ST. HELEN’S AND THE HERMITAGE
St. Helen’s lay a mile west of the station, and half a mile from the
village itself, through whose quiet, elm-shaded streets they were soon
driving in the big, open carriage. The girls pointed out to Virginia
the places of especial interest—the little white church which they
attended on Sundays; Mrs. Brown’s cottage, where pumpkin pies and
“heavenly chocolate cake” might be purchased, if not too frequently;
and, chief of attractions, the “Forget-me-not,” whose sundaes, once
eaten, were never forgotten.
At the little post-office, another girl joined them, and was in turn
embraced quite as rapturously by Priscilla and Dorothy as Mary had
been. She was introduced to Virginia as Anne Hill, Mary’s roommate,
and another Senior.
“The two sharks and faculty pets of St. Helen’s,” observed Dorothy,
supplementing the introduction, and including Mary and Anne with a
wave of her pretty hand,
Virginia had not the vaguest idea of what a shark might be. Most
apparently, not a fish; but she saw that Dorothy’s remark embarrassed
both Mary and Anne. She liked Anne at once. She was rather short and
plump, with a sweet face and soft Southern accent.
“She comes from Virginia,” Priscilla said in a whisper to her new
room-mate, as they drove along.
Virginia divided her attention between her great interest in the
country and her absorbing eagerness to hear all that the girls had to
say, for Mary and Anne were kept busy answering Priscilla’s and
Dorothy’s questions. Yes, Imogene Meredith had returned, and she and
Vivian Winters were rooming together as they did last year. Miss Green
was to be in The Hermitage—(a long sigh from Priscilla and
Dorothy)—but the adorable Miss Wallace was to be there likewise. The
fortunate girl, who was to be blessed with Dorothy’s Navajo rug, and,
incidentally, with Dorothy herself, was new, and a protégée of Miss
Wallace’s. (Sighs of envy from all.) Her name was Lucile Du Bose, and
Miss Wallace had become acquainted with her in France through mutual
friends. She was doubtless very nice, but a little shy and apparently
lonely, and Miss Wallace had asked as a special favor to herself that
the girls try to make her feel at home. Moreover, Miss Wallace had
proposed Dorothy as a room-mate.
“That settles it,” announced Dorothy. “I shall be angelic to Lucile,
even if she’s positively hopeless; since I’m doing Miss Wallace a
favor!”
“Who has the big up-stairs room?” asked Priscilla.
Mary and Anne laughed. “Somebody very important,” said Anne in her
pretty Southern accent. “She hasn’t come herself, but she has trunks
and bags enough for the whole family, and they keep on coming. Up to
this noon there were three trunks, two bags, a shawl strap, and four
express packages. And the trunks and bags are all marked ‘K. Van R.—
New York’ in big letters. Mary and I were so wild with curiosity that
we had the impoliteness to turn over one of the express packages to
see the name on it, and ’twas ‘Miss Katrina Van Rensaelar.’ We asked
Miss Green about her, but gleaned no information except that she would
be here in a few days, and was to room alone, as her guardian had
especially requested it.”
“Dear me! How select!” observed Dorothy.
“She ought to be Katrina Van Tassel, like Katrina in ‘The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow,’” said Virginia, whereupon every one laughed, and Mary
said that “Sleepy Hollow” would be a very appropriate name for the
room, as the girls who had it last year never heard the rising bell,
and were invariably late for breakfast.
“We’re getting very near now, Virginia,” said her new room-mate. And,
a moment later, they drove through some stone gate-posts and up a
lovely curving road bordered by pines, which edged the woodland on
either side.
“There are always hepaticas here in the spring the first of any
place,” they told her.
Then they crossed a rustic bridge over a little brook, after which the
pines gave way to maples and oaks, on either side of which were open
fields and meadows. They snow-shoed here, they told her; and in the
spring the ground was fairly blue with violets. Now the roadsides, as
well as the land near the brook, were yellow with goldenrod and purple
with asters, her mother’s flowers. The road commenced to be more hilly
above the meadow, and as the horses walked slowly along, Virginia
noticed with interest the shrubs and trees which grew in tangled
masses on either side. She knew the sumac, now in its autumn scarlet,
and the birches; but there were many which she had never seen, and she
missed the service-berry and the buck-brush, which bordered the
Wyoming roads, the cottonwoods and her own dear quaking-asps, which
always seemed so merry and friendly in the fall. What a lovely place
for a school, she kept thinking to herself, as they climbed the hill,
and, suddenly leaving the wood road behind, came out upon an open
campus, dotted here and there with fine old elms and maples.
