School was a much happier place after this. Mrs. Nipson never
alluded to the matter, but her manner altered. Katy felt that
she was no longer watched or distrusted, and her heart grew light.
In another week Miss Jane was so much better as to be hearing her
classes again. Illness had not changed her materially. It is only
in novels that rheumatic fever sweetens tempers, and makes disagreeable
people over into agreeable ones. Most of the girls disliked her as
much as ever. Her tongue was just as sharp, and her manner as grim.
But for Katy, from that time forward, there was a difference. Miss
Jane was not affectionate to her,--it was not in her nature to be
that,--but she was civil and considerate, and in a dry way, friendly,
and gradually Katy grew to have an odd sort of liking for her.
Do any of you know how incredibly long winter seems in climates where
for weeks together the thermometer stands at zero? There is something
hopeless in such cold. You think of summer as of a thing read about
somewhere in a book, but which has no actual existence. Winter seems
the only reality in the world.
Katy and Clover felt this hopelessness growing upon them as the days
went on, and the weather became more and more severe. Ten, twenty,
even thirty degrees below zero, was no unusual register for the
Hillsover thermometers. Such cold half frightened them, but nobody
else was frightened or surprised. It was dry, brilliant cold. The
December snows lay unmelted on the ground in March, and the paths
cut then were crisp and hard still, only the white walls on either
side had risen higher and higher, till only a moving line of hoods
and tippets was visible above them, when the school went out for its
daily walk. Morning after morning the girls woke to find thick
crusts of frost on their window-panes, and every drop of water in
the wash-bowl or pitcher turned to solid ice. Night after night,
Clover, who was a chilly little creature, lay shivering and unable
to sleep, notwithstanding the hot bricks at her feet, and the many
wraps which Katy piled upon her. To Katy herself the cold was more
bracing than depressing. There was something in her blood which
responded to the sharp tingle of frost, and she gained in strength
in a remarkable way during this winter. But the long storms told
upon her spirits. She pined for spring and home more than she liked
to tell, and felt the need of variety in their monotonous life, where
the creeping days appeared like weeks, and the weeks stretched
themselves out, and seemed as long as months do in other places.
The girls resorted to all sorts of devices to keep themselves alive
during this dreary season. They had little epidemics of occupation.
At one time it was "spattering," when all faces and fingers had a
tendency to smudges of India ink; and there was hardly a fine comb
or tooth-brush fit for use in the establishment. Then a rage for
tatting set in, followed by a fever of fancy-work, every one falling
in love with the same pattern at the same time, and copying and
recopying, till nobody could bear the sight of it. At one time Clover
counted eighteen girls all at work on the same bead and canvas pin-
cushion. Later there was a short period of _decalcomanie;_ and then
came the grand album craze, when thirty-three girls out of the thirty-
nine sent for blank books bound in red morocco, and began to collect
signatures and sentiments. Here, also, there was a tendency toward
repetition.
Sally Austin added to her autograph these lines of her own composition:--
When on this page your beauteous eyes you bend,
Let it remind you of your absent friend.
Sally J. Austin,
Galveston, Texas.
The girls found this sentiment charming, at least a dozen borrowed it,
and in half the albums in the school you might read,--
"When on this page your beauteous eyes," &c.
Esther Dearborn wrote in Clover's book: "The better part of Valor is
Discretion." Why she wrote it, nobody knew, or why it was more
applicable to Clover than to any one else; but the sentiment proved
popular, and was repeated over and over again, above various neatly
written signatures. There was a strife as to who should display the
largest collection. Some of the girls sent home for autographs of
distinguished persons, which they pasted in their books. Rose Red,
however, out-did them all.
"Did I ever show you mine?" she asked one day, when most of the girls
were together in the school-room.
"No, never!" cried a number of voices. "Have you got one? Oh, do let
us see it."
"Certainly, I'll get it right away, if you like," said Rose, obligingly.
She went to her room, and returned with a shabby old blank book in her
hand. Some of the girls looked disappointed.
"The cover of mine isn't very nice," explained Rose. "I'm going to
have it rebound one of these days. You see it's not a new album at
all, nor a school album; but it's very valuable to me." Here she
heaved a sentimental sigh. "All my friends have written in it,"
she said.
The girls were quite impressed by the manner in which Rose said this.
But, when they turned over the pages of the album, they were even more
impressed. Rose had evidently been on intimate terms with a circle of
most distinguished persons. Half the autographs in the book were from
gentlemen, and they were dated all over the world.
