A SPRING-TIME ROMANCE
“You don’t mean you’re going to back out now, Vivian, when we’ve made
all arrangements, and you’ve promised to go?”
“I—I didn’t say I was going to back out, Imogene. I just said I wished
I hadn’t promised. It doesn’t seem nearly so much fun as it did, and,
besides, I know I’ll get caught!”
“Of course you will, if you lose your nerve like that. But if you do
as we’ve planned, there isn’t a chance in a thousand. No one will
wonder why you’re not at supper, because you’re absent so often; and
it will be easy enough to slip out while we’re eating. Then by the
time you’re driving off, we’ll all be at that Art lecture; and with
the lights off and only the stereopticon, no one will miss you. And by
the time we get home, you’ll be here in bed. Why, it’s as smooth as a
whistle, and you ought to be everlastingly grateful to Dot and me for
fixing it up for you. No other girl in St. Helen’s has ever gone out
driving with a man, and you’ll have the story to tell your children.”
Poor Vivian looked for a moment as though she doubted her future
children’s pride in their mother’s achievement; but she had long ago
put her hand to the plow, and there seemed no turning back.
“Of course I’m going now that it’s gone so far, and I’ve promised,”
she said desperately. “But I don’t believe Dorothy thinks it’s so much
as she did. She said to-day she sort of wished we hadn’t done it.”
Imogene looked uncomfortable. Dorothy’s strange disloyalty during the
weeks since the Easter holidays had greatly disturbed her.
“Dot needn’t act so righteous all of a sudden,” she said bitterly.
“I’d like to know who planned this whole thing if she didn’t. I’d
certainly never have thought of the birch tree post-office; and she’s
been mail-carrier more than half the time. It’s a late day to back out
now.”
“She isn’t backing out, Imogene. She only said she wished we hadn’t
planned it in the first place; but since we had, of course we’d have
to see it through. I don’t think you and she need worry anyway. It’s I
that’s going to get the blame; and I shan’t tell on you even if I am
caught.”
“Tell on us!” Imogene’s tone was more biting than ever. “Well, I
should hope you wouldn’t! Who’s superintended this thing, I’d like to
know? Who’s been bringing boxes of candy from him all the way up here
to you, and running the risk of being caught? Who’s been posting your
notes for you all winter long?”
After listening to this exoneration, Vivian was on the point of tears,
and Imogene, feeling that her room-mate’s courage must be kept up at
any cost, changed her tone.
“To-morrow you’ll be laughing up your sleeve, and saying what a
splendid time you had. Besides, think what fun it’s been all along.
We’ve fooled every one in school. No one has suspected a thing! And
think of all the candy you’ve had. Of course, he’ll have another box
to-night.”
The unhappy Vivian dried her tears, but her face did not brighten. In
fact, she did not look at all like a person who was about to enjoy a
long-anticipated evening drive.
“Imogene,” she said, and there was an unusual tone of self-assertion
in her voice, which surprised her room-mate, “Imogene, I want you to
know that a hundred boxes of candy don’t make one feel right inside.”
While this conversation was taking place behind a closed door in The
Hermitage, there was another person in the woods by the Retreat, who
likewise did not feel right inside. The other person was Dorothy. She
had declined Virginia’s and Priscilla’s invitation to go after
violets, much as she would have liked to accept, in the hope of easing
her conscience; curtly refused to walk with Imogene; and studiously
sought to evade the accusing eyes of Vivian. Seizing her opportunity,
she had run away from them all, and now sat alone under the pines by
the Retreat, trying to think of a way out of her difficulty—a way that
would save Vivian from the consequences of an act for which she was
really not to blame.
Ever since September Dorothy had sent her rootlets into the waste
places of indolence and poor companionship; and now that she had truly
resolved to change it seemed to her discouraged heart almost too late.
She and Imogene were to blame for the situation which confronted
her—not Vivian. Ever since the sallow, white-coated Leslie had entered
the employ of the “Forget-me-not,” she and Imogene had directed
susceptible Vivian’s attention toward his evident admiration. It was
they who had all through the winter and early spring transported his
gifts to Vivian; they, who, weary of the monotony which through
idleness they made themselves, had seized upon Dorothy’s idea of a
secret post-office; and finally, they who had proposed through the
means of the post-office that the enamored Leslie take Vivian for an
evening drive. Now the crisis was at hand, and what could she do to
avert it?
She sat in a wretched little heap beneath the pines, and thoroughly
despised Dorothy Richards. She had made a failure of the whole year—in
grades, in conduct, in character. The first was bad enough, for she
knew that Mary was right. It was she who was helping The Hermitage
lose the cup—the scholarship cup which it had determined to win from
Hathaway. The second was worse, for she had forfeited Miss Wallace’s
confidence, and had aroused the righteous suspicion of the girls. But
the last was worst of all! She had allowed herself to be weakly
influenced by Imogene, had been disloyal to Priscilla and Virginia,
had been very nearly dishonest, if not quite so, and had pitiably lost
her own self-respect. And now, even though she was tired of it all,
even though she desired deep in her heart to turn her rootlets into
better soil, perhaps it was too late. Perhaps, after all, she was not
strong enough.
