What Dorothy Overheard
At half-past three, exactly in the middle of the French reading-lesson,
Miss James, the school secretary, entered the Upper Fourth room with a
sheaf of voting papers in her hand. These were dealt round to all the
girls, with the exception of the candidates, and Miss James gave a brief
explanation of what was required.
"On each paper you will find six names. You must put a cross to the one
you wish to choose for your warden. Do not write anything at all, but
fold the paper and hand it in to Miss Pitman, who will place it in this
box, which I shall call for in five minutes."
So saying, she bustled away in a great hurry to perform a similar errand
in the next classroom. The six candidates tried to sit looking
disinterested and unconscious while their fates were being decided. Hope
Lawson hunted out words in the dictionary, Valentine Barnett made a
parade of arranging the contents of her pencil box, and the others
opened books and began preparation. Not a word was allowed to be
spoken. In dead silence the girls recorded their crosses and handed in
their papers, and the last was hardly dropped into the ballot box before
Miss James reappeared. The result of the election was to be announced at
four o'clock, therefore there were still twenty minutes of suspense.
Miss Pitman went on with the French reading as if nothing had happened,
and Dorothy made a gallant effort to fix her attention on _Le Jeune
Patriote_, and to forget that Miss Tempest and Miss James were hard at
work in the library counting votes. Nobody's translation was
particularly brilliant that afternoon; everyone was watching the clock
and longing for the end of the lesson. When the bell rang there was a
general scuffle; books were seized and desk lids banged, and though Miss
Pitman called the Form to order and insisted upon a decorous exit from
the room, the girls simply pelted down the stairs to the lecture hall.
In a few moments the whole school had assembled. There was not long to
wait, for exactly at the stroke of four Miss Tempest walked on to the
platform and made the brief announcement:
"Hope Lawson has been elected Warden of the Lower School by a majority
of fifty votes."
Dorothy left the lecture hall with her head in a whirl. That Hope should
have won by such an enormous majority was most astonishing. She could
not understand it. Conversation was strictly forbidden on the staircase,
but the moment she reached the gymnasium door she burst into eager
enquiries.
"Yes, it's a surprise to everybody," said Ruth Harmon. "I thought myself
that Val would get it. All the Lower Fourth and most of the Upper Third
were for her."
"Then how could Hope possibly score by fifty?"
"She did it with the kids, I suppose."
"But the First and Second weren't voting?"
"Indeed they were! Do you mean to say you never knew? Why, Miss James
gave it out this morning."
"Of all sells!" gasped Dorothy. "I heard nothing about it! It's the
first year those kids have ever taken part in the election. Why couldn't
some of you tell me?"
"I was just going to," said Mavie, "but you stalked away and wouldn't
listen. It's your own fault, Dorothy."
"You might have run after me."
"You looked so lofty, I didn't feel disposed."
"Val didn't know either," interposed Bertha Warren. "She never canvassed
in the First or the Second; no more did Grace or Noelle. I'm not certain
if any of you knew except Hope. Only a few were in the room when Miss
James gave it out."
"Then she's taken a most mean advantage," said Dorothy. "I understand
now why she was sitting on the see-saw making herself so extremely
pleasant. It's not fair! Miss James ought to have announced to the whole
school that such a change had been made."
"Go and tell her so!" sneered Phyllis Fowler.
"Those who lose always call things unfair," added Joyce Hickson.
Dorothy walked away without another word. She did not wish to be
considered jealous, and her common sense told her that she had already
said more than enough. She was too proud to ask for sympathy, and felt
that her most dignified course was to accept her defeat in silence. She
thought she would rather not speak even to her friends, so, ignoring
violent signals from Bertha Warren and Addie Parker, she went at once to
put on her outdoor clothes. The dressing-room, to provide greater
accommodation, had not only hooks round the walls, but double rows of
hat-stands down the middle, with lockers for boots underneath. As
Dorothy sat changing her shoes, she could hear three girls talking on
the other side of the hat-stand, though, owing to the number of coats
which were hanging up, the speakers were hidden from her. She recognized
their voices, however, perfectly well.
