DOROTHY TO THE RESCUE
The cloud that had so persistently floated over the head of Miette
since the girls of Nita’s clique showed their disapproval of the new
pupil, now seemed to have settled down upon her with a strange, sullen
gloom.
She attended her classes, recited her lessons, but beyond the mere
mechanical duties of school life she took no part in the world of girls
about her. Even Dorothy did not feel welcome in Miette’s room. The
little French girl wanted to be alone, that was painfully evident.
Neither had she received any letters. This fact struck Mrs. Pangborn
as strange, as usually the first week of the new term is marked by an
abundance of mail, concerning things forgotten, things too late to go
in with the packing, things that thoughtful mothers wished to remind
their daughters of lest some important health rule should be laid aside
in the school and so on; but to Miette no such message came. The
girl had come to Glenwood under rather strange arrangements, as only
an aunt who brought with her a line of introduction from a business
acquaintance of Mrs. Pangborn came with the new pupil.
But the girl was so eager to enter the school, and appeared so gentle
and refined that Mrs. Pangborn accepted the pupil upon the word of this
business friend in whom, however, she had unquestionable confidence.
So it happened that the president of Glenwood knew practically nothing
of Miette’s home life. This aunt, a Mrs. Huber, had told Mrs. Pangborn
of the recent death of Miette’s mother, and also that she had charge of
the girl and she wished her to try one term at Glenwood. Her tuition
was paid in advance, and so Miette stayed. But Mrs. Pangborn could
not help observing that no show of affection passed between the niece
and aunt at parting, but this she attributed to a possible foreign
conservatism or even to personal peculiarities.
But now Mrs. Pangborn began to wonder--wonder why the child should
make such a fuss over dropping a note in the class room. Wonder why
no letter came; wonder why Miette refused her confidence, and wonder
still why some of the girls had taken an unmistakable dislike to the
French girl.
Slow to act, but keen in her system of managing girls, Mrs. Pangborn
decided to wait,--at least for a few days longer.
In the meantime school work and school play continued. The tennis court
at Glenwood was one of the proud possessions of that institution, and
barely had the pupils of the fashionable boarding school assembled each
term, before a game would be arranged to test the effect of the very
latest possible advantages, in the way of fresh markings, and expert
rolling, as the proprietress of the Glenwood School believed in the
right sort of outdoor athletics for her pupils, and was always eager to
make such exercise as enjoyable as possible.
Tennis in early fall is surely delightful sport, and when Dorothy,
Rose-Mary, Edna and Tavia claimed the privilege of the first game the
event took on the importance usually characteristic of an “initial
performance.”
It was a perfect afternoon and “every seat was taken” which meant, of
course, that the rustic benches about the court were fully occupied by
the Glenwood girls, and the prospect of an interesting game had keyed
every young lady up to the very height of enthusiasm.
Rose-Mary was chosen server, and as she stood with her racket gripped
firmly ready to serve the ball, and incidentally put it out of the
reach of Tavia, who was her opponent, Dorothy and Rose-Mary being
partners and Tavia playing with Edna, she looked every inch an athlete.
To begin well was ever interpreted to mean “good luck” with the
Glenwoods, and when Rose-Mary delivered the ball and Tavia in her
anxiety to make a good return, vollied it back a shout for Rose-Mary’s
side went up from the lookers-on. But Edna was not to be disheartened.
In fact she was “in fine form,” according to popular opinion, and it
kept Dorothy and Rose-Mary “sprinting” about to keep up with her “hits.”
This determination and good playing on the part of Edna scored for her
side the first two points, but when Dorothy and Rose-Mary realized that
it was Edna’s skill and not the strong arm of Tavia they would have to
play against, the game immediately became so exciting that all four
girls went at it like experts. Dorothy had something of a reputation as
a “jumper,” and could “smash” a ball, just when the “smash” would be
needed to save the opponent victory.
Tavia’s pride was in her underhand stroke and with this ability she
would drive back the balls hard and fast when ever she got the chance.
The game had reached the most exciting point--tied at 40 (deuce) when
Dorothy jumped to make her famous “smash” and although she hit the ball
in the air she came down on a turned ankle--and dropped in a heap as if
her foot were either badly sprained or actually broken.
The play stopped immediately, and Dorothy was carried to a bench.
“Is it sprained, do you think?” inquired Tavia anxiously.
“Oh, I think--it’s broken,” replied the suffering girl, whose face
showed the agony she was enduring.
“We must carry her in,” cried Rose-Mary, and then as many girls as
could join hands in emergency cot fashion, supported Dorothy in a
practical first-aid-to-the-injured demonstration even carrying her
up the broad stone steps of the school building without allowing the
slightest jar to affect the painful ankle.
