IN DISGRACE
It was ridiculous for Olive to have been so frightened with so slight
cause, yet the thought that some one might be in pursuit of her filled
her with a nervous terror. To the people not afflicted with timidity,
most fears are ridiculous, and yet no single weakness is harder to
overcome. Of the four ranch girls, Olive was the only timid one, but
before one criticizes her, remember her childhood. Now with her heart
pounding and her breath coming in short gasps, she quickened her pace
into a run, recalling at the same time their chaperon’s forgotten
instruction that she must no longer expect the happy freedom of their
western lands. But the faster the frightened girl ran the faster the
traveler back of her appeared to be following. And now Olive dared not
hide deeper in the woods, knowing that the hour was growing late and
that any added delay would make her late for breakfast.
Many times in her life would her Indian knowledge of the woods save her
in emergencies of this sort, so in another moment she remembered that an
Indian never runs away from his pursuer, but hides until his enemy has
passed. Behind a low clump of laurel bushes the girl hid herself,
crouching low and expecting each instant to see a tramp or an armed
gamekeeper, whose business it was to keep intruders out of private
property, savagely on the lookout for her.
Her pursuer did come on without hesitation and finally arrived just
opposite Olive’s hiding place, but then it was the girl in hiding who
suddenly sprang to her feet, startling the newcomer. For the enemy she
had so dreaded was only another girl like herself with a smile on her
face and a bundle of books under her arm. She was ten years older
perhaps, yet she looked not unlike Jacqueline Ralston before her
illness; her eyes were blue instead of gray, but she had the same bright
bronze hair and firm line to her chin and the same proud way of holding
up her head.
“Who or what are you?” she asked Olive, “a wood nymph living in this
underbrush, for your clothes are of so nearly the same color that I did
not see you at first.”
Olive, who was wearing a dark olive-green coat suit and a tam-o’-shanter
of velvet of the same shade, shook her head. “I am one of the new girls
from Primrose Hall and I have been out for a walk, but as I am not very
familiar with these woods, I am not just sure where I am. Would you
mind—” Her request came to an abrupt end because of the expression of
surprise and disapproval on the older girl’s face.
“A student from Primrose Hall and outdoors alone at this hour of the
morning! How on earth did Miss Winthrop happen to give you permission?”
she asked in the positive fashion that Olive was to learn to know so
well later on.
The first consciousness of possible wrong-doing now swept over the
truant. Could it be that in taking a walk without asking permission she
had broken a rule of her new school? The idea seemed ridiculous to
Olive, and yet—were not all things different than in the old days? “I am
so sorry, but no one gave me permission to take a walk. Was it necessary
to ask?” she inquired. “You see, we only arrived at Primrose Hall
yesterday and we—I—why, we often stay out hours before breakfast at
home, riding over the plains!”
Olive’s innocence of offense and her distress were so plain to the older
girl that straightway she slipped her arm through hers and without delay
hurried her along toward school, talking as she went.
“I am Jessica Hunt, the teacher of English and elocution at Primrose
Hall, and I have been spending the night with some friends.” Jessica
gave a reassuring pressure to the hand in hers. “You must not be
frightened, child, if Miss Winthrop seems rather terrifying on your
return. I used to be a pupil at Primrose Hall before I started in with
the teaching and I’m really very fond of her. Miss Winthrop isn’t so
severe as she looks, but I expect I had better tell you that it is after
breakfast time now and, as the school girls are never allowed to go out
alone and never without permission, why she may scold you a bit.”
If only she might at this moment have dropped down in the path to weep
like a naughty child about to be punished for a fault, Olive would have
felt it a great relief, and only the thought of her age prevented her
doing this. Could she ever live through the embarrassment of facing
fifty strange girls, more than half a dozen teachers and Miss Winthrop
while she was being reprimanded. Why, yesterday just on being introduced
to Miss Winthrop, with Ruth and Jean and Frieda with her for protection,
had she not felt as tongue-tied and frightened as a silly baby? And now
must she face this stern woman alone and under the shadow of her
displeasure?
Never as long as she lived (and the circumstances of Olive Ralston’s
life were always unusual and romantic) would she ever forget the next
half hour’s experience at Primrose Hall, nor the appearance of the great
hall as she entered it, with girls and teachers grouped about, and
towering above everything and everybody, the tall, commanding presence
of its principal, Miss Katherine Winthrop.
Almost without her own volition Olive found herself standing in front of
Miss Winthrop, Jessica’s arm still through hers, heard the teacher of
mathematics say, “Here is your new runaway pupil with Miss Hunt,” and
realized that this teacher, whom she had disliked yesterday because she
wore round spectacles and dressed like a man, wished not so much to get
her into trouble as to involve Jessica in her disgrace.
But Jessica was not in the least disturbed, being the only teacher at
Primrose Hall not afraid of its owner. “Miss Winthrop,” she now began
coaxingly, “I have brought our new girl home. She was only taking a walk
in the woods near by, but I am sure she would rather explain to you
herself that in going out without permission she did not know she was
breaking a school rule. You see, she has lived always in the West and
been accustomed to such perfect freedom—” Jessica was continuing her
case for the defendant, realizing that Olive was still too frightened to
speak for herself. But suddenly Miss Hunt was thrust aside by a small,
plump person, with the longest yellow braids and the biggest blue eyes
in the school, and without the least regard for either teachers or
principal, Frieda Ralston now flung her arms about Olive.
“For goodness sake, why didn’t you tell Jean and me where you were
going?” she demanded. “We have been so frightened about you.”
