COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION
Dorothy in disgrace! That seemed an incredible thing to her
schoolmates, who had hitherto believed "Dixie" to be the one great
favorite of all.
However, she could never speak of the matter to anybody, except the
Bishop when he came home from his southern journey and the news he had
to bring her was so far more important and saddening that a short
confinement "on bounds" seemed actually trivial. For Uncle Seth was
dead. The dear guardian and wise counselor would greet her no more. At
first her grief seemed unbearable; but the good Bishop took her into
his own home for a little time and she came back to Oak Knowe somewhat
comforted for her loss.
Besides she had had a little talk with Miss Tross-Kingdon, and there
was again sweet peace and confidence between them. Miss Muriel now
helped the girl in her work, inciting her ambition and keeping her so
well employed that she had little time to sit and grieve.
Indeed, the spirit of ambition was in everyone's heart. Easter
holidays were past, spring exams proved fairly satisfactory with much
yet to be accomplished before Commencement came. So the weeks fairly
flew, the outdoor recreations changing with the seasons, and Dorothy
learning the games of cricket and golf, which were new to her and
which she described in her letters home as "adorably fascinating and
English." Tennis and basket-ball were not so new. She had played these
at the Rhinelander Academy, the first private school she had ever
attended; but for even these familiar sports she spared little time.
"It does seem as if the minutes weren't half as long as they were in
the winter, Winifred! There's so much, so much I want to finish and
the time so short. Why, it's the middle of June already, and
Commencement on the twenty-first. Only six days for us to be together,
dear!" cried Dorothy in the music room with her violin on her lap, and
her friend whirling about on the piano stool.
They were "programmed" for a duet, the most difficult they had ever
undertaken, and were resting for the moment from their practicing
while Dorothy's thoughts ran back over the year that was past.
"Such a lot of things have happened. So many bad ones that have turned
out good. Maybe, the best of all was Jack-boot-boy's running away and
our finding him. It gave Robin and me a rather unhappy time, but it's
turned out fine for him, because as he says: 'It's knocked the
nonsense out of me.'"
"The Dame will let no more creep in. Old John told me how it was. Soon
as Dr. Winston told him where Jack was, at that hospital, he said to
his wife: 'I'm going to see him.' Then that 'rare silent woman' spoke
her mind. 'Husband, that'll do. I'll ride yon, on the cart, to fetch
him home here to our cottage. The doctor says he's well enough to
leave that place. I'll get him bound out to me till he's twenty-one.
Then I'll let him go to 'seek' that 'fortune' he yearns for, with a
new suit of clothes on his back and a hundred dollars in his pocket.
That's the law and I've took him in hand."
"So he's settled and done for, for a long time to come. It's just fine
for him, they'll treat him like a son--Baal can live his days out in a
pen--and Jack will grow up better fitted for his own station in life,
as you Canadians say. Down in the States we believe that folks make
their own 'stations'; don't find them hanging around their necks when
they are born. Why I know a boy who was--"
"There, Dolly Doodles! Don't get started on that subject. I know him
by heart. One remarkable creature named James Barlow, who couldn't
spell till you taught him and now has aspirations toward a college
professorship. By the letters he writes, I should judge him to be a
horrible prig. I wish I could see him once. I'd make him bow his lofty
head; you'd find out!"
Dorothy pulled a letter from her pocket and tossed it into her
friend's hands.
"You'll soon have a chance. Read that."
"Oh! may I?"
But the reading was brief and an expression of great disappointment
came to Winifred's face.
"Oh, Dorothy! How horrid!"
"Yes, dear. I felt so, too, at first. Now all I feel is a wish to be
through so I can hurry home to dear Aunt Betty who must need me
dreadfully, or she'd never disappoint us like this."
"It was such a beautiful plan. We should have had such a lovely time.
Ah! here comes Gwen. Girl, what do you think? Mrs. Calvert isn't well
enough to come to Canada, after all, and Dorothy has got to go home.
When it's all fixed, too. Father's freed himself from business for
three delightful months, and we three, with her were to go jaunting
about all over the country in his private car, and Dorothy to learn
that Canada beats the States all to pieces."
Gwendolyn shared the disappointment. That trio had been dubbed by
their mates as the "Inseparables" and the love between them all was
now deep and sincere.