“And this is St. Helen’s,” the girls told her, as they followed the
elm-shaded driveway, while her delighted eyes wandered across the
lawns to the gray stone buildings, upon which the ivy was already
turning red.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly, “just as lovely as mother used to tell
me. You see, years ago my mother came here to school, too.”
Perhaps the softness of her voice told the girls more than she herself
had done, for they were silent for a moment. Then Mary said,
“Miss King wanted me to bring Virginia over to the office as soon as
she came, so you girls can go on to The Hermitage. You might as well
leave your bag in the carriage, Virginia. They’ll put it in your
room.”
Miss King’s office was in the largest of the gray stone buildings,
which, Mary told Virginia, held the gymnasium, the big assembly hall,
some recitation rooms, and the offices of the principal and other
important personages.
“You’ll love Miss King,” Mary reassured her, perhaps guessing that
Virginia felt a little shy. “You see, she doesn’t teach any more, and
she leaves most of the care of the girls to the younger teachers; but
she always conducts chapel, and arranges with each girl separately
about her studies. It’s wonderful how she knows every girl in St.
Helen’s, and she’s interested in every little thing that concerns us.
We just love her!”
They went up the steps, and into a large, open hall, at the end of
which a fire blazed in a big stone fire-place.
“We don’t really need a fire now,” Mary explained, “but Miss King says
it seems more homelike and cheerful when the girls come in.”
From the hall many doors led to different rooms, and through two big
central ones they passed into a large office. A young woman at the
desk rose to greet them.
“You’re to take the young lady to Miss King’s private office, Miss
Williams,” she said.
Mary thanked her, and crossing the room, rapped upon the door of an
inner office. A sweet, cheery voice said, “Come in,” and they entered
a large sunny room, by the western window of which sat a gray-haired
lady, who rose with girlish eagerness to greet them.
“I have been waiting for you, my dears,” she said, and Virginia
thought she had never heard such a sweet voice. “And I have been
waiting years for you, Virginia,” she continued. “Come to the window.
I want to look at my dear Mary Webster’s little girl.”
She took them by either hand, and drew them to the window. Then she
took off Virginia’s hat, and with tears in her sweet, almost sad blue
eyes studied the girl’s face.
“My dear,” she said at last, “you don’t look like your mother, and yet
you do. Your eyes are gray, while hers were blue, but the light in
them is just the same, and your mouth is hers. But it is only fair
that you should look also like that fine father of yours whom your
mother brought to see me eighteen years ago. It was twenty years ago
that Mary Webster left St. Helen’s the sadder for her leaving; and now
the same St. Helen’s is gladder for her coming again in her little
daughter. Oh, my dear, my dear, how glad I am to have you here!”
With that her blue eyes quite brimmed over with tears, and she held
Virginia close a moment and kissed her.
A lump rose in Virginia’s throat and she could not speak. The dear
memory of her mother, and more than all else, the genuine praise and
appreciation of her father, the first she had heard since she came
East, with the exception of Aunt Nan’s compliment, quite overcame her.
Tears filled her eyes, and her chin quivered, when she tried to thank
Miss King. But the dear lady understood, and, still holding her hand,
turned to talk with Mary until Virginia should be herself again.
“And, now,” she said gayly, a few moments later, “you’re both to have
tea with me, for I’ve told Miss Weston I’m not to be interrupted on
any condition. We don’t have girls from Wyoming every day, do we,
Mary? You like my room, Virginia?” For Virginia’s eyes were wandering
about the room, charmed with everything.
“I just love it, Miss King,” she said, in her natural, unaffected way.
“It makes me think of a sunny autumn afternoon at home. The walls are
just the color of our brown foot-hills, and the yellow curtains
against them are like the sunlight on the hills. And I love the
marigolds on the table, I always have them in mother’s garden at home.
She loved them so.”
“I’m so glad it seems like that to you,” Miss King told her, “because
it always makes me think of October, my favorite month.” And she
looked about contentedly at the soft brown walls, the pale yellow silk
curtains, the darker furniture, and the bowl of yellow and brown
marigolds which saw their reflection in the polished table. The
pictures were largely soft landscapes in sepia, Corot’s and Millet’s;
but here and there was hung a water color in a sunny, golden frame.
“I wanted a restful room with soft colors, and soothing pictures—not
profound, energy-inspiring ones—for in this room I rest and read and
talk with my girls. And some way it satisfies me—the way I have
furnished and arranged it. Now, Virginia, I want to know about that
wonderful country of yours. You must tell us while we drink our tea.”