"I'm rather surprised at Hope getting it," Helen Walker was saying. "I
thought Val was pretty safe. I voted for her, of course."
"A good many voted for Dorothy," replied Evie Fenwick.
"I know. I thought she might have had a chance even against Val. She'll
be dreadfully disgusted."
"I'm very glad Hope was chosen," said Agnes Lowe. "After all, she's far
the most suitable for Warden; she's ever so much cleverer than Val."
"But not more than Dorothy!"
"No; but she's a girl of better position, and that counts for something.
Her father was Mayor last year, and her mother is quite an authority on
education, and speaks at meetings."
"Well, Dorothy's aunt writes articles for magazines. One often sees the
name 'Barbara Sherbourne' in the newspapers. Dorothy's tremendously
proud of her."
"Dorothy needn't take any credit to herself on that account," returned
Agnes, "for, as it happens, Miss Sherbourne isn't her aunt at all; she's
no relation."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I know for a fact that Dorothy is nothing but a waif, a
nobody, who is being brought up for charity. Miss Sherbourne adopted her
when she was a baby."
At this most astounding piece of information, Dorothy, who had followed
the conversation without any thought of eavesdropping, flung her
slippers into her locker and stalked round to the other side of the
hat-stand.
"Agnes Lowe, what do you mean by telling such an absolute story?" she
asked grimly.
"I'd no idea you were there!" returned Agnes.
"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," laughed Helen.
"I'm extremely glad I overheard. It gives me a chance to deny such
rubbish. I shall expect Agnes to make an instant apology."
Dorothy's tone was aggressive; she waited with a glare in her eyes and a
determined look about her mouth. Agnes did not flinch, however.
"I'm sorry you heard what I said, Dorothy," she replied. "It wasn't
meant for you; but it's true, all the same, and I can't take back my
words."
"How can it be true?"
Agnes put on her hat hastily and seized her satchel.
"You'd better ask Miss Sherbourne. Probably everyone in Hurford knows
about it except yourself. Come, Helen, I'm ready now," and she hurried
away with her two friends, evidently anxious to escape further
questioning.
Dorothy took up her pile of home-lesson books and followed them; but
they must have raced down the passage, for when she reached the door
they were already disappearing round the corner of the playground. It
was useless to think of pursuing them; she had barely time, as it was,
to catch her train, and she must walk fast if she meant to be at the
station by half-past four. She scurried along High Street, keeping a
watchful eye on the town hall clock in the intervals of dodging
passengers on the pavements and dashing recklessly over crossings. At
Station Road she quickened her footsteps to a run, and tore up the
flight of stairs that was the shortest cut to the ticket office.
Fortunately she possessed a contract, so she had no further delay, and
was able to scuttle across the platform into the Hurford train. The
guard, who knew her well by sight, smiled as he slammed the door of her
compartment.
"A near shave to-day, missy! I see you're back at school," he remarked,
then waved his green flag.
Dorothy sank down breathlessly. To miss the 4.30 would have meant
waiting three-quarters of an hour--a tiresome experience which she had
gone through before, and had no desire to repeat. She was lucky,
certainly; but now that the anxiety of catching the train was over, the
reaction came, and she felt both tired and cross. What an enormously
long time it seemed since she had started that morning, and what a
horrid day it had been! She leaned back in a corner of the compartment
and took a mental review of everything that had happened at school: her
expectation of winning the election, her canvassing among the girls,
their many ill-natured remarks, Val's method of bribery, and Hope's
unfair advantage. She was bitterly chagrined at missing the wardenship,
and the thought that she might have had a chance of success if she had
known of the voting powers of the First and Second Forms only added to
her disappointment. She was indignant and out of temper with Mavie, with
Hope, with the whole of her little world; everything had seemed to go
wrong, and, to crown all, Agnes Lowe had dared to call her a nobody and
a charity child! What could Agnes mean? It was surely a ridiculously
false accusation, made from spite or sheer love of teasing. She, Dorothy
Greenfield, a waif! The idea was impossible. Why, she had always prided
herself upon her good birth! The Sherbournes were of knightly race, and
their doings were mentioned in the county history of Devonshire as far
back as Queen Elizabeth's reign. Of course, her name was Greenfield, not
Sherbourne; but she was of the same lineage, and she had pasted the
family crest inside her school books. She would trace out her pedigree
that very evening right to Sir Thomas Sherbourne, who helped to fit out
a ship to fight the Armada; and she would take a copy to school
to-morrow and show it to Agnes, who could not fail to be convinced by
such positive evidence. Yes, the girls should see that, far from being a
nobody, she was really of a better family than Hope Lawson, whose claims
to position rested solely on her father's public services to the city of
Coleminster.