"Read it aloud, Gwen. Maybe there's a chance yet, that I overlooked. I
was so mad I couldn't half see that upstart's writing--not after the
first few words. He doesn't mince matters, does he?"
The letter ran thus:
"DEAR DOROTHY:
"Mrs. Calvert will not be able to come to Canada to meet
you. She is not ill in bed but she needs you here. Dinah is
taking care of her now, and Ephraim and I have decided that
it is best for us two to come to Oak Knowe to fetch you
home. Of course, you could come alone, as you went, but I'm
at leisure now, and have laid aside enough from my year's
earnings to pay the expenses of us all; and Ephraim wants to
go for you. He says 'it ain' fitten fo' no young lady lak my
li'l Miss to go trabbelin' erbout de country widout her own
serbant-boy to take care ob her. Mah Miss Betty was clean
bewitchted, erlowin' hit in de fust place, but she's laid up
an' ole Eph, he ain' gwine hab no mo' such foolishness.'
"Those are his own words and lately--Well, I don't like to
go against that old man's wishes. So he and I will be on
hand by the twenty-first of June and I expect can get put
up somewhere, though I'm ignorant as to what they do with
negroes in Canada.
"Faithfully,
"JIM."
"Negroes! Negroes? Why, is that Ephraim a negro?"
"Yes, indeed. As black as ink, almost, with the finest white head--of
wool! Not quite so thick and curly as your 'barristers' wear, but
handsome, I think. It represents so many, many years of faithful
service. That dear old man has taken care of Aunt Betty ever since she
was a child, and does so still. Nobody knows his real age, but it's
one proof of his devotion to her that he'll take this long journey
just because he remembers what's 'fitten,' even if she has grown
careless about it. You see, it's Uncle Seth's death that must have
changed her so," said Dorothy, musingly, with her eyes on the floor.
The other two exchanged pitying glances, and it rose to Winifred's
lips to say:
"But she let you come alone in the fall and he wasn't dead then;" but
she refrained. She knew, for Dolly had told her, that all that winter
Dorothy's home letters had not seemed quite the same as they had used,
during other separations from her aunt; and that many of them had
been written for Mrs. Calvert by various friends of the old lady's,
"just to oblige." Never before had the sprightly Mrs. Betty shrunk
from writing her own letters; and, indeed, had done so often enough
during the early winter to prevent Dorothy's suspicion of anything
amiss.
"Auntie dear, is so old, you know girls, that of course she does need
me. Besides she's been all over the world and seen everything, so
there's really 'nothing new under the sun' for her. That's why this
junketing around we'd planned so finely, doesn't appeal to her as it
does to us," said Dorothy, at last, lifting her violin to her shoulder
and rising to her feet. "Shall we try it again, Win? And, Gwen, dear,
have you finished your picture yet for the exhibition?"
"Just finished, Dolly. And I forgot my errand here. Miss Muriel sent
me to tell you girls that the dressmaker was in the sewing-room,
giving last fittings to our frocks. She wants us to go there right
after practice hour, for we must not lose our turn. I wanted to wear
that beautiful one Mamma sent me from Paris but 'No' was the word.
'There will be no change in our custom. Each girl will wear a plain
white lawn Commencement frock, untrimmed, and with no decoration
except a sash of each Form's colors.' So there we are, same old
six-pences, and dowds I think, every one of us."
But when those few days intervening had passed and great Oak Knowe
was alight with its hundreds of daintily robed girls, there was not a
single "dowd" among them; nor one, whether unknown "charity" scholar
or otherwise who felt envy of any difference between themselves or
others.
"What a glorious day! What crowds are here and coming. Assembly
and all the rooms near it will be packed closer than ever! Oh!
I'm so happy I can't keep still! No more lessons, no more
early-to-bed-and-rise business for three delightful months! There's
father! There he is--right in the front row of guests' seats. Right
amongst the 'Peers,' where he belongs by right!" cried Winifred,
turning Dorothy's head around that she might see the object of her own
great excitement. "See, see! He's looking our way. He's discovered
us! And he's awfully disappointed about you. He never forgave Miss
Tross-Kingdon that she wouldn't let you take that Ice Palace trip
with us, just because you'd broken a few rules. But never you mind,
darling. Though this is the end of Oak Knowe for us together, it isn't
the end of the world--nor time. Father shall bring me to you, he
shall, indeed! Just think how it would help my education to visit
the States! But, hark! The bugle is blowing--fall into line!"
