THE “BROADENING EXPERIENCE” BEGINS
“I’m afraid it will look as though we didn’t show proper interest,
Nan. Besides, I never did like the idea of a child starting out alone
for boarding-school. None of my children ever did. But what can we
do?” It was Virginia’s grandmother who spoke.
“Now, mother dear, don’t worry about ‘proper interest.’ I’ve written
Miss King all about it, so that she understands. And since I was
careless enough to sprain my ankle, and you unfortunate enough to have
to entertain the Mission Circle, we can’t do anything but let Virginia
go alone.” This from Aunt Nan, who lay on the couch with a bandaged
ankle, the result of a bad wrench the day before.
Virginia spoke next. “Don’t worry at all, please, grandmother. It
isn’t as though I hadn’t traveled way from Wyoming. I’ll be very
careful—truly, I will—and try to do everything just as you would
wish.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s absolutely necessary that one of us go. It’s
just that I have always considered it very essential that a young and
inexperienced girl should be accompanied by some member of her family
when she enters upon such an important step. But circumstances
certainly dictate the course of events, and it looks as though you
must go alone, Virginia. Miss King remembers your mother, and will
welcome you for her sake; and she assures me you are to room with a
wholly desirable girl of excellent family. My dear, you will try, I
know, to be a credit to the Websters!”
Away back in Virginia’s eyes gleamed a flash of light, but she
answered quietly:
“Certainly, grandmother, and to the Hunters, too, because father is
just as anxious that I should do well as you and Aunt Nan and Aunt
Lou. Please don’t forget how anxious he is,” she finished, a little
wistfully.
Aunt Nan gave her hand a friendly little squeeze. “Of course, he’s the
most interested of us all,” she said. “We mustn’t be selfish, mother.
They’ll send the carriage to meet you, Virginia, and Miss King will
understand about everything. It will seem strange at first, but you’ll
soon get acquainted, and love it, I know you will.”
So it happened that on account of a sprained ankle and the Mission
Circle, Virginia again boarded the train after five days in Vermont,
and started with a heart filled with dreams and hopes to discover
whether school were really as dear and delightful as Peggy Montfort
had found it.
Hillcrest was a five hours’ journey from Webster, and to-day Virginia
could look at the countrysides which they passed with a less perturbed
spirit than that with which she had so unsuccessfully tried to watch
them nearly a week before. The visit in Vermont was over, and after
all it had not been so hard. She really loved dear, frank, funny Aunt
Nan very dearly, and she somehow felt sure that Aunt Nan loved her. As
for Grandmother Webster, perhaps she did not love her Wyoming
granddaughter just yet; but, Virginia assured herself, remembering her
grandmother’s warm kiss at parting, she at least did not entirely
disapprove of her. After all, it was hard to have one’s only
granddaughter from Wyoming—especially hard when one could not
understand that Wyoming was not a wilderness.
But as she reviewed the five days, she could not find any glaring
improprieties or mistakes, except perhaps shocking poor Dr. Baxter.
But even then, she had only told the truth. After all, manners are
quite the same in Wyoming as in Vermont, she thought. To be sure her
_a’s_ were hardly broad to suit Grandmother Webster, and her _r’s_
quite too prominent. In Vermont there were no _r’s_—that is, where
they belonged. If used at all, they were hinged in the funniest sort
of way to the ends of words. Virginia laughed as she remembered how
grandmother had called her “Virginiar” and the maid “Emmar,” but
pronounced Webster, which possessed a real _r_ at the end “Websta.”
She wondered if the girls at St. Helen’s would all speak like that. If
so, they would find her funny, indeed; but she did not mind.
New England was lovely. She did not wonder that her mother had always
talked so much of its fir-covered hills, its rocky, sunny pastures,
its little white-churched villages nestling in the hollows, its
crimson maples, its goldenrod and asters. And this very journey to St.
Helen’s, which she was now taking, her own mother years before had
taken many, many times in going back and forth to school before and
after vacations Quick tears filled her eyes as she remembered. Her
mother would be glad if she knew her little daughter was on her way to
her mother’s old school. Perhaps she did know after all. And with this
thought came a resolve to be an honor and a credit to them all.
