THANKSGIVING AND MISS WALLACE
Going home for the Thanksgiving holidays, though not forbidden, was
discouraged at St. Helen’s. The time was very short, there being less
than a week’s vacation allowed; and it had long been the custom,
unless urgent demands came from home, for the girls to remain at
school. It was not at all a hardship, for every one had such a royal
good time. Moreover, the fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers and
friends of the girls were always welcome, as far as accommodations in
the village and at the school allowed; and for years Thanksgiving at
St. Helen’s had been a gala season.
This year it seemed even especially lovely. Indian summer had waited
to come with Thanksgiving, and every day of the vacation was a golden
one. Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop came to spend the holidays with Priscilla;
and Mrs. Williams, a sweet, motherly lady, whom Virginia loved at
once, came with Jack to see Mary. Virginia liked Jack, too, and the
four of them dreamed what Mary and Jack called “vain dreams” of a
summer in Wyoming with Donald and Virginia. But the dreams were lovely
anyway, and Mrs. Williams said with a mysterious smile that “perhaps
they were not all in vain,” which remark straightway inspired the
youthful dreamers to build more air-castles.
Virginia liked Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, also; and her heart beat fast
with happiness when Mrs. Winthrop told her how glad she was to have
her daughter room with Virginia. Mrs. Meredith, a flashily dressed
woman with too many jewels, came for a day to bring the already
over-supplied Imogene some new clothes and candy enough to make her
ill for a week. Vivian’s mother came, too. She had the same wistful,
half-sad expression about her eyes which Vivian had, and Virginia
liked her in spite of her silly clothes, and nervous solicitude over
Vivian’s every step. There was something pathetic about Mrs. Winters.
She might so easily have been so different! And she did truly want
Vivian to be the right kind of a girl. If only she didn’t care so much
for dress and style, Virginia thought to herself, then she might see
that Imogene was not the best roommate for Vivian.
On Thanksgiving morning, an hour before dinner, Virginia was called to
Miss King’s room. Wonderingly she crossed the campus to the office,
where to her joy she found dear, brisk Aunt Nan, who had run down just
for the day to see how her niece was getting along. Apparently Miss
King had satisfied her before Virginia entered, for she seemed very
proud of the gray-eyed little girl, who was growing taller every week.
“I really need to stay longer to let your dresses down, dear,” she
said. “But at Christmas time we’ll have a seamstress, and you can’t
grow much in four weeks. Your grandmother and aunt can hardly wait for
Christmas, Virginia.”
This made Virginia happier than ever, for she had dreaded Christmas in
Vermont without her father. But now it was really something to look
forward to, since even grandmother wanted her so much. She and Aunt
Nan talked with Miss King for a while, and then walked about the
campus until time to dress for dinner. St. Helen’s had changed a good
deal since Aunt Nan’s day. There had been only thirty girls then, she
told Virginia, and two cottages, King and Willow. As they walked
about, the Williamses and Winthrops, together with Anne and Dorothy,
joined them, and Virginia proudly introduced Aunt Nan, who made them
all laugh with the tales of her experiences and escapades at St.
Helen’s years ago.
Then, the bell on the main building warning them, they hurried in to
dress for dinner, which The Hermitage girls and those of Hathaway
together with their friends were to have at Hathaway. Each year one
cottage was hostess to another. This year Hathaway had bidden The
Hermitage, Overlook was entertaining West, and King and Willow were
celebrating together. It was a merry, happy family that assembled in
Hathaway half an hour later. The tables, arranged in the form of a
hollow square, were gay with centerpieces of yellow chrysanthemums,
and strewn with yellow leaves, gathered weeks before and pressed for
the occasion. There were dainty place-cards upon which the Hathaway
girls with skillful fingers had drawn and painted pumpkins,
log-houses, turkeys, and miniature Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers; and as
each found her place at the table, she discovered also a slip of paper
with an appropriate Thanksgiving verse. This form of Thanksgiving
grace Miss King had originated. “Each one must give thanks for the
day,” she always said; and before the table was seated, each read
aloud her verse or bit of prose.
Miss King, who, year by year, dined with each cottage in turn, was
this year the guest of the proud Hathaway girls. It was she who gave
first the grace she had given on each Thanksgiving for many years:
“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
“Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence
with singing.
“Know ye that the Lord He is God: it is He that hath made
us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep
of His pasture.
“Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His
courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His
name.
“For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His
truth endureth to all generations. Praise ye the Lord.”
The others followed. Virginia’s was her favorite stanza from a new
poem, which Miss Wallace had read to her only the night before. Miss
Wallace must have selected it for her. She looked toward her
gratefully, as she read in her clear voice:
“A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,
The ripe, rich tint of the corn-fields,
And the wild geese sailing high;
“And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the goldenrod;
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.”
