DOROTHY IS APPROACHED
Dorothy rested with such thoroughness, that when the doctor came to see
her next day he told her with a laugh that she was a fraud so far as
being an invalid was concerned, and that she could go to work again as
soon as she liked.
Her head was fearfully sore, of course, and if she moved quickly she had
a queer, dizzy sensation, but otherwise she did not seem much the worse,
and she was back in her Form-room before the work of the morning had
ended.
Every one was very nice to her. There was almost an affectionate ring in
Rhoda’s tone when making inquiry as to how she felt, and Dorothy was a
little ashamed of her own private feeling against Rhoda. Then Daisy
Goatby giggled in a silly fashion, and Rhoda’s face turned purply-red
with anger.
Work went all the more easily because of the rest she had had, and
Dorothy thought the doctor must be something of a wizard to understand
so completely what was really best for her. There was more zest in doing
to-day, and the hours went so fast that evening came even more quickly
than usual.
Jessie Wayne’s foot was still bad, and she had not come up to the study.
The other girls had taken her books down to her, and she was given a
quiet corner in the prep room of the Lower Fifth; so the three girls
were alone upstairs.
Being alone, the chance to find out Dorothy’s position with regard to
Rhoda was much too good to be passed by, and sitting at ease in a low
chair by the gas fire, Hazel started on her task.
Dorothy listened in silence, and in very real dismay, while they told
her what Dora had overheard; but she sat quite still when they had done,
making no attempt at clearing the matter up.
“Why don’t you say something, Dorothy?” Hazel’s tone was a trifle sharp,
for there was an almost guilty look on Dorothy’s face, as if she were
the culprit, and not Rhoda at all.
“There is nothing I can say.” Dorothy wriggled uneasily in her chair,
and her hands moved her books in a restless fashion, for she wanted to
plunge into work and forget all about the disagreeable thing which
always lurked in her mind with regard to Rhoda.
“You do admit you know something which makes Rhoda afraid of you?”
persisted Hazel.
“Oh, she need not be afraid of me; I shall not do her any harm.” Dorothy
spoke hurriedly. She was afraid of being drawn into some admission which
might give away her knowledge of what Rhoda had done.
“I think you ought to tell, Dorothy,” Hazel said. “It is all very well
to keep silent because you don’t like to do Rhoda any harm; but when a
girl sets out to work such mischief as Rhoda tried to do yesterday, it
is quite time something is done to stop her.”
“You can’t call it real proof that Rhoda did give me that knock-out blow
yesterday,” said Dorothy slowly. “Or even supposing that she did, you
can’t be certain it was anything but an accident. When one is
excited—really wrought up, as we all were—there is not much accounting
for what happens.”
“Still, she might have owned up.” Hazel meant to have the last word on
the subject, and Dorothy made a wry face—then laughed in a rather
forced manner.
“It would not have been an easy thing to have owned up if it had been an
accident; while, if the blow had been meant to knock me over, it would
have been impossible to have explained it. In any case, she would think
that the least said the soonest mended.”
“What about her coaching Daisy and Joan, so that your Form position
should be lowered?” Hazel’s brows were drawn together in a heavy frown;
she left off lounging, and sat erect in her chair looking at Dorothy.
“Rather a brainy idea, don’t you think?” Dorothy seemed disposed to be
flippant, but she was nervous still, as was shown by her restless
opening and shutting of her books. “When I want to get you and Margaret
lowered in your Form position I will prod a couple of girls into working
really hard, and then we shall all three mount in triumph over your
diminished heads. Oh, it will be a great piece of strategy—only I don’t
quite see how I am going to get the time to do my work, and that of the
other girls too. That is the weak point in the affair, and will need
thinking out.”
“Look here, Dorothy, you are just playing with us, and it is a shocking
waste of time, because we have got our work to do before we go to bed.”
Margaret slid a friendly hand into Dorothy’s as she spoke. “Will you
tell us what you know about Rhoda? You see, she is a candidate for the
Mutton Bone; she is climbing high in the Form, and it is up to us to see
that the prize goes only to some one worthy of it.”
“It is because she is a candidate that my tongue should be tied,”
answered Dorothy. “When Rhoda asserted that there was nothing to prevent
her from being enrolled she took all the responsibility for herself into
her own hands, and so I have nothing to do with it.”
“You will keep silent, and let her win the Lamb Bursary?” cried Hazel in
a shocked tone.
“I won’t let her win the Lamb Bursary if I can help it. I jolly well
want to win it myself,” laughed Dorothy; and then she simply refused to
say any more, declaring that she must get on with her work.
There was silence in the study after that—a quiet so profound that some
one, coming and opening the door suddenly, fled away again with a little
cry of surprise at finding it lighted and occupied.
Dorothy turned as white as paper. She was thinking of the night when she
had been up there alone, and had been so scared at the opening of the
door.
“Now, who is playing pranks in such a silly fashion, I wonder?” said
Hazel crossly, and jumping up, she went into the passage to find out.