But the ankle was not sprained, neither was it broken, but a very
severe strain kept Dorothy off her feet for several days. She could
not even go to class, but had a visiting “tutor” in the person of Miss
Bylow, who came every morning and afternoon to hear Dorothy’s work, so
that Tavia declared when she would meet with an accident it would not
be of that nature--“no fun in being laid up with a sore ankle and hard
work complications,” was that girl’s verdict.
But the week wore by finally, and the ankle mended, so that only some
very sudden or severe test of the muscle brought back pain.
Miette’s troubles assumed a more serious aspect in Dorothy’s opinion,
as during the week when she was unable to be about among the girls,
hints had reached her of trifling but at the same annoying occurrences
to which the little French girl had been subjected.
So the very first day that Dorothy could leave her room, and attend
class, she determined to go straight to Miette, and use all her
persuasive powers to make the girl understand how much better it might
be for her to have a real confidant at Glenwood.
The day’s lessons were over, and the time was free for recreation.
Dorothy went at once to Miette’s room. She found the girl dark-browed
and almost forbidding, her foreign nature showing its power to
control, but not to hide, worry.
Miette was mending a dress but dropped her work as Dorothy entered.
“I came to take you for a walk,” began Dorothy pleasantly. “This is too
lovely an afternoon to remain in doors.”
“You are very kind,” answered Miette with unmistakable gratitude in her
voice, “but I am afraid I cannot go out. I must do my mending.”
“But it will likely rain to-morrow, and then you will be glad to have
mending to do. Besides, we have a little club we call the Wag-Tale
Club, and we meet once a month. When we do meet we all bring our
mending and allow our tongues to ‘wag,’ to our hearts’ content. It’s
quite jolly, and we often have races in mending articles when some one
else can match the holes. I would advise you to save up your mending
and come in with the Wags,” ventured Dorothy.
“I am afraid of clubs,” said Miette with a faint smile, “and besides, I
am sure my clothes are different now. I had pretty things when--mother
was--with me.”
“But now do come for a walk,” insisted Dorothy, anxious to change the
train of Miette’s thoughts. “We will go all alone, and the woods are
perfectly delightful in autumn. I can show you something you never see
in France, for I believe, the European countries have no such brilliant
autumn as we have here in America.”
“No, that is true,” assented Miette. “I have already noticed how
beautiful it is. Our leaves just seem to get tired and drop down
helpless and discouraged, but yours--yours put all their glory in their
last days, like some of our wonderful kings and queens of history.”
“Then do let me show you how wonderful the woods are just now,” pleaded
Dorothy, “for the next rain will bring down showers of our most
brilliant colors.”
The temptation was strong--Miette wanted to go out, she needed the
fresh fall air, and she needed Dorothy’s companionship. Why should she
not go? Surely she could trust Dorothy?
For a moment she hesitated, then rose from the low sewing chair.
“I believe I must go,” she said with a smile. “You tempt me so, and it
is so lovely outside. I will leave my work and be--lazy.”
“I knew you would come,” responded Dorothy with evident delight. “Just
slip on your sweater, and your Tam O’Shanter, for we won’t come back
until it is actually tea time.”
Passing through the corridor they encountered Edna and Tavia. Both
begged to be taken along, but Dorothy stoutly refused, and she carried
Miette off bodily, hiding behind trees along the forks in the path to
deceive the girls as to the route she was taking. Once outside of the
gates Dorothy and Miette were safe, the girls would not follow them now
although Edna and Tavia had threatened to do so--in fun of course.
Dorothy wanted to begin at once with her dreaded task--that of
unravelling the mystery. Miette was continually exclaiming over new
found wood beauties, and was perfectly delighted with the antics of
the red and gray squirrels. The pleasures had certainly restored her
long-lost good humor.
“And you never have any such beauties in France?” began Dorothy,
lightly.
“Nothing like this,” answered Miette, seizing a huge bunch of sumac
berries.
“And would you like to go back?” asked Dorothy.
“It is very nice here,” replied her companion, “but I do not at all
like New York.”
“Then you are not homesick at Glenwood?”
“Homesick?” she repeated in a shocked voice. “How could I be?”
“But you are unhappy--the girls have been so mean.”
“Because I was foolish--I should have been more careful.”
“About the note you mean?”
“Yes,” replied Miette.
“You won’t mind if I ask you something,” said Dorothy bravely, “because
you know I only do so to help you. I am continually having to do things
that may be misunderstood--but I hope you understand me.”
“Your motive is too plainly kind,” replied Miette, “I could not
possibly misunderstand a girl like you.”