A brown thrasher, who sat on her newly-made nest in a near-by thicket
and watched the girl beneath the pines, wondered perhaps at the
strange ways of mortals. For even though the sun was bright and the
whole world filled with joy, this girl all at once burst into tears,
and cried between her sobs:
“Oh, dear, what shall I do? I’ll never be any different—never! And
Priscilla and Virginia will never like me again when they know about
tonight!”
But remorse, though quite appropriate under the circumstances, and
doubtless likely to bear fruit in the future, was useless just at
present. Dorothy soon realized that, and sat up again, much to the
relief of the brown thrasher, who felt safer now that this strange
person sobbed no more. A situation confronted her and must be met. Was
there any way to save Vivian, and at the same time not implicate
Imogene? Were Dorothy alone to blame, she would go to Miss Wallace and
tell the whole story; but she knew that Miss Wallace had previously
suspected Imogene with good cause, and she did not wish to run the
risk of getting Imogene into further trouble, even though she might
richly deserve it. Of course, Vivian might be easily persuaded to stay
at home and not meet her knight-errant of the soda-fountain, who was
to find her at seven o’clock by the birch tree; but that meant anger
and certain revenge on the part of Imogene, besides the probability of
the disappointed Leslie communicating his disappointment in such a way
as would eventually reach the ears of some member of St. Helen’s
faculty.
The five-thirty warning bell found the question unsolved, and a sadly
troubled Dorothy walked slowly homeward. She was purposely late to
supper, for she did not wish to encounter Imogene or Vivian. As she
left the wood-path and came out upon the campus, she saw hurrying down
the hill a short, plump figure in a red sweater. Vivian, on the way to
meet her knight!
At supper Dorothy tried in vain to eat the food upon her plate.
Impossible schemes, each vetoed as soon as concocted, were born but to
die. It was only when Priscilla and Virginia, excused early for
tennis, left the table, that an inspiration seized her. Almost without
waiting for Miss Wallace’s nod of permission, she ran from the
dining-room, flew up the stairs, and burst into Priscilla’s and
Virginia’s room, where they, surprised, paused in the act of lacing
their tennis shoes.
“Oh, Virginia,” she cried, “go quick! Vivian will listen to you, and
she won’t to me, because I’ve been so mean. Oh, lace your shoes
quickly! She is down by the birch tree, just beyond the gates on the
road to Hillcrest, waiting for—for that silly Leslie, who’s coming to
take her to drive. And it’s not her fault, because we—I mean I—put her
up to do it. And you can hate and despise and detest me, if you want
to, only hurry, and make him go away!”
The founder of the Vigilantes needed no further explanation. So this
was the meaning of her discovery a month ago! She sprang to her feet,
raced through the hall, down the stairs, and across the campus toward
the road, while the contrite Dorothy remained to confess the whole
miserable story to Priscilla. It was Friday evening and there was no
study hour after supper, so that Virginia could leave The Hermitage
without exciting surprise. Moreover, the girls in the cottages were
all at supper, and there was no one to note her hurried flight down
the hill. Dorothy had not said at what hour Vivian’s cavalier would
arrive, and there was no time to be lost. Even then they might be
driving away. Almost out of breath she raced down the hill, through
the pine woods, out the stone gates, and into the main road. A quarter
of a mile away, coming from the direction of Hillcrest, she saw a
runabout, in which sat a solitary figure, who seeing her at that
distance waved his hand as a signal.
“It’s that silly thing!” breathed Virginia to herself. “He thinks I’m
Vivian. Oh, I’m glad I’m not too late!”
She dashed down the road and into the rude path through the alders to
the birch tree. There, at its base, hidden by the alders from the view
of those who passed, crouched poor, trembling Vivian. She had half
risen, as Virginia crashed through the bushes, thinking that her
cavalier was approaching; but at the sight of the panting Virginia,
she shrank back against the tree.
“Why—why, Virginia,” she stammered. “Why—why, what do you want?”
Virginia was almost too breathless to answer.
“I’ve—come—to meet—your friend, Vivian,” she managed to gasp. “He’s
coming now. He’ll be here in a moment.”
“I—I think I’m scared,” gasped Vivian in her turn, shrinking farther
back against the tree. “Aren’t you, Virginia?”
“No,” said her deliverer, gaining breath at every moment, “no, Vivian,
I certainly am not scared. I feel as brave as Theseus, though Leslie
isn’t much of a Minotaur, I must say!”
The sound of a horse’s feet-came nearer and nearer, then stopped. A
carriage creaked as some one jumped from it; twigs snapped as some one
came crashing through them. Vivian hugged the old tree for support,
and turned her face toward the pasture. Virginia braced herself for
the attack, her back against the tree, her arms folded Napoleon-wise,
her head high, her eyes flashing. As the bushes parted and the
soda-fountain clerk emerged and stepped into the trysting-place, a
more surprised youth could not have been found in the State of
Massachusetts.