And then before Olive could reply, another girl stood at her other side,
a girl with dark brown hair, a pale skin and demure brown eyes, whose
nose had the faintest, most delicious tilt at the end of it. Jean Bruce
said nothing, but she looked ready and anxious to defend her friend
against all the world.
Surrounding the little group of ranch girls and the three teachers were
numbers of other students, most of whom were casting glances of sympathy
at the new pupil who had so soon fallen into disgrace. Breakfast just
over, they were supposedly on their way upstairs to their own rooms, but
Olive’s entrance with Jessica had interrupted them and until Miss
Winthrop spoke no one had stirred.
“You may go to your own apartments now, girls,” she said quietly. “Miss
Ralston will explain her absence to me in my private study.” As her
words and look included Jean and Frieda, they also were compelled to
follow the other students up the broad mahogany stairs, leaving Olive to
face her fate alone. Only one girl with short curly hair and a freckled
nose actually had the courage to stop in passing and whisper to the
offender:
“Fare thee well, light of my life, farewell. For crimes unknown you go
to a dungeon cell,” she chanted. Then while Olive was trying to summon a
smile in return, a beautiful girl with pale blonde hair joined both of
them, and drawing the other girl away, said loud enough for a dozen
persons near by to overhear: “Oh, do come on upstairs, Gerry. When will
you learn not to be friendly to objectionable persons whom no one knows
anything about?” And so cool and indifferent did her expression appear
as she made her unkind speech that it was hard to believe she understood
that her words could be overheard. But Olive Ralston heard them and in
spite of her gentleness never in after years forgot or forgave them.
A minute or so later, when everybody else had disappeared, Olive found
herself alone in Miss Winthrop’s study, seated in a comfortable leather
chair facing a desk at which Miss Winthrop was writing.
“I will talk to you in a few minutes,” she had said as they entered the
room, and at first the prisoner had felt that waiting to hear her
sentence would be unendurable. Of course she would be expelled from
Primrose Hall; Olive had no other idea. And of course Ruth and Jack
would understand and forgive her, but there would be no going back on
her part to be a burden and disgrace to them. Somehow she must find work
to support herself in the future!
But as time passed on and Miss Winthrop continued with her writing, by
and by Olive’s attention wandered from her own sorrows and she busied
herself in studying her judge’s face. Miss Winthrop’s expression was not
so stern in repose, for though the lines about her mouth were severe and
her nose aquiline, her forehead was high and broad and her dark eyes
full of dignity and purpose. And then her figure. Olive felt obliged to
admit that though she was taller and larger than almost any woman she
had known, her grace and dignity were most unusual and the severity of
her simple black silk gown showed her to great advantage.
Weary of scrutinizing the older woman, Olive’s eyes next traveled idly
to the top of Miss Winthrop’s desk, resting there for an eager moment,
while in her interest she forgot everything else. For the first time in
her life this young girl, who had seen nothing of the World of art, had
her attention arrested by one of the world’s great masterpieces.
On Miss Winthrop’s desk there stood a cast of an heroic figure of a
woman with broad, beautiful shoulders and wonderful flowing draperies.
The figure was without head or arms and yet was so inspiring that,
without realizing it, Olive gave a sigh of delight.
Straightway Miss Winthrop glanced up. “You like my cast?” she asked
quickly. “Do you know that it is a copy of the statue of ‘The Winged
Victory,’ ‘The Nike’? The real statue now stands at the top of the
stairs in the Louvre in Paris and there you will probably see it some
day. But I like to keep the figure here as a kind of inspiration to me
and to my girls. For to me ‘The Victory’ means so much more than the
statue of a woman. It stands, I think, as the emblem of the superwoman,
what all we women must hope to be some day. See the beauty and dignity
of her, as though she had turned her back on all sin and injustice and
was moving forward into a new world of light. I like to believe that the
splendid lost arms of the Nike carried the world’s children in them.”
Of course Miss Winthrop realized that she was talking above the head of
her new pupil, but she wished an opportunity to study the girl’s face.
Now she saw by its sudden glow and softening that she had caught at
least a measure of her meaning.
“Girls, girls, girls.” Sometimes Miss Winthrop felt that the world held
nothing else and that she knew all the varieties, and yet one could
never be too sure, for here before her was a new type unlike all the
others and for some reason at this moment she attracted her strongly.
To Miss Winthrop alone at Primrose Hall Ruth Drew had thought it wise to
confide as much as they knew of Olive’s extraordinary history, pledging
her to secrecy. Now to herself Miss Winthrop said: “It is utterly
ridiculous to believe this child has Indian blood, for there is
absolutely nothing in her appearance to indicate it. I believe that her
history is far more curious than her friends suppose.”
But to Olive, of course, she said nothing of this, for after her first
speech her manner appeared to change entirely. Sitting very erect in her
chair, she turned upon her pupil “You may go,” she said coldly, “for I
understand that by your action this morning you did not deliberately
intend to break one of my rules. But kindly be more careful in the
future, for I am not accustomed to overlooking disobedience, whatever
its cause.”
With a sigh of relief Olive straightway fled into the hall, wondering if
she could ever like this Miss Winthrop, who could be so stern one moment
and so interesting the next. For her own part Olive felt that she much
preferred their former chaperon, Ruth Drew, for if Ruth were less
handsome and perhaps not so cultivated, she was at least more human. If
only they were all back at the Rainbow Ranch with Ruth to scold and pet
them for their misdoings all in the same breath.