Each having read her selection, they sang all together, as on every
Thanksgiving Day for thirty years the St. Helen’s girls had done, that
old, universal song of praise, which the world will never outgrow:
“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
Then, with a renewed feeling of thankfulness and happiness, every one
sat down, and the bountiful dinner was served. Virginia sat between
Aunt Nan and Mary, and opposite the Blackmore twins, whose father had
come to spend the day with them. He was the jolliest man imaginable,
“even though he is a minister,” as Jean Blackmore often said, and kept
the entire table laughing over his jokes and funny stories. Virginia
mentally compared him with the Rev. Samuel Baxter, and could not
resist whispering to Aunt Nan:
“Wouldn’t Dr. Baxter be shocked if he were here?”
“I wish he were!” Aunt Nan whispered back. “Maybe he’d be so shocked
he couldn’t get back to Webster!”
They sat for a long time after dinner was over, talking with each
other and enjoying the informal after-dinner speeches. As they left
the dining-room, and passed into the big living-room to listen to some
music, a large automobile stopped at the door, and a tall,
white-haired gentleman in a gray overcoat stepped out and was about to
ring the bell. But, before he had time, he was seized by a gray-eyed
girl in a white dress, who had burst open the door, crying:
“Oh, Colonel Standish! Have you really, really come to see me?”
“Why, Miss Virginia,” said the Colonel, pausing to shake hands
cordially with Aunt Nan, “I’ve been having Thanksgiving dinner with
that grandson of mine at the Gordon school; and I told my man he must
drive around this way to give me just a glimpse of you before taking
me back to the city. And how goes everything, my dear? Is the ‘making
of you’ progressing?” And he smiled in remembrance of their journey
together.
Virginia was so delighted to see him that she could hardly speak.
“I think so, sir. Everything’s lovely anyway. Oh, Priscilla, come
here!”
“I wonder if you’re not the girl who knows my grandson?” the Colonel
asked Priscilla. “He was telling me he knew a St. Helen’s girl at
Vineyard Haven this summer named Priscilla Winthrop.”
“Do you mean Carver Standish, sir? Why, of course, I know him. He
taught me to swim this summer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him
when Virginia told me that your name was Colonel Standish,” said
Priscilla to Virginia’s delight. To think Priscilla knew Colonel
Standish’s grandson!
Then the Winthrops must be introduced, and the Williamses and Anne and
Dorothy, together with Miss King and Miss Wallace, until the Colonel
declared that he felt quite at home. It seemed about a minute to
Virginia before he said that he must go, in spite of entreaties and
cordial invitations to share the festivities of the afternoon. But he
should come again, he said, and the next time he would bring his
grandson. Virginia watched the big car as it disappeared below the
hill; and later, as they drove together in the early evening to the
station, she told Aunt Nan that the Colonel’s coming had made her day
complete.
“Give my love to grandmother, Aunt Nan,” she said, as they told each
other good-by, “and kiss her twice for me, if you think she’d like
it.”
“I’m sure she would, Virginia,” answered Aunt Nan. “She’s counting the
days until Christmas.” And the train that carried Aunt Nan northward
left a very happy girl on the station platform.
But of all the happiness which Thanksgiving brought, the loveliest was
the opportunity it gave her to know Miss Wallace better. Miss Green
had gone to Boston for the holidays, and since The Hermitage was
filled to overflowing, Priscilla and Virginia stayed in her room,
giving their own to the Winthrops. Miss Green’s room was next to Miss
Wallace’s; and since Priscilla was constantly with her father and
mother, Virginia, though always asked with Dorothy to join the party,
seized the privilege afforded her of being with Miss Wallace. Miss
Wallace was also glad, for she loved Virginia. Policy, when school was
in session, forbade, with total disregard for a teacher’s preferences,
a greater intimacy with one girl than with another; but in the
vacation days following Thanksgiving, when Virginia was more or less
alone, their friendship grew and ripened into a close understanding
between them.
Virginia discovered that Miss Wallace loved her best book
friends—“Pollyanna,” Pip in “Great Expectations,” poor Smike in
“Nicholas Nickleby,” David Balfour, Sydney Carton, Sohrab, and dear
Margaret in “The Cloister and the Hearth.” They spent two lovely long
evenings reading together before the open fire in Miss Wallace’s
cheery room, and some hours out-of-doors. Also, to Virginia’s great
delight, Miss Wallace expressed a desire to learn to ride; and
thereupon followed a lesson with Miss Wallace on Napoleon, who, to her
inexperienced eyes, was a veritable war-horse.
She was doubly glad and thankful for Miss Wallace’s interest and
friendship on the Monday following Thanksgiving. It was the last day
of the vacation, and golden like the others. The Winthrop family and
the Williamses, together with Anne and Dorothy, had motored to
Riverside, twenty miles distant, to take their homeward bound train
from there instead of Hillcrest. Virginia had been asked to join the
party, but had declined, preferring to ride, and secretly hoping that
Miss Wallace might be able to ride also. But Miss Wallace had papers
to correct, sorry as she was, and Virginia tried to be content with
the sunshine, the black horse, and a thick letter from her father,
which the postman gave her as she rode past him down the hill.