At one of the larger stations where the train stopped longer than
usual was gathered on the platform a merry group of persons, saying
good-by to two girls, who were apparently going to take the train.
Perhaps they also were going to St. Helen’s, thought Virginia, and she
studied the group as closely as politeness would allow.
“Now, Priscilla, do be careful, and don’t get into any more scrapes
this year,” she heard a sweet-voiced, motherly-looking woman say, as
she kissed one of the girls good-by.
“Mother dear, I’m going to be the model of the school, wait and see,”
the girl cried, laughing. “Dorothy is, too, aren’t you, Dot?”
“Of course, I am, Mrs. Winthrop. Dad’s going to cut down my allowance
if I don’t get all A’s. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, I’ve had such a heavenly
time! Thank you so much for everything.”
“You must come again,” said a tall gentleman in white flannels,
evidently Priscilla’s father, as he shook hands, while his invitation
was echoed heartily by two jolly-looking boys—one of about Donald’s
age, though not nearly so nice-looking, Virginia thought, and the
other younger. The train gave a warning whistle.
“Priscilla, are you sure you haven’t forgotten something?”
“First time in her life if she hasn’t!”
“Have you your ticket and purse, daughter?”
“And did you put your rubbers in your suitcase?”
“Yes, mother, yes, daddy, I’ve got everything. Come on, Dot. The
conductor’s purple with rage at us! Good-by.”
They hurried on board the train, and into the car in which Virginia
sat. Then the one they had called Priscilla apparently remembered
something, for she flew to the platform. Already the train was moving,
but she frantically shouted to her mother:
“Oh, mother, my ‘Thought Book’ is under my pillow! I’d die without it!
Send it right away, please, and don’t read a word on pain of death!”
The younger boy on the station platform executed a kind of improvised
war-dance as he heard the words, meaning apparently to convey to his
troubled sister his intention of reading as soon as possible her
recorded thoughts. Priscilla returned to the car and took her seat,
directly opposite the interested Virginia.
“If Alden Winthrop reads that ‘Thought Book,’ Dot, I’ll never speak to
him again. ’Twould be just like him to make a bee line for my room,
and capture it, and then repeat my thoughts for years afterward!”
“That’s just the trouble with keeping a diary. I never do. My cousin
would be sure to find it. Besides, half the time I’m ashamed of my
thoughts after I write them down.”
Virginia, sitting opposite, could not resist stealing shy and hurried
glances at the two girls, because she felt sure that they also were
bound for St. Helen’s. She liked them both, she told herself. They
were apparently about the same age—probably sixteen or thereabouts.
The one who had been so solicitous about the “Thought Book,” and whom
they had called Priscilla, had brown eyes and unruly brown hair, which
would fall about her face. She was very much tanned, wore a blue suit,
and little white felt hat, and looked merry, Virginia thought, though
she could hardly be called pretty. The other, whose name evidently was
Dorothy, was very pretty. Virginia thought she had never seen a
prettier girl. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes a deep, lovely
blue, her hair golden and fluffy about her face, her features even,
and her teeth perfect. She was dressed in dark green, and to
Virginia’s admiring eyes looked just like an apple-blossom.
Undeniably, she was lovely; but, as Virginia shyly studied the two
faces, she found herself liking Priscilla’s the better. The other some
way did not look so contented, so frank, or so merry. Still, Virginia
liked Dorothy—Dorothy what—she wondered.
As they continued talking, she became convinced that they were going
to St. Helen’s, that they had been there a year already, and that
Dorothy had been visiting Priscilla for a month before school opened.
She longed to speak to them, but, remembering what Donald had said
about Easterners not being so sociable with strangers, she checked the
impulse, not knowing how they would regard it, and not wishing to
intrude. Still, she could not resist listening to the conversation,
which she could hardly have helped hearing, had she wished not to do
so.
“Dear me! I wish now we hadn’t been so silly, Dorothy, and done all
those crazy things. Then we could have roomed together this year.”
“I know. Maybe ’twas foolish, but I’ll never forget them. Especially
the time when we dropped the pumpkin pie before Miss Green’s door.”
