothy Calvert, and pity
somebody who'd resent the pity. I never knew a girl like you. You make
me provoked. Never have a really, truly good time because you happen
to know of somebody else that isn't having it. I say again: If the
Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard feels bad because she isn't in this
racket I'm downright glad of it. She has spoiled lots of good times
for other girls and 'turn about's fair play.'"
"Now, Winnie dear, your 'bark is worse than your bite' if I can quote
maxims, too. In your heart, down deep, you're just as sorry for poor
Gwen as I am. Only you won't admit it."
"Well, if you think so, all right. You're a stubborn little thing and
once you take a notion into your brain nobody can take it out. 'Where
are you going, my pretty maid? I'm going a studying, sir, she said;'"
and tossing an airy kiss in Dorothy's direction, ran swiftly away.
Yet events proved that, as Winifred had argued, Dorothy's opinion did
not alter. Neither could she be sorry for anyone without trying to
help them in some way.
The simple country treat of nuts, popped corn, and cider had proved
enjoyable to other schoolmates--why shouldn't it to Gwendolyn? She'd
try it, anyway. So, unnoticed by those around her, Dolly heaped her
own plate with the good things, placing a tumbler of cider in the
middle and hurried away, or rather glided away, so gently she moved
until she reached the doorway. There she ran as swiftly down the long
hall toward the west wing and Gwendolyn's room in it.
Tapping at the door Lady Jane soon opened it, but with finger on lip
requesting silence. But she smiled as she recognized who stood there
and at the plate of goodies Dorothy had brought. Then she gently drew
her in, nodding toward the cot where her daughter seemed asleep.
She was not, however, but had been lying still, thinking of many
things and among them her present visitor. She was not surprised to
see her and this time was not pained. It seemed to the imaginative
invalid that her own thoughts had compelled Dorothy to come, in
response to them.
"I'm awake, Mamma. You needn't keep so quiet."
"Are you, dearest? Well, that's good; for here has come our little
maid with something tempting for your appetite. A share of the
Hallowe'en treat, is it, Dorothy?"
"Yes, Lady Jane, and it's something different from what we often have.
The farmer, Mr. Gilpin, brought it for us girls and I couldn't bear--I
mean I thought Gwendolyn should have--might like, her share, even
if--if _I_ brought it. I'm sorry the plate is a cracked one, but you
see there were so many needed and the maids brought what they could
find handiest, I suppose. But--the glass of cider is all right. That's
from the regular table and--and it's really very sweet and nice."
Now that she had come poor Dorothy wished that she hadn't. Lady Jane
seemed pleased enough and had promptly turned on a stronger light
which clearly showed the face of the girl on the bed. She could talk
readily enough to the mother but whenever she glanced toward Gwendolyn
her tongue faltered and hesitated woefully. It seemed as if the sick
girl's eyes were still hard and forbidding and their steady stare made
her uncomfortable. So she did not speak to the invalid and was
promptly retreating when Gwendolyn suddenly asked, yet with apparent
effort:
"Mamma, will you please go away for a few minutes? I've--I've got to
speak to Dorothy--alone."
"Why, certainly, dearest, if you think you're strong enough. But
wouldn't you better wait another day? Wouldn't I be able to talk for
you?"
"No, no. Oh! no, no. Nobody but I can--Please go--go quick!"
"'Stand not upon the order of your going but go at once!'" quoted Lady
Jane, jestingly.
But she failed to make her daughter smile and went away, warning:
"Don't talk of that accident again to-night, girls."
"That's exactly what I must talk about, Mamma, but you mustn't care."
Lady Jane's heart was anxious as she closed the door behind her and
she would have been amazed had she heard Gwendolyn's exclamation:
"I've been a wicked girl! Oh, Dorothy! I've been so mean to you! And
all the time you show me kindness. Are you trying to 'heap coals' on
my head?"
"'Heap coals?'" echoed Dolly, at first not comprehending; then she
laughed. "I couldn't do that. I have none to 'heap' and I'd be horrid
if I tried. What do you mean?"
"It began the night you came. I made up things about you in my mind
and then told them to our 'set' for facts. I'd--I'd had trouble with
the 'set' because they would not remember about--about keeping
ourselves apart from those who hadn't titles. I felt we ought to
remember; that if our England had made 'classes' we ought to help her,
loyally. That was the first feeling, way down deep. Then--then I don't
get liked as I want to be, because I can't help knowing things about
other girls and if they break the rules I felt I ought to tell the
teachers. Somehow, even they don't like that; for the Lady Principal
about as plain as called me 'tale-bearer.' I hate--oh! I do hate to
tell you all this! But I can't help it. Something inside me makes me,
but I'm so miserable!"
She looked the fact she stated and Dorothy's sympathy was won, so that
she begged:
"Don't do it, then. Just get well and--and carry no more tales and
you'll be happy right away."
"It's easy to talk--for you, maybe. For me, I'd almost rather die than
own I've been at fault--if it wasn't for that horrid, sick sort of
feeling inside me."
In spite of herself the listener laughed, for Gwendolyn had laid her
hands upon her stomach as if locating the seat of her misery. She
asked merrily:
"Is it there we keep our consciences? I never knew before and am glad
to find out."