Dora Selwyn had two girls in with her; they declared that they had heard
nothing—but as they were all talking at once when Hazel went into the
room, this was not wonderful.
In the next study Rhoda Fleming was busily writing at the table, while
Daisy dozed in a chair on one side of the gas fire, and Joan appeared to
be fast asleep on the other side.
These also declared that they had heard nothing; and as the room of the
Upper Fifth was empty, and there was no one in the private room of the
mistresses, the affair was a bit of a mystery.
Hazel had sharp eyes; she had noticed that Rhoda’s hand was trembling,
and that her writing was not clear and decided. She had seen Daisy wink
at Joan, and she came to certain conclusions in her own mind—only, as
she had no proof, it seemed better to wait and say nothing. So she went
back to the study to tell Margaret and Dorothy that evidently some one
had come to play a silly prank on them, only had been scared to find
that they were all wide awake and at work.
Dorothy stayed awake a good long time that night, thinking matters over,
and trying to find out what was the wisest course to take. She was
disposed to go to Rhoda and tell her what she had heard, and to say that
there was no need for Rhoda to fear her, as there was no danger of her
speaking.
When morning came this did not look so easy, and yet it seemed the best
thing to do. The trouble was to get the chance of a few quiet words with
Rhoda, and the whole day passed without such a thing being possible.
It was two days later before her chance came. But when she tried to
start on something which would lead up to the thing she wanted to say,
Rhoda swung round with an impatient air, speaking sharply, “You and I do
not care so much for each other that we need to hang round in corners
gossiping.”
“There is something I wanted to say to you rather badly,” said Dorothy,
laying fast hold of her courage, and looking straight at the other.
Rhoda flinched. “Well, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it—so there
you are.” She yawned widely, then asked, with a sudden change of tone,
if Dorothy’s head was better, or if it was still sore.
“It is getting better, thank you.” Dorothy spoke cheerfully, and then
she burst out hurriedly, “I wanted to say to you that there is no need
for you to be afraid of me, or—or of what I may say.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Rhoda, with such offence in her tone that
Dorothy flushed and floundered hopelessly.
“I—I mean just what I say—merely that, and nothing more.” Dorothy
looked straight at Rhoda, who flushed, while a look of fear came into
her eyes, and she turned away without another word.
After that, things were more strained than before. There was a thinly
veiled insolence in Rhoda’s way of treating Dorothy which was fearfully
trying to bear. But if they had to come in contact with each other when
people were present, then there was a kind of gentle pity in Rhoda’s way
of behaving which was more exasperating still.
Dorothy carried her head very high, and she kept her face serene and
smiling, but sometimes the strain of it all was about as much as she
could stand up under.
One thing helped her to be patient under it all. Her Form position was
mounting again. Daisy Goatby and Joan Fletcher had dropped below her,
and by the last week of term she had risen above Rhoda again. Great was
the jubilation in the No. 1 study on the night when this was discovered.
Hazel and Margaret made a ridiculous paper cap, with which they adorned
Dorothy, and Jessie Wayne presented her with a huge paper rosette in
honour of the event.
“I foresee that you will have us down next term, Dorothy, and then,
instead of celebrating, we shall sit in sackcloth and ashes, grousing
over our hard lot in being beaten,” laughed Hazel, as she settled the
paper hat rakishly askew on Dorothy’s head, and fell back a step to
admire the effect.
“There won’t be much danger of that unless we get to work,” answered
Dorothy, and then they settled down to steady grind, which lasted until
bedtime.
Next morning there was a letter from Tom for Dorothy, which bothered her
not a little.
Twice already that term Tom had come to her for money. They each had the
same amount of pocket-money, but he did not seem able to make his last.
He was always in a state of destitution; he was very often in debt.
The letter this morning stated that if she could not let him have five
shillings that day he would be disgraced, the family would be disgraced,
and the doors of a prison might yawn to let him in.
That was silly, of course, and she frowned at his indulging in nonsense
at such a time. She had the five shillings, and she could let him have
it; but it seemed to her grossly unfair that he should spend his own
money and hers too.
The boys were coming over that evening, and Tom asked that he might have
the money then. Dorothy decided that the time had come for her to put
her foot down firmly on this question of always standing prepared to
help him out when he was stoney.
That afternoon they were busy in the gym practising a new set of
exercises, and Dorothy was endeavouring to hang by one hand from the
cross-bar, while she swung gently to and fro with her right foot held in
her left hand—she was succeeding quite well too, and was feeling rather
proud of herself—when a chance remark from Blanche Felmore caught her
ear.
“The boys are having a fine run of luck this term,” said Blanche, as she
poised lightly on the top of the bar to which Dorothy was clinging. “Bob
sent me ten shillings yesterday as a present; he says he has won a pot
of money this week.”
“How did he do it?” asked a girl standing near.
“They get up sweepstakes among themselves, and they get a lot of fun out
of it too,” said Blanche. “Bob told me that half of the boys are nearly
cleaned out this week, and——”
Just then Dorothy’s hold gave way, and she fell in a heap, hearing no
more, as Blanche fell too.