They both laughed. “And, anyway, Priscilla, with Greenie in The
Hermitage, if we’d been saints, we couldn’t have roomed together. She
thinks we’re both heathen, and I worse than you; and just because she
does think I’m so bad, I feel like being just as bad as I can be. I
wish Miss Wallace would have the cottage alone this year. She’s such a
darling! I just adore her! I’d scrub floors for her! My dear, she
wrote me the most divine letter this summer! It absolutely thrilled
me, and I was good for a week afterward!”
Virginia looked out of the window amused. What queer ways of saying
things! She had never heard a letter called “divine” before; nor had
she realized that scrubbing floors and adoring some one were
harmonious occupations. She listened again. Priscilla was talking this
time.
“I adore Miss Wallace, too,” she said. “She makes you want to be fine
just by never talking about it. I wish I could like poor Miss
Green—she seems so sort of left out some way—but she just goes at you
the wrong way. Mother and daddy think she must be splendid because she
enforces rules, and they say we’re prejudiced; but I don’t think they
understand. It isn’t enforcing the rules; it’s the way she has of
doing it.”
Dorothy acquiesced. “I suppose we’ll have to make the best of her if
she’s there. Miss Wallace’s being there, too, will make it better. I’m
wondering whom I’ll draw for a room-mate. Do you know who’s yours?”
“No, Miss King wrote mother and said she’d selected a wholly desirable
one for me. I do hope she doesn’t chew gum, or want fish-nets up, or
like to borrow.”
Virginia recalled Miss King’s words to her grandmother—“a wholly
desirable girl ”—but then that was just a form of expression. There
was no reason to believe, much as she would like to hope, that
Priscilla was to be her room-mate. At all events, if such a thing by
any possibility should come to pass, she was glad she did not chew
gum. As to fish-nets, she had never heard of one in a room, and as for
borrowing, she had never had any one in her life from whom she might
borrow.
At that moment she saw the girls looking at her. Perhaps they had
suspected that she, too, was a St. Helen’s girl. They whispered one to
the other and exchanged glances, while Virginia, a little embarrassed,
looked out of the window. She only hoped they liked her half as much
as she liked them. They began to talk again.
“My dear,” this from the extravagant Dorothy, “when you see my Navajo
rug, your eyes will leave your head for a week! It’s positively
heavenly! Daddy had it sent from California. Whoever my room-mate is,
she ought to be grateful for having that on the floor. It makes up for
me.”
“I won’t hope for a Navajo just so long as I get some one I’ll like.”
Virginia thought of her two Navajos in her trunk—one a gift from her
father, the other made and given her by a New Mexican Indian, whom she
had known from her babyhood. Oh, if only Priscilla might be the one!
“Do you suppose Imogene and Vivian will be back?” Priscilla continued.
“Imogene wrote me she was coming.” Somehow Virginia detected
embarrassment in Dorothy’s answer. Who was Imogene? she wondered. “You
know, Priscilla, Imogene’s lots of fun. Of course, she isn’t like you
or Mary Williams or Anne, but you can’t help liking her all the same.”
“I know she’s fun, Dot, but I don’t think her fun is a very good kind;
and I don’t like the way she influences Vivian. Vivian’s a dear when
Imogene’s not around; but the minute they’re together she follows
Imogene’s lead in everything.”
Somehow Virginia knew she should not care for Imogene. But where
before had she heard the name Mary Williams? Just then they passed a
tiny village surrounded by elm trees.
“There’s Riverside now,” cried the girls opposite, “and Hillcrest is
the next.”
They hurriedly gathered together their belongings, and put on their
hats. Virginia did the same, and as they noticed her preparing to
leave the train, Priscilla smiled, and Dorothy looked at her with
interest. But there was little time for exchange of greetings, for the
train was already stopping. As they went with their suit-cases toward
the door, Virginia, following, heard Priscilla say,
“Probably Mary Williams will be at the station. Senior officers
usually meet new girls.”
Then it all came back to her. Mary Williams was Jack Williams’ sister,
the girl in the Berkshires whom Don had liked so much. Her heart beat
fast with excitement. Could she be the very same Mary Williams?