But Gwendolyn didn't laugh. She was an odd sort of girl, and always
desperately earnest in whatever she undertook. She had made up her
mind she must confess to the "Commoner" the things she had done
against her; she was sincerely sorry for them now, but she couldn't
make that confession gracefully. She caught her breath as if before a
plunge into cold water and then blurted out:
"I told 'our set' that you were Dawkins's niece! I said you were a
disgrace to the school and one of us would have to leave it. But Mamma
wouldn't take _me_ and I couldn't make _you_ go. I got mad and
jealous. Everybody liked you, except the girls I'd influenced. The
Bishop petted you--he never notices me. Miss Tross-Kingdon treats you
almost as lovingly as she does Millikins-Pillikins. All the servants
smile on you and nobody is afraid of you as everybody is of me.
Dawkins, and sometimes even Mamma, accuses me of a 'sharp tongue'
that makes enemies. But, somehow, I can't help it. And the worst
is--one can't get back the things one has said and done, no matter how
she tries. Then you went and saved my life!"
At this, the strange girl covered her face and began to cry, while
Dorothy stared at her, too surprised to speak. Until the tears changed
to sobs and Gwendolyn shook with the stress of her emotion. Then,
fearing serious results, Dorothy forgot everything except that here
was someone in distress which she must soothe. Down on her knees she
went, flung her arms around the shaking shoulders, and pleaded:
"Well, you poor dear, can't you be glad of that? Even if you can never
like me isn't it good to be alive? Aren't you grateful that somebody
who could swim, even poor I, was at the pool to help you out of it
that day? Forget it, do forget it, and get well and happy right away.
I'll keep away from you as far as I can and you must forgive me for
coming here again just now."
"Forgive you? Forgive you! Oh! Dorothy Calvert, can you, will you ever
forgive me? After all my meanness to you, could you make yourself like
me just a little?"
Gwendolyn's own arms had now closed in eager entreaty about the girl
she had injured. Her pride was humbled at last and completely. But
there was no need of further speech between them. They clung together
in their suddenly awakened affection, at peace and so happy that
neither felt it possible they had ever been at odds.
When, at last, Dorothy drew back and rose, Gwen still clung to her
hand, and penitently said:
"But that isn't all. There's a lot more to tell that, maybe, will make
you despise me worse than ever. I've done--"
"No matter what, dearest. You've talked quite enough for to-night and
Dorothy should be in bed. Bid one another good night, my dears, and
meet again to-morrow;" interrupted Lady Jane, who had quietly
returned.
So Dorothy departed, and with a happier heart than she had had since
her coming to Oak Knowe; for now there was nobody there with whom she
was at discord.
But--was there not?
Gayly tripping down the long corridor, humming a merry air and hoping
that she hadn't yet broken the retiring-rule, she stopped short on the
way. Something or somebody was far ahead of her, moving with utmost
caution against noise, yet himself, or itself, making a peculiar
rat-a-tat-tat upon the polished boards.
Instantly Dorothy hushed her light song and slackened her steps. The
passage was dimly lighted for it was rarely used, leading as it did to
the distant servants' quarters and ending in a great drying-room above
the laundry. Even this drying-room was almost given up to the storage
of trunks and other things, the laundry itself being more convenient
for all its requirements.
Rumors came back to her of the burglaries which the kitchen-folk had
declared had been frequent of late, none more serious than the loss of
a dinner provided and the strange rifling of safes and cupboard. Such
had happened weeks before, then apparently ceased; but they had begun
again of late; with added rumors of strange noises heard at night, and
in the quieter hours of the day.
The faculty had tried to keep these fresh rumors from the pupils'
ears, but they had leaked out. Yet no real investigation had been
made. It was a busy household, both above and below stairs; and as is
usual, what is "everybody's business is nobody's" and things were left
to run their course.
But now, was the burglar real? And had Dorothy come suddenly upon his
track? If she only could find out!
Without fear of consequences to herself and forgetful of that
retiring-rule she tip-toed noiselessly in the wake of whatever was in
advance, and so came at last to the door of the drying-room. It stood
ajar and whatever had preceded her passed beyond it as the girl came
to it.
She also entered, curiosity setting every nerve a-tingle, yet she
still unafraid. Stepping behind the open door she waited what next,
and trying to accustom her eyes to the absolute darkness of the place.
The long row of windows on the outer wall were covered by wooden
shutters, as she had noticed from the ground, and with them closed the
only light which could enter came through a small scuttle, or skylight
in the center of the ceiling.
From her retreat behind the door she listened breathlessly. The
rat-a-tat-tat had died away in the distance, whither she now dared not
follow because of the darkness; and presently she heard a noise like
the slipping of boards in a cattle shed.
Then footsteps returning, swiftly and softly, as of one in bare or
stockinged feet. There was a rush past her, the door to which she
clung was snatched from her and shut with a bang. This sound went
through her with a thrill, and vividly there arose the memory of a
night long past when she had been imprisoned in an empty barn, by the
wild freak of an old acquaintance of the mountain, and half-witted
Peter Piper for sole companion. Then swiftly she felt her way back
along the door till her hand was on its lock--which she could not
move. Here was a situation suitable, indeed, for any Hallowe'en!