Securing her reins to the horn of her saddle, she tore open her
letter. So motionless did she sit while she read its contents that the
black horse quite forgot he had a rider, and stopped to nibble at the
bare, wayside bushes. A few moments later he must have been surprised
to feel a pair of arms about his neck, and a head against his mane;
but he still nibbled on unconscious that the girl on his back was
sobbing, and saying between her sobs,
“Oh, if you were Pedro, you might understand, but you haven’t any
heart at all!”
Still he chewed the alder bushes. It was not often that he was allowed
to take refreshment when this girl rode him, and he intended to make
the best of his advantages. He felt her raise her head after some long
moments; but as yet there was no signal for departure. Virginia was
reading her letter again through blinding tears.
“I have something to tell you, my clear little daughter, which I know
will grieve you deeply,” her father had written. It was this that had
at first made her heart stand still. “Still, I feel that I should tell
you, for sooner or later you must know. Dear old Jim left us last
night to begin life over again Somewhere Else. He had been gradually
failing for weeks, but he would not give up his work. Yesterday
morning Pedro was taken ill, and Jim refused to leave him, saying over
and over again that you had always trusted Pedro to him. He worked
over him all day, undoubtedly saving Pedro’s life, and refusing to
leave him, even though the other men insisted upon his giving place to
them. At night the men left him to eat supper, for he still would not
leave his post; and when they had finished and went back to the
stable, Pedro was quite himself again, but they found Jim—asleep.
“I think you will feel as I do, dear, that it was like Jim to go that
way—faithful to the end. We laid him to rest this morning in the side
of the Spruce Ridge, near the great old tree to which you and he used
to climb so often, especially when you were a little girl. You will
remember how he loved the sweep of country from there. The morning was
beautiful and clear—the very kind of day he loved best; and as we
carried him up the hill, and laid him to rest, a meadow-lark sat on
the stump of a quaking-asp and sang over and over again. That was the
only prayer there was—that and our thoughts—but I am sure Jim would
have chosen that for his farewell song.”
Virginia could read no more. She pulled the head of the startled black
horse away from the alders, and struck him with her spur. He started
furiously down the hill, through the pines, and out into the country
road. On and on they went, mile after mile, but still in Virginia’s
ears rang her father’s words, “Dear old Jim left us last night to
begin life over again Somewhere Else.” Jim, the comrade of her life,
her trusted friend and adviser, whom she would never see again!
Again she struck the black horse with her spur. But the pounding of
his feet on the hard road could not drown her father’s words. And no
one would understand, she cried to herself—not even Mary and
Priscilla. To them Jim was a dear, interesting old man; to Dorothy a
“character”; to Imogene a “common hired helper”! They would not be
able to comprehend her grief, just as they had never been able to
understand her love for him.
But riding did not help as she had hoped. She would go back. A half
hour later she left the horse at the stable, and walked homeward,
alone with her grief. She could not bear to see the girls just yet, so
she turned aside and followed the woodsy little path that led to St.
Helen’s Retreat. It was still there—comfortingly still. She pushed
open the door, and entered the little chapel, through whose long and
narrow windows the sunlight fell in golden shafts upon the floor, and
upon the white cloth that covered the little altar. Obeying something
deep within her heart, Virginia knelt by the altar rail; and somehow
in the stillness, the beauty and faithfulness of Jim’s honest life
overcame a little the sadness of his death.
[Illustration: “Virginia knelt by the altar rail.”]
How long she knelt there she did not know, but all at once she felt an
arm around her, and heard Miss Wallace’s voice say:
“Why, my dear child, what is it? Come out into the sunlight and tell
me. You will take cold in here!”
Together they went out under the pines where the sun was warm and
bright; and sitting there, with Miss Wallace’s arms around her,
Virginia told of her sorrow, and of dear old Jim, of whom Miss Wallace
had already heard. Then she read her father’s letter, and the tears
which stood in Miss Wallace’s eyes quite overflowed when she came to
the part about the meadow-lark.
“And he loved the meadow-lark so!” sobbed Virginia. “It seems as
though that one must have known!”
“Perhaps it did,” Miss Wallace said with dear comfort. “I like to
think that birds know many things that we cannot—many of the sweetest
things like that.”
“Oh, you’re such a help!” breathed Virginia, the burden upon her heart
already lighter. “You see, the others can’t understand why I loved him
so. But you just seem to know some way.”
“I think I do know, dear,” Miss Wallace told her as they rose to go up
the hill. “I want you always to tell me the things that trouble you,
Virginia, and the things that make you glad, because we’re real
friends now, you know; real friends for always!”
And even in the midst of her grief, Virginia was happy—happy in the
knowledge that she had gained a friend—a “real friend for always.” In
the hard days that followed, when so few understood why it was that
the merry girl from Wyoming had suddenly grown less merry, that
friendship was a tower of strength to Virginia—giving her courage and
happiness when she most needed both; and proving, as it has proven so
many times, that there is no sweeter, finer influence in life than the
mutual helpfulness born of a friendship between a teacher and one of
“her girls.”