And yet under all her assurance there lurked an uneasy sensation of
doubt. She had taken it for granted that her mother was a Sherbourne;
but she remembered now that when she had spoken of her as such, Aunt
Barbara had always evaded the subject. Nobody ever mentioned her
parents. She had thought it was because they were dead; but surely that
was not a sufficient reason for the omission? Could there be another and
a stronger motive for thus withholding all knowledge about them? Several
things occurred to her--hints that had been dropped by Martha, the maid,
which, though not comprehended, had remained in her memory--looks,
glances, half-spoken sentences let fall by Aunt Barbara's friends--a
hundred nothings too small in themselves to be noticed, but, counted in
the aggregate, quite sufficient to strengthen the unwelcome suspicion
that had suddenly awakened.
"Rubbish!" thought Dorothy, with an effort to dispel the black shadow.
"I'll ask Aunt Barbara, and I've no doubt she'll easily explain it all
and set everything right."
By this time the train had passed Ash Hill, Burnlea, and Latchworth, and
had arrived at Hurford, Dorothy's station. She stepped out of the
compartment, so preoccupied with her reflections that she would have
forgotten her books, if a fellow-passenger had not handed them to her.
She scarcely noticed the Rector and his children, who were standing on
the platform, and, turning a deaf ear to the youngest boy, who called to
her to wait for them, she hurried off alone along the road.
It was a pleasant walk to her home, between green hedges, and with a
view of woods and distant hills. Hurford was quite a country place, and
could boast of thatched cottages, a market cross, and a pair of stocks,
although it lay barely twelve miles from the great manufacturing city of
Coleminster. Dorothy's destination was a little, quaint, old-fashioned
stone house that stood close by the roadside at the beginning of the
village street. A thick, well-clipped holly hedge protected from prying
eyes a garden where summer flowers were still blooming profusely, a
strip of lawn was laid out for croquet, and a small orchard, at the
back, held a moderate crop of pears and apples. Dorothy ran in through
the creeper-covered porch, slammed her books on the hall table, then,
descending two steps, entered the low-ceiled, oak-panelled dining-room,
and rushed to fling her arms round a lady who was sitting doing fancy
work near the open window.
"Here I am at last, Auntie! Oh, I feel as if I hadn't seen you for a
hundred years! I'm in the Upper Fourth, but it's been a hateful day. I
never thought school was so horrid before. I'm very disappointed and
disgusted and abominably cross."
"Poor little woman! What's the matter?" said Aunt Barbara, taking
Dorothy's face in her hands, as the girl knelt by her side, and trying
to kiss away the frown that rested there. "You certainly don't look as
if you had been enjoying yourself."
"Enjoying myself? I should think not! We had an election for the
wardenship, and my name was on the list, and I might perhaps have won if
the others hadn't been so mean; but I didn't, and Hope Lawson has got
it!"
"We can't always win, can we? Never mind! It's something that your name
was on the list of candidates. All the girls who lost will be feeling
equally disappointed. Suppose you just forget about it, go and take off
your things, and tell Martha to make some buttered toast."
Dorothy laughed. Already her face had lost its injured and woeful
expression.
"That's as good as saying: 'Don't make a fuss about nothing'. All right,
Auntie, I'm going. But I warn you that this is only a respite, and I
mean to give you a full and detailed list of all my particular
grievances after tea. So make up your mind to it, and brace your dear
nerves!"