"Just listen to this!" cried Louisa, and she read,--
"Thou may'st forget me, but never, never shall I forget thee!"
Alphonso of Castile.
The Escurial, April 1st.
'Who's he?" asked a circle of awe-struck girls.
"Didn't you ever hear of him? Youngest brother of the King of Spain,"
replied Rose carelessly.
"Oh, my! and just hear this," exclaimed Annie Silsbie.
If you ever deign to cast a thought in my direction, Miss Rose,
remember me always as
Thy devoted servitor,
Potemkin Montmorency.
St. Petersburg, July 10th.
"And this," shrieked Alice White.
"They say love is a thorn, I say it is a dart,
And yet I cannot tear thee from my heart."
Antonio, Count of Vallambrosa.
"Do you really and truly know a Count?" asked Bella, backing away
from Rose with eyes as big as saucers.
"Know Antonio de Vallambrosa! I should think I did," replied Rose.
"Nobody in this country knows him so well, I fancy."
"And he wrote that for you?"
"How else could it get into my book, goosey?"
This was unanswerable; and Rose was installed from that time forward
in the minds of Bella and the rest as a heroine of the first water.
Katy, however, knew better; and the first time she caught Rose alone
she attacked her on the subject.
"Now, Rosy-Posy, confess. Who wrote all those absurd autographs in
your book?"
"Absurd autographs! What can you mean?"
"All those Counts and things. No, it's no use. You shan't wriggle
away till you tell me."
"Oh, Antonio and dear Potemkin, do you mean them?"
"Yes, of course I do."
"And you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"And will swear not to tell?"
"Yes."
"Well, then," bursting into a laugh, "I wrote every one of them myself."
"Did you really? When?"
"Day before yesterday. I thought Lilly needed taking down, she was
so set up with her autographs of Wendell Phillips and Mr. Seward, so
I just sat down and wrote a book full. It only took me half an hour.
I meant to write some more: in fact, I had one all ready,--
'I am dead, or pretty near:
David's done for me I fear'
Goliath of Gath.
but I was afraid even Bella wouldn't swallow that, so I tore out the
page. I'm sorry I did now, for I really think the geese would have
believed it. Written in his last moments, you know, to oblige an
ancestor of my own," added Rose, in a tone of explanation.
"You monkey!" cried Katy, highly diverted. But she kept Rose's
counsel, and I daresay some of the Hillsover girls believe in that
wonderful album to this day.
It was not long after that a sad piece of news came for Bella. Her
father was dead. Their home was in Iowa, too far to allow of her
returning for the funeral; so the poor little girl stayed at school,
to bear her trouble as best she might. Katy, who was always kind to
children, and had somewhat affected Bella from the first on account
of her resemblance to Elsie in height and figure, was especially
tender to her now, which Bella repaid with the gift of her whole
queer little heart. Her affectionate demonstrations were rather of
the monkey order, and not un frequently troublesome; but Katy was never
otherwise than patient and gentle with her, though Rose, and even
Clover, remonstrated on what they called this "singular intimacy."
"Poor little soul! It's so hard for her, and she's only eleven years
old," she told them.
"She has such a funny way of looking at you sometimes," said Rose, who
was very observant. "It is just the air of a squirrel who has hidden
a nut, and doesn't want you to find out where, and yet can hardly help
indicating it with his paw. She's got something on her mind, I'm sure."
"Half a dozen things, very likely," added Clover: "she's such a
mischief."
But none of them guessed what this "something" was.
Early in January Mrs. Nipson announced that in four weeks she proposed
to give a "Soiree," to which all young ladies whose records were
entirely free from marks during the intervening period would be
allowed to come. This announcement created great excitement, and
the school set itself to be good; but marks were easy to get, and
gradually one girl after another lost her chance, till by the
appointed day only a limited party descended to join the festivities,
and nearly half the school was left upstairs to sigh over past sins.
Katy and Rose were among the unlucky ones. Rose had incurred a mark
by writing a note in study-hour, and Katy by being five minutes late
to dinner. They consoled themselves by dressing Clover's hair, and
making her look as pretty as possible, and then stationed themselves
in the upper hall at the head of the stairs to watch her career, and
get as much fun out of the occasion as they could.
Pretty soon they saw Clover below on Professor Seccomb's arm. He was
a kingly, pleasant man, with a bald head, and it was a fashion among
the girls to admire him.
"Doesn't she look pretty?" said Rose. "Just notice Mrs. Searles, Katy.
She's grinning at Clover like the Cheshire cat. What a wonderful cap
that is of hers! She had it when Sylvia was here at school, eight
years ago."