A moment more and they were all on the platform; and while Virginia
stood a little shyly by her suit-case, she saw running down the
platform toward them a tall, golden-haired girl in a white sweater.
Priscilla and Dorothy dropped their luggage, and ran to meet her.
“Oh, Mary, you darling!” they both cried at once, and embraced her
until the tall girl was quite smothered.
“I knew you’d be down. I just told Dorothy.”
“How is every one?”
“Is Greenie in The Hermitage?”
“Is Miss Wallace back?”
“Where’s Anne?”
“Oh, let me go, please, a minute!” begged the tall girl, looking at
Virginia. “I came down to meet a new girl. She must have come with you
on your train. Wait and see her.”
“I told you she was coming to St. Helen’s,” Priscilla whispered to
Dorothy, while the tall girl went up to Virginia.
“You’re Virginia Hunter, aren’t you?” they heard her say cordially,
“from that wonderful Big Horn country I’ve heard so much about! Miss
King couldn’t come down to-day, and the teachers in our cottage were
away, so she sent me. I’m Mary Williams.” And she put out her hand,
which Virginia grasped heartily.
“Oh,” she cried, her eyes shining, “aren’t you Jack Williams’ sister,
and don’t you live in the Berkshires, and don’t you know Donald Keith.
He’s my best friend. Oh, I do hope you’re the one!”
Mary’s first surprise had turned to pleasure. She shook hands with
Virginia again, and more heartily.
“Why, of course, I know Donald Keith! He’s the most interesting boy I
ever met in my life. Why, now I remember, of course! When Miss King
told me your name I tried to think where I’d heard it before. Why,
you’re the girl Donald talked about so much, who could ride so
wonderfully and shoot and lasso cattle and kill rattle-snakes!”
Virginia blushed, a little embarrassed. She did not know how such
accomplishments would be regarded by Eastern girls. Mary apparently
admired them; but Virginia was not so sure of Priscilla and Dorothy.
They stood a little apart and listened, certainly with interest, but
whether with approval Virginia was not sure. However, she had little
time for wondering, for Mary drew her forward to where they stood.
“Isn’t it wonderful to have a girl way from Wyoming?” she said. “And
isn’t it lovely that I know all about her? Her best friend is my
brother’s best friend, too. This is Virginia Hunter, and these are
Priscilla Winthrop and Dorothy Richards. Why, I almost forgot! You and
Priscilla are room-mates. Miss King just told me.”
So the longed-for joy was to become a reality! Virginia was radiant.
She wondered if Priscilla were really glad. The handshake with which
she greeted her was surely cordial. Mary and Dorothy walked on ahead
toward the waiting carriage, and left the new room-mates to follow.
“It’s ever so interesting to room with a girl way from Wyoming,”
Priscilla said sweetly. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. I don’t
know a thing!”
“I will,” said Virginia. Then she laughed. “And I really don’t chew
gum, or borrow things. And what is a fish-net?”
Priscilla laughed, too. “Oh, did you hear those silly things I said?
Why, a fish-net is a hideous thing to put pictures in. I loathe them!”
“Besides, I have two Navajo rugs,” Virginia continued. “I hope I
wasn’t rude! I couldn’t help hearing, really, and I was so
interested.”
“You weren’t rude at all, and I’m wild over Navajos. Dorothy will be
plain peeved, because we have two in our room.”
Virginia gathered from the tone that “plain peeved” must mean
something akin to jealous. But she was so happy that she forgot all
about Navajos.
“I’m so glad I’m going to room with you,” she couldn’t help saying. “I
knew I’d like you the moment you got on the train, and I like you
better every minute!”
Priscilla in her turn was embarrassed. She was not used to such
frankness of speech, especially on first acquaintance. But very likely
the manner of speaking in Wyoming, just as Virginia’s speech, so full
of _r’s_ was different from her own. And she was ready to go half-way
at least.
“Why,” she stammered, “I—I’m—sure I’m glad, and I—I—know I’ll like
you, too.” Which was quite an admission for a member of the
conservative Winthrop family to make to a stranger!