Miss Barbara Sherbourne was a most charming personality. She was young
enough to be still very pretty and attractive, but old enough to take
broad views of life, and to have attained that independence of action
which is the prerogative of middle age. She was a clever and essentially
a cultured woman; she had lived abroad in her youth, and the glamour of
old Italian cities and soft, southern skies still seemed to cling to
her. She was a good amateur musician, could sketch a little, and had
lately obtained some success in writing. Ever since Dorothy could
remember, she and Aunt Barbara and Martha, the maid, had lived together
at Holly Cottage, a particularly harmonious trio, liking their own mode
of life, and quite independent of the outside world. The little house
seemed to fit its inmates, and, in spite of its small accommodation, to
provide just what was wanted for each. First there was the old-fashioned
dining-room, with its carved oak furniture, blue china, and rows of
shining pewter; its choice prints on the walls, its bookshelves,
overflowing with interesting volumes; and the desk where Aunt Barbara
wrote in the mornings--a room that seemed made especially for comfort,
and reached its acme of cosiness on a cold winter's day, when
arm-chairs were drawn up to the blazing fire that burnt in the quaint
dog grate. Then there was the little drawing-room, with its piano and
music rack, and its great Japanese cabinet, full of all kinds of
treasures from foreign places. When Dorothy was a tiny girl it had been
her Sunday afternoon treat to be allowed to investigate the mysteries of
this cabinet, to open its numerous drawers and sliding panels, and to
turn over the miscellaneous collection of things it contained; and she
still regarded it in the light of an old friend. The artistic
decorations, the chintz hangings, the water-colour paintings of Italian
scenes, all helped to give an aesthetic effect to the room, and to make a
very pleasant whole. The kitchen was, of course, Martha's particular
domain, but even here there were books and pictures, and a table
reserved for writing desk and work basket. I fear Martha did not often
busy herself with pens and paper, for she held head-learning in
good-natured contempt; but she appreciated her mistress's effort to make
her comfortable, and polished the brass-topped inkpot diligently, if she
seldom used it. Peterkin, the grey Persian cat, generally sat in the
arm-chair, or on Martha's knee, which he much preferred, when he got the
chance; and Draco, the green parrot, hobbled up and down his perch at
the sunny window, repeating his stock of phrases, begging for titbits,
or imitating smacking kisses.
Just at the top of the stairs was Dorothy's special sanctum. It had
formerly been her nursery, and still contained her old dolls' house, put
away in a corner, though her toys were now replaced by schoolgirl
possessions. Here she kept her tennis racket, her hockey stick, her
camera and photographic materials, her collections of stamps, crests,
and picture postcards; there was a table where she could use paste or
glue, or indulge in various sticky performances forbidden in the
dining-room, and a cupboard where oddments could be stored without the
painful necessity of continually keeping them tidily arranged. She could
try experiments in sweet making, clay modelling, bookbinding, or any of
the other arts and crafts that were represented at the annual school
exhibition; in fact, it was a dear, delightful "den", where she could
conduct operations without being obliged to move her things away, and
might make a mess in defiance of Martha's chidings.
Dorothy often took a peep into her sanctum on her return from Avondale,
but to-day she ran straight to her bedroom. She was anxious to finish
tea and have a talk with Aunt Barbara. She felt she could not rest until
she had mentioned Agnes Lowe's remarks, and either proved or disproved
their truth. It was not a question that she could raise, however, when
Martha was coming into and going out of the dining-room with hot water
and toast; and it was only after she had cajoled Miss Sherbourne to the
privacy of the summer-house, and had related her other school woes, that
the girl ventured to broach the subject.
"I know it's nonsense, Auntie, but I thought I'd like to tell you, all
the same," she concluded, and waited for a denial with a look of anxiety
in her eyes that belied her words.
Miss Sherbourne did not at once reply. Apparently she was considering
what answer to make.
"I knew you would ask me this some day, Dorothy," she said at last. "It
seemed unnecessary for you to know before, but you are growing older so
fast that it is time you learnt your own story."
Dorothy turned her face sharply away. She did not want even Aunt Barbara
to see how her mouth was quivering.
"Is it true, then?" she asked, in a strangled voice.
"Yes, dear child. In a sense it is all absolutely true."