“I am so glad you feel that way,” followed Dorothy. “I really felt
queer about speaking to you of the affair. But you see I have been at
Glenwood School several terms and I know most of the girls and have
some influence with them. If you could only tell me about it--I mean
the note--”
“Have you not heard? Did not that girl tell every one?” asked Miette,
in a scornful voice.
“Why no, of course not. Our girls are not babies,” replied Dorothy with
some feeling.
“I supposed it was all over the school--”
“I am positive that no one, not even Mrs. Pangborn to whom the note
was turned over--even she would not think of reading it.”
Miette gazed at Dorothy in utter astonishment. She seemed pleased as
well as bewildered.
“Then it is not so bad,” she faltered, “and perhaps I could get it
back?”
“You might, certainly,” responded Dorothy, “if you went directly to
Mrs. Pangborn and explained it all.”
“Oh, but I cannot explain it all,” demurred Miette. “That is just what
annoys me.”
Dorothy was disappointed but not discouraged. She determined to urge
the French girl further.
“Now, Miette,” she said in gentle but decided tones, “we will just
suppose this was my affair and not yours. I will place myself in your
place, and perhaps we may find some plan to overcome the difficulty in
that way. They do it in lawsuits, I believe,” she parenthesized, “and I
just love to try law tactics.”
The idea seemed to amuse Miette, and both girls soon found a
comfortable spot under a big chestnut tree, where Dorothy promptly
undertook to propound the “hypothetical question.”
“You see,” she began, “I wrote a note to a girl friend during class,
and after Miss Bylow had forbidden us to write notes in class--”
“But I did not do that!” interrupted Miette. “I wrote my note long
before study hour!”
“Did you really?” asked Dorothy in surprise. “Why then what have you
done wrong at all? It was only of writing during class time that you
have been accused.”
“Who has accused me of that?” demanded Miette, indignantly.
“Why,” stammered Dorothy. “I thought you knew--that is, I thought you
understood that Nita brought the note to--”
“I understood it not at all,” declared the French girl, much excited.
“Nobody told me and I cannot guess what such girls do.”
She had risen from her seat beside Dorothy, and stood before her now,
her cheeks aflame and her eyes sparkling. Dorothy thought she looked
wonderfully pretty, but she did not like her excited manner--the girl
seemed ready to go into hysterics.
She rubbed her hands together and shrugged her shoulders, just as she
did the night of the “crash” during the initiation.
“Now you must be calm,” suggested Dorothy. “You know we can never do
anything important when we are excited. Just sit down again and we will
talk it all over quietly.”
“There is not much to talk over,” declared Miette, dropping down beside
Dorothy. “I simply wrote a note to Marie--she worked in the store--”
She stopped as if she had bitten her tongue! Her cheeks burned more
scarlet than before. She glared at Dorothy as if the latter had
actually stolen her secret.
“There!” she exclaimed finally. “Now I have told it--now you know--”
“What harm can there be in my knowing that you wrote a note to a
girl who worked in a store?” asked Dorothy, whose turn it was to be
surprised. “Surely you are not too proud to have friends who work for a
living?”
“And would you not be?” replied Miette, a strange confidence stealing
into her manner.
“Indeed I would not!” declared Dorothy, in unmistakable tones. “Some of
my very best friends work.”
“And would you--like--me just as well if--I worked?”
“Why, certainly I should. It takes a clever girl to earn money.”
“Then--perhaps--I should tell you. But you see I have been forbidden--”
“You must not tell me anything now, Miette, that you might regret
after. I only want to help you, not to bring you into more trouble.”
“But if you knew it you could help me,” she said with sudden
determination. “You see in France if a girl works she is--_bourgeois_.”
“We have no such distinction of classes here,” replied Dorothy proudly.
“Of course, there are always rich and poor, proud and humble, but among
the cultured classes there is absolute respect for honest labor.”
“That sounds like a meeting,” remarked Miette with a smile. “I went to
a meeting with mother once, and a lady talked exactly like that.”
“Was she an American?” asked Dorothy, good humoredly.
“Yes. She belonged to a Woman’s Rights League.”
“I have read of them,” Dorothy said simply. “But we are drifting
from our subject, which is also the way they talk at meetings,” she
added with a smile. “You were saying I could help you if I knew all
the circumstances. And you have told me you did not write the note
during class. I am so glad to know that at least, for I can tell Mrs.
Pangborn--”
“If you think I should not go directly to her myself?”
“I do think that would be very much better,” quickly answered Dorothy.
“I am positive if you trust her you will never be sorry--but who is
that hiding over there? See! Behind the oak! We had better get to the
road, there might be tramps about.”
At this Miette and Dorothy hurried toward the road, but just as they
were about to reach the open path a boy deliberately jumped out from
the bushes, and stretched out his arms to bar their way!