TOP OF THE SCHOOL
The Christmas vacation went past in a whirl of merry-making. It was
delightful to be at home again, and to do all the accustomed things.
Dorothy hugged her happiness, and told herself she was just the most
fortunate girl in the world.
Tom at home was a very different person from Tom at school, swanking
round with Rhoda Fleming. Dorothy felt she had her chum back for the
time, and she made the most of it. Her common sense told her that when
they were back at school once more he might easily prove as
disappointing as he had done in the past, so it was up to her to make
the most of him now that he was so satisfactory.
One bit of news he told her three days after they got home which
interested her immensely. She was sitting by the dining-room fire in the
twilight making toast for her father’s tea, because he was out on a
long, cold round in the country.
Tom was lolling in a big chair on the other side of the fire, when
suddenly he shoved his hands deeper in his pocket, and pulling out two
half-crowns, tossed them into her lap, saying with a chuckle, “There is
your last loan returned with many thanks. I did not have to pay up after
all.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, as she picked up the money and looked at
it.
Tom laughed again. “Some sort of a microbe bit Bobby Felmore, and bit
him uncommon sharp, too. He suddenly turned good, and paid back all the
money he had won from the sweepstake, treated us to a full-blown lecture
on the immorality of gambling, and announced that in the future he stood
for law and order, and all the rest of that sort of piffle. Of course we
cheered him to the echo, for we had got our money back, but we reckoned
him a mug for not having the sense to keep it when he had got it.”
Dorothy felt the colour surge right up to the roots of her hair; she was
very thankful it was too dark for Tom to see how red her face was. Then,
because she had to say something, she asked, “What made him do that?”
“He had got a bee in his bonnet, I should say,” answered Tom with an
amused laugh. “It was great to hear old Bobby lecturing us on what sort
of citizens we have got to be, and rot of that sort. Of course we took
it meekly enough—why not? We had got our money back, and could do a
flutter in some other direction if we wished. Oh, he is a mug, is Bobby.
He doesn’t think small beer of himself either. They are county people,
the Felmores. In fact, I rather wonder that they come to the Compton
Schools. But they say that old Felmore has great faith in boys and girls
being educated side by side, as it were, and allowed to mix and mingle
in recreation time. There would be more sense, to my way of thinking, if
the mixing and the mingling were not so messed up and harassed by silly
little rules.”
“I think it is awfully decent of Bobby to give the money back,” said
Dorothy, and then she had to turn her attention to the toast, which was
getting black.
“So do I, since I am able to pay you back, and get free of that stupid
promise you insisted on,” answered Tom, lazily stretching himself in the
deep chair.
Dorothy picked up the two half-crowns and held them out to him. “You can
have the money, and I will hold your promise still. Oh, it will be cheap
at five shillings. Take it, Tommy lad, and go a bust with it; but I have
your promise that you will not gamble, and I am going to keep you up to
it.”
“Not this time you are not,” he said, and there was a surly note in his
voice. “You worried the promise out of me when I was fair desperate.
Now, I have paid the money back, and I will not be bound.”
Dorothy realized the uselessness of urging the point, and pocketed the
money. She tried to comfort herself that she would exact the same
promise if Tom appealed to her for help again, yet could not help a
feeling of disquiet because of the tone he had taken.
It was wild weather when they went back to the Compton Schools. There
was deep snow on the ground that was fast being turned into deep slush,
and a fierce gale was hurtling through the naked woods.
Dorothy went to work with a will. Indeed, she had contrived to do quite
a lot of work during the vacation, and it told immediately on her Form
position. Week by week she rose, and when the marks were put on the
board at the end of the third week of the term she was at the top of the
school.
The girls gave her a great ovation that night; the row they made was
fairly stupendous. She was carried in a chair round and round the
lecture hall, until the chair, a shaky one, collapsed and let her down
on to the enthusiasts who were celebrating her victory, and they all
tumbled in a heap together.
The next week she was top again; but now it was Rhoda Fleming who was
next below her, and Rhoda was putting her whole strength into the task
of beating Dorothy.
The next week was a really fearful struggle. Dorothy worked with might
and main; but all along she had the feeling that she was going to be
beaten. And beaten she was, for when the marks were put up on the board
it was found that Rhoda was top.
There was another ovation this week, but it lacked the whole-hearted
fervour of the one given to Dorothy.
Rhoda Fleming was not very popular. Her tendency to swank made the girls
dislike her, and her fondness for snubbing girls whom she considered her
social inferiors was also against her. Still, there can mostly be found
some who will shout for a victor, and so she had her moment of triumph,
which she proceeded to round off in a manner that pleased herself.
Meeting Dorothy at the turn of the stairs a little later in the evening,
she said, with a low laugh that had a ring of malice in it, “I have
scored, you see, Miss Prig, in spite of all your clever scheming, and I
shall score all along. I have twice your power, if only I choose to put
it out; and I am going to win the Lamb Bursary somehow, so don’t you
forget it.”
Dorothy laughed—Rhoda’s tendency to brag always did amuse her. Then she
answered in a merry tone, “If the Mutton Bone depended on the striving
of this week, and next, and even the week after, I admit that there
would not seem much hope for the rest of us; but our chance lies in the
months of steady work that we have to face.”
Rhoda tossed her head with an air of conscious power, and came a step
nearer; she even gripped Dorothy by the arm, and giving it a little
shake, said in a low tone, “I suppose you are telling yourself that I am
not fit to have the Mutton Bone; but you would have to prove everything
you might say against me, you know.”