"Hush! she'll hear you."
"No, she won't. There's Ellen beginning her piece. I know she's
frightened by the way she plays. Hark! how she hurries the time!"
"There, they are going to have refreshments, after all!" cried Esther
Dearborn, as trays of lemonade and cake-baskets appeared below on
their way to the parlor. "Isn't it a shame to have to stay up here?"
"Professor Seccomb! Professor!" called Rose, in a daring whisper.
"Take pity upon us. We are starving for a piece of cake."
The Professor gave a jump; then retreated, and looked upward. When
he saw the circle of hungry faces peering down, he doubled up with
laughter. "Wait a moment," he whispered back, and vanished into the
parlor. Pretty soon the girls saw him making his way through the
crowd with an immense slice of pound-cake in each hand.
"Here, Miss Rose," he said,--"catch it." But Rose ran half-way
downstairs, received the cake, dimpled her thanks, and retreated to
the darkness above, whence sounds proceeded which sent the amused
Professor into the parlor convulsed with suppressed laughter.
Pretty soon Clover stole up the back stairs to report.
"Are you having a nice time? Is the lemon-ade good? Who have you
been talking with?" inquired a chorus of voices.
"Pretty nice. Everybody is very old. I haven't been talking to
anybody in particular, and the lemonade is only cream-of-tartar water.
I guess it's jollier up here with you," replied Clover. "I must go
now: my turn to play comes next." Down she ran.
"Except for the glory of the thing, I think we're having more fun than
she," answered Rose.
Next week came St. Valentine's Day. Several of the girls received
valentines from home, and they wrote them to each other. Katy and
Clover both had one from Phil, exactly alike, with the same purple
bird in the middle of the page, and "I love you" printed underneath;
and they joined in fabricating a gorgeous one for Rose, which was
supposed to come from Potemkin de Montmorencey, the hero of the album.
But the most surprising valentine was received by Miss Jane. It
came with the others, while all the household were at dinner. The
girls saw her redden and look angry, but she put the letter in her
pocket, and said nothing.
In the afternoon, it came out through Bella that "Miss Jane's letter
was in poetry, and that she was just mad as fire about it." Just
before tea, Louisa came running down the Row, to No. 5, where Katy
was sitting with Rose.
"Girls, what do you think? That letter which Miss Jane got this
morning was a valentine, the most dreadful thing, but so funny!"
she stopped to laugh.
"How do you know?" cried the other two.
"Miss Marsh told Alice Gibbons. She's a sort of cousin, you know; and
Miss Marsh often tells her things. She says Miss Jane and Mrs. Nipson
are furious, and are determined to find out who sent it. It was from
Mr. Hardhack, Miss Jane's missionary,--or no, not from Mr. Hardhack,
but from a cannibal who had just eaten Mr. Hardhack up; and he sent
Miss Jane a lock of his hair, and the recipe the tribe cooked him by.
They found him 'very nice,' he said, and 'He turned out quite tender.'
That was one of the lines in the poem. Did you ever hear of any thing
like it? Who do you suppose could have sent it?"
"Who could it have been?" cried the others. Katy had one moment's
awful misgiving; but a glance at Rose's face, calm and innocent as a
baby's, reassured her. It was impossible that she could have done
this mischievous thing. Katy, you see, was not privy to that entry
in Rose's journal, "Pay Miss Jane off," nor aware that Rose had just
written underneath, "Did it. Feb. 14, 1869."
Nobody ever found out the author of this audacious valentine. Rose
kept her own counsel, and Miss Jane probably concluded that "the
better part of valor was discretion," for the threatened inquiries
were never made.
And now it lacked but six weeks to the end of the term. The girls
counted the days, and practised various devices to make them pass
more quickly. Esther Dearborn, who had a turn for arithmetic, set
herself to a careful calculation of how many hours, minutes, and
seconds must pass before the happy time should come. Annie Silsbie
strung forty-two tiny squares of card-board on a thread and each
night slipped one off and burned it up in the candle. Others made
diagrams of the time, with a division for each day, and every night
blotted one out with a sense of triumph. None of these devices made
the time hasten. It never moved more slowly than now, when life
seemed to consist of a universal waiting.
But though Katy's heart bounded at the thought of home till she could
hardly bear the gladness, she owned to Clover,--"Do you know, much as
I long to get away, I am half sorry to go! It is parting with something
which we shall never have any more. Home is lovely, and I would rather
be there than anywhere else; but, if you and I live to be a hundred,
we shall never be girls at boarding-school again."