Arrayed in a new and gallantly worn linen duster, his hat on the side
of his head, a box of candy under one arm, he stood as though rooted
to the spot, an amazed and sickly smile playing over his more sickly
countenance. What had happened? Was he to escort two ladies instead of
one? His eye-glasses, attached by a gold chain to his ear, trembled as
his pale gaze, expressionless save for surprise, tried to encompass
the figure who still embraced the tree. But all in vain, for ever he
encountered a pair of flashing gray eyes, which, steady and
disdainful, never once left his own.
“You may go now,” said the owner of the eyes, after what seemed long
minutes to the faithful Leslie, “and don’t you ever come here again!
This isn’t a post-office any longer. You’re too unspeakably silly for
any use, and Vivian thinks so just the same as the rest of us. You
belong to a soda-fountain, for you’re just as sickish as vanilla
ice-cream, and as senseless as soda-water. Now go!”
The subdued Leslie needed no second bidding. He went. They heard his
hurrying feet crash through the roadside thicket, the creaking of his
carriage as with one bound he leaped into it, and the crack of the
whip, as he warned his steed to do no tarrying in that locality. Then
Virginia turned her attention to Vivian who by this time was in an
hysterical little heap at the foot of the big old tree.
“It’s all right, Vivian,” she said, with her arms around Vivian’s
shaking shoulders. “He’s gone and he won’t come back. He’ll be in New
York by midnight, if he keeps on going. Please don’t cry any more.”
But Vivian could not stop just then. To be sure, the result of her
foolishness had been checked before it was too late; but nothing could
blot out the foolishness itself; and it was that which was breaking
her heart.
“Oh, I’m not crying about him!” she said between her sobs. “I despise
him! I’m crying because I’ve been so silly, and nobody’ll ever forget
it. I don’t care what Dorothy and Imogene say. It’s what’s inside of
me that hurts! And everybody’ll know how silly I’ve been! Oh, why
can’t I be different than I am?”
“Everybody won’t know, Vivian. Oh, please don’t cry so! Nobody’ll know
except Priscilla and me, and we’ll think all the more of you. And
Dorothy feels worse than you, because she’s been even more to blame.
’Twas she that told me, and made me come to help you.”
Vivian stopped crying from sheer surprise. So Dorothy felt bad inside
too, and had tried to help her. That was comforting.
“And as for Imogene,” Virginia continued, “if she once dares to tease
you for trying not to be foolish any more,—if she dares,—well. I
shouldn’t want to say what might happen!”
The distant sound of a bell rang through the still air.
“Now, Vivian, there’s the lecture bell, and if we don’t go, somebody
will suspect. You’ll feel better inside, if you just make up your mind
that you’re not going to be silly any longer. I’m your true friend,
and so is Priscilla; and, if you’ll let us, we’ll try to help you
to—to find better soil for your roots, just the way we’re trying to
do.”
So the world looked a little brighter to Vivian as she left the hated
post-office and walked back toward St. Helen’s with her “true
friend’s” arm around her. Perhaps, after all, if she tried hard, she
might, some day, be a little different. As they turned into St.
Helen’s gateway, they met Dorothy and the Senior monitor, walking arm
in arm. Dorothy’s eyes were red from crying, and the face of the
Senior monitor was stern, though it grew kind again as she came up to
Vivian and Virginia.
“It’s going to be all right, Vivian,” she said, “and we’re every one
your friends. Don’t you feel bad any more.”
“And I’m going to begin all over again and be your friend, Vivian,”
said Dorothy, tears very near the surface again, “if you’ll forgive
me, and let me try. But if you won’t, I’ll never blame you, because
I’ve been so frightfully miserable to you!”
But Vivian, feeling undeservedly rich, put her arm close around
Dorothy, while Mary went to Virginia’s side, and the four of them
climbed the hill toward St. Helen’s together. There were yet fifteen
minutes before the lecture, and those fifteen minutes were spent, with
the addition of Priscilla, in Imogene Meredith’s room. The Senior
monitor spoke more plainly than they had ever heard her speak before
during that secret and never-to-be-forgotten session, and Imogene, for
at least once in her life, felt with the fabulous barnyard fowls in
the old tale, quite as though her “sky were falling.” A week later, to
the surprise of all St. Helen’s, except perhaps the faculty, Mrs.
Meredith arrived. She had decided to take Imogene to the mountains,
she said, for the remainder of the year. Her health seemed failing,
and she feared a nervous breakdown.
As for the chivalrous Leslie, the “Forget-me-not” knew him no more;
for on the very day after his sudden departure from the
trysting-place, when the girls went to Hillcrest to indulge in the
inevitable Saturday afternoon sundae, they were served by a
gray-haired stranger, who wore Leslie’s coat with ease, but who looked
unromantic in the extreme.