Dorothy blanched. She felt as if her trembling limbs would not support
her. But she rallied her courage, and looking Rhoda straight in the
face, she said calmly, “What makes you suggest that I have anything to
bring against you? Of your own choice you enrolled for the Bursary. You
declared in public that there was no reason why you should not enrol; so
the responsibility lies with you, and not with me.”
It was Rhoda’s turn to pale now, and she went white to her very lips.
“What do you mean by that?” she gasped, and she shook Dorothy’s arm in a
sudden rage.
“What are you two doing here?” inquired a Form-mistress, coming suddenly
upon them round the bend of the stairs.
“We were just talking, Miss Ball,” replied Rhoda, with such thinly
veiled insolence that the Fourth Form mistress flushed with anger, and
spoke very sharply indeed.
“Then you will at once leave off ‘just talking,’ as you call it, and get
to work. No wonder the younger girls are given to slackness when you of
the Sixth set them such an example of laziness. I am very much inclined
to report you both to your Form-mistress.” Miss Ball spoke with
heat—the insult of Rhoda’s manner rankled, and she was not disposed to
pass it by.
“Pray report us if you wish, and then Miss Groome can do as she pleases
about giving us detention school; it would really be rather a lark.”
Rhoda laughed scornfully. “I am top of the whole school this week,
Dorothy was top last week and the week before; so you can see how
necessary it is for us to be reported for slackness.”
“You are very rude.” Miss Ball was nearly spluttering with anger, but
Rhoda grew suddenly calm, and she bowed in a frigid fashion.
“We thank you for your good opinion; pray report us if you see fit,” she
drawled, then went her way, leaving Dorothy to bear alone the full force
of the storm which she herself had raised.
It was some tempest, too. Miss Ball was a very fiery little piece, and
she had often had to smart under the lash of Rhoda’s sarcasm. She was so
angry that she completely overlooked the fact of Dorothy’s entire
innocence of offence, and she raged on, saying all the hard things which
came into her mind, while Dorothy stood silent and embarrassed, longing
to escape, yet seeing no chance to get away.
“Is anything wrong, Miss Ball?” It was the quiet voice of the Head that
spoke. She had come upon the scene without either Miss Ball or the
victim hearing her approach.
“I have had to reprimand some of these girls of the Sixth for wasting
their own time, and teaching, by example, the younger girls to become
slackers also,” said Miss Ball, who looked so ashamed at being caught in
the act of bullying that Dorothy felt downright sorry for her.
“I don’t think we can write Dorothy down a slacker,” said the Head
kindly, and there was such a twinkle of fun in her eyes that Dorothy
badly wanted to laugh.
“Example stands for a tremendous lot,” said Miss Ball. “The Sixth are
very supercilious, even rude, in their manner to the Form-mistresses,
and it is not to be borne without a protest.”
“Ah! that is a different matter,” said the Head, becoming suddenly brisk
and active. “Do I understand that you are bringing a charge against the
Sixth collectively, or as individuals?—Dorothy, you can go.—Miss Ball,
come into my room, and we will talk the matter out quietly and in
comfort.”
Dorothy was only too thankful to escape. It was horrid of Rhoda to treat
a mistress in such a fashion. It was still more horrid of her to go away
leaving all the brunt of it to fall upon Dorothy, who was entirely
unoffending.
Hazel and Margaret soothed her with their sympathy when she reached the
haven of the study, and even Jessie Wayne tore herself out of her books
to give her a kindly word. Then they all settled down to steady work
again, and a hush was on the room, until a Fifth Form girl came up with
a message that the Head wanted to see Dorothy at once.
“As bad as that?” cried Hazel in consternation. “Oh, Dorothy, I am sorry
for you!”
“I expect I shall survive,” answered Dorothy with a rather rueful smile,
and then she went downstairs to the private room of the Head.
“Well, Dorothy, what have you to say about this storm in a teacup?”
asked the Head, motioning Dorothy to a low seat by the fire, while she
herself remained sitting at her writing table. A stately and gracious
woman, she was, with such a light of kindness and sympathy in her eyes
that every girl who came to her felt assured of justice and considered
care.
“I think it was rather a storm in a teacup,” Dorothy answered, smiling
in her turn, yet on the defensive, for she did not know of how much she
had been accused by Miss Ball.
“What were you doing on the stairs just then?” asked the Head; and
looking at Dorothy, she was secretly amused at the thought of
catechising a girl of the Sixth in this fashion.
“I was going up to the study,” said Dorothy. “I met Rhoda, who was
coming down from her study; we stopped to speak about her having ousted
me from the top. We were still talking when Miss Ball came, and—and she
said we were slackers, and setting a bad example to the rest of the
girls.”
“That much I have already gathered,” said the Head. “But I am not quite
clear as to what came after. What had you said that caused such a storm
of angry words from Miss Ball?”
Dorothy smiled. She really could not help it—she had been so completely
the scapegoat for Rhoda.
“I had said nothing,” she answered slowly. Then seeing that the Head
still waited, she hesitated a moment, then went on. “I think Miss Ball
was just pouring out her anger upon me because Rhoda had slipped away,
and only I was left.”
“Rhoda was rude to Miss Ball?” asked the Head.
“I think she was more offensive in manner than in actual words,” said
Dorothy, very anxious to be fair to Rhoda, just because of the secret
repulsion in her heart, which had to be fought and to be kept down out
of sight.
“I thought perhaps that was what it was all about.” The Head heaved a
little sigh of botherment—so it seemed to Dorothy—and then she said in
her sweetly gracious manner, “Thank you for helping me out. I knew I
should get the absolute truth from you.”