From their peep-hole in the hall Dorothy, also, could see the guests
taking seats; and clutching Winifred's sleeve, whispered:
"Look! Look! Away there at the back of Assembly, close to the
door--that's Jim! That's Ephy! Oh! isn't it good to see them? For no
matter now, I'm not without my own home folks any more than the rest
of you. After banquet I'll introduce you if I get a chance."
Then they fell into the line of white clad girls, and to the strains
of a march played by the Seventh Form graduates, three hundred bright
faced maidens--large and small--filed to their places in Assembly for
their last appearance all together.
It was a Commencement like multitudes of others; with the usual eager
interest in guessing who'd be prize winners. The most highly valued
prize of each year at Oak Knowe was the gold medal for improvement in
conduct. Who would get it? Looking back the "Inseparables" could think
of nobody who'd shown marked advance along that line; Winifred
remarking, complacently:
"I think we're all about as good as can be, anyway. 'Cause we're not
allowed to be anything else."
"I know who's improved most, though. I hope--Oh! I hope she'll get
it!"
And when the announcement was made she did! Said the Bishop, who
conferred the diplomas and prizes:
"The Improvement Gold Medal, the highest honor our faculty can bestow,
is this year awarded to--" Here the speaker paused just long enough to
whet the curiosity of those eager girls--"To the Honorable Gwendolyn
Borst-Kennard. Will she kindly advance and receive it?"
Never was "honor girl" more deeply moved, surprised, and grateful than
this once so haughty "Peer," now humble at heart as the meekest
"Charity" present, and never such deafening cheers and hand-claps
greeted the recipient of that coveted prize.
Other lesser prizes followed: to Winifred's surprise, she had gained
"Distinction" in physical culture; Florita in mathematics; and a new
"Distinction" was announced for that year--"To Miss Dorothy Calvert
for uniform courtesy," and one that she valued less: a gold star for
advancement in music.
"Two prizes, Dolly Doodles! You ought to should give poor Gracie one,
you should. 'Tis not nice for one girl to have two, but my Auntie
Prin, she couldn't help it. She told the Bishop you'd always been a
beautiful behaver, an' she must. Now, it's all over, and I'm glad.
I'm so tired and hungry. Come to banquet."
After all it was the same as most Commencements the world over, with
its joys and its anticipations. What of the latter's realization? In
Dorothy's case at least the telling thereof is not for this time or
place; but all is duly related in a new story and a new volume which
tells of "Dorothy's Triumph." But there was that year one innovation
at the banquet, that farewell feast of all the school together. For
the company was but just seated when there stalked majestically into
the great hall an old negro in livery.
Pulling his forelock respectfully toward the Bishop, bowing and
scraping his foot as his Miss Betty had long ago taught him, he
marched straight to his Miss Dorothy's chair and took his stand behind
it. He took no notice when turning her head she flashed a rather
frightened smile in his direction, nor did either of them speak. But
she glanced over to the head of the table and received an approving
nod from her beloved Bishop; whose own heart felt a thrill of happy
memory as he beheld this scene. So, away back in boyhood's days, in
the dining-room at beautiful Bellevieu, had this same white-headed
"boy" served those he had loved and lost.
To him it was pathetic; to other observers, a novelty and curiosity;
but to Dorothy and Ephraim themselves, after that first minute, a mere
matter of course. Looking over that great table, the girl's face grew
thoughtful. She had come among all these a stranger; she was leaving
them a friend with everyone. The days that were coming might be happy,
might be sorry; yet she was not alone. Old Ephraim stood behind her,
faithful to the end; and out in the hall waited James Barlow, also
faithful and full of the courage of young life and great ambition.
No, she was not alone, whatever came or had come; and, after all, it
was sweet to be going back to the familiar places and the familiar
friends. So, the banquet at its end, by a nod from the Bishop, she
drew her violin from under the table and rising in her place played
sweetly and joyfully that forever well loved melody of "Home, Sweet
Home."
One by one, or in groups, the company melted away. Each to her new
life of joy or sorrow or as general, both intermingled.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.