Then followed one of the most memorable hours of Virginia’s school
life. Years afterward the remembrance of it was to stay with her—a
sweet and helpful influence. They sat in the brown and gold room,
which the sun setting made more golden, and talked of school plans, of
the new girls, of the summer just passed, and most of all of
Virginia’s country, which neither Miss King nor Mary had seen. The
subjects of their conversation were simple enough, but in some way the
gray-haired woman by the window made everything said doubly memorable
and precious; and when they left, as the school clock was striking
five, they felt, as many before them had felt, strangely helped and
strengthened.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” breathed Virginia, as they went down the steps
together.
“Yes, she is,” Mary said thoughtfully. “And after I’ve been with her I
wonder what it is about her that helps one so. She doesn’t say very
much—she always makes you talk; but there’s just something beautiful
about her that you always feel. I guess that’s why St. Helen’s is such
a fine school.”
They took the long way around the campus so that Virginia might see
the buildings. In addition to the large main one, there were two
others, also of gray stone—one for recitations and the other
containing the laboratories and Domestic Science rooms. There was
also, Mary told her, in the pine woods below the hill, a little gray
stone chapel, called St. Helen’s Retreat, where they held their vesper
services, and where the girls were free to go when they wished. It was
the quietest, dearest place, Mary said. She did not see how she had
happened to forget to show Virginia the woodsy path that led to it, as
they came up the driveway. The cottages for the girls were scattered
about the campus. There were six of them,—King Cottage, West,
Overlook, Hathaway, Willow, and The Hermitage. Each accommodated
fifteen girls, with the exception of The Hermitage, which was smaller
than the others and held but nine. Miss King did not like dormitories,
Mary explained, as they went along. She thought they lacked a home
feeling, and so St. Helen’s had never built dormitories for its girls.
Moreover, in spite of many requests, Miss King limited her number of
girls to eighty-five—a large enough family, she said, since she wished
to know each member of it. The cottages did look homelike certainly,
Virginia thought, with their wide porches, well-kept lawns, shrubs,
and garden flowers. The Hermitage was the tiniest of them all, and
stood quite apart from the others behind a clump of fir trees, through
which a gravel path led to the cottage itself.
“Really, The Hermitage isn’t a very appropriate name for a house full
of girls,” Mary said, as they drew nearer the little cottage; “but one
of the older graduates gave the money for it and asked the privilege
of naming it herself. So she selected that name on account of the
location, forgetting that girls aren’t a bit like hermits.”
Virginia thought the name and location alike lovely; and as they
passed through the fir trees and reached the porch which surrounded
the house, her satisfaction was complete. Inside, The Hermitage was
quite as attractive as its brown-shingled exterior. On the first floor
were the living-room, with a wide stone fire-place and book-lined
walls, the sunny, homelike dining-room, and the rooms of the two
teachers. Up-stairs were the four rooms of the girls, each large and
sunny, and opening upon a porch, and away up on the third floor was
one large room, which was this year to be occupied by the mysterious
Katrina Van Rensaelar.
All was hurry and bustle on the second floor of The Hermitage as Mary
and Virginia went up the stairs. Five girls were frantically and
unsystematically unpacking—pausing every other minute to go the rounds
for the sake of exhibiting some new possession acquired during the
summer. Two of the girls Virginia had not seen, and her new room-mate
promptly introduced them.
“These are our next door neighbors, Virginia,” she said, “Imogene
Meredith and Vivian Winters. And this is Virginia Hunter from the Big
Horn Mountains in Wyoming.”
“Indeed?” remarked the one called Imogene, raising her eyebrows and
extending a rather languid hand. “Quite off the map, n’est-ce pas?”
and she laughed.
She was tall with dark, extremely-dressed hair, and eyes that did not
meet your own. Her dress was of the latest fashion, and she wore
several pieces of expensive jewelry. Virginia was embarrassed by her
easy, uninterested manner, and her strange laugh. Vivian Winters she
liked better. Vivian was short with a sweet, childish face, and
wistful blue eyes. She, too, was dressed far too lavishly for school,
Virginia felt, but she liked her all the same, and did not feel at all
embarrassed in replying to her pleasant little welcome. As she looked
at them, she recalled the conversation she had heard between Priscilla
and Dorothy in the train, and she thought she understood Priscilla’s
feeling toward Imogene. But, perhaps, they were both mistaken, and she
wouldn’t begin by being prejudiced. Just then Dorothy called Imogene
to her room at the other end of the hall, and Priscilla took Virginia
to their own room.
“There’s a huge box here for you,” she said, as they went down the
hall. “It nearly fills the room.”
“Oh, it’s my saddle here already!” cried Virginia. “It is a huge box,
isn’t it?”
“Your—what?” asked the amazed Priscilla, and listened open-mouthed
while Virginia explained, and told her about Jim and the others. So
interested did she become that before they realized it, the
supper-bell had rung, and found them sitting side by side on the big
box, friends already.
“I never heard anything so interesting in all my life,” exclaimed
Priscilla, as they searched for hairbrushes and towels among their
confused luggage. “And will you really teach me to ride?”
“Why, of course, I will. You’ll love it! Oh, I’m sorry to be late the
very first night!”
“That’s the best time of all, because they expect it then. Besides,
Miss Green’s dining out, and Miss Wallace—you’ll love her!—took Lucile
Du Bose to town to see the oculist. Mary’s in charge tonight, and
she’ll excuse us.”
“Is Mary part teacher?” Virginia asked, puzzled.
No, not that exactly, Priscilla explained; but each year the girls of
the different cottages elected one of their number who would be a
Senior the next year to be a kind of cottage monitor, to take charge
of the table and study hours when the teachers were out.
It was an honor to be elected, because it meant that the girls
considered you trustworthy; and every one at St. Helen’s knew and
trusted Mary Williams.
Virginia admired Mary more than ever. It must be wonderful, she
thought as she tied her hair-ribbon and searched for a clean
handkerchief, to be trusted by every one in school. Could they say
that of her when she became a Senior?
“What are you, Priscilla?” she asked as they went down-stairs.
“I’m a Junior,” said Priscilla, “and so are Dorothy and Imogene. Anne
is a Senior like Mary. Vivian’s a Sophomore, and Lucile Du Bose, too,
they say. As for Miss Van Rensaelar, no one knows. Maybe she’s a
post-grad. She sounds very grand.”
That evening they finished unpacking, and by nine o’clock their room
was quite settled. The Navajo rugs were on the floor—the envy of the
house. The saddle-box they had covered, and with pillows it made quite
a picturesque divan. Of course, the effect was lessened in the mind of
any one who might attempt to sink down upon it, but it looked well,
and there were chairs enough without it. Each cot was covered with
afghan and pillows. Even the pictures were hung, and their few
treasured books, of which Virginia discovered to her joy Priscilla was
as fond as she, were placed in the little wall book-case from
Virginia’s room at home. Altogether the big room had a cheery,
homelike atmosphere, and they both felt very happy.
Before going to bed they visited their neighbors. Mary and Anne’s room
they found not unlike their own, only there were even more books
about, and an adorable tea-table with brass kettle and little alcohol
lamp, for Seniors were allowed to serve tea on Saturday afternoons.
Dorothy’s room was in a sad state of upheaval, the Navajo rug,
carefully spread on the floor, being the only sign of an attempt at
settlement. Dorothy herself was curled up on the couch, deep in a
magazine. Her room-mate had not returned she said, so why arrange
things? Their ideas might not harmonize.
The room opposite their own, occupied by Imogene and Vivian, was
settled in a most unsettled manner. Virginia thought as she entered
that never in her life had she seen so many things in one room. One
entire wall was festooned with a dreaded fish-net, in which were
caught literally hundreds of relatives, friends, and acquaintances;
the other walls were covered with pennants. The couches were so piled
with pillows that one could not find room to sit down; the dressers
were loaded with costly silver toilet articles, and more friends in
silver frames; even the curtains were heavy with souvenirs, which were
pinned to them. There were no books, except a few school-books, tucked
under the desk, and no pictures, save highly decorated posters, wedged
among the pennants, where a few inches of bare space had not been
allowed to remain uncovered. It all gave Virginia a kind of stifled
sensation, and she was glad to return to their own room when the
nine-thirty bell had rung.
It was strange to crawl into her cot-bed opposite Priscilla; strange
to talk in whispers for a few moments, and then to say “Good-night.”
For a few more moments she wondered with a wave of homesickness, more
for her father than for herself, what they were all doing at home.
Were they sleeping while the mountains kept their silent night watch?
No, that could not be, for the time was different. Colonel Standish
had explained that to her on the journey East. Dear Colonel Standish!
What was that difference? Was it two hours earlier at Hillcrest? Then
it would be only eight o’clock at home. Or was it—? But her tired
head, so weary from the day’s excitement, refused to reckon
differences in time, and Virginia fell asleep.