Alison's Home
Dorothy was ready enough at making good resolutions--the difficulty
always lay in keeping them when they were made. At night in bed it would
seem fairly simple to practise patience, forbearance, charity, humility,
and many kindred virtues, yet the very next morning she would come down
to breakfast with a frown that caused Aunt Barbara to sigh. Full of high
ideals, she would dream over stories of courage and fortitude till she
could believe herself ready to accomplish the most superhuman tasks and
overcome innumerable difficulties. She always hoped that when she was
grown up she might have a chance of emulating some of her book heroines,
and doing a golden deed which the world should remember. In the meantime
many little ordinary, commonplace, everyday duties were left undone. She
was not thoughtful for others, and was content to let Aunt Barbara do
everything for her, without troubling herself to consider what she might
offer in return.
Miss Sherbourne was not blind, and saw only too clearly that the girl
was passing through a selfish phase.
"I've seen it often enough in others of her age," she thought. "They are
so sweet while they are little children, and then suddenly they lose all
their pretty, childish ways, and become brusque and pert and
uncompromising. I suppose they are struggling after their own
individualities and independence, but it makes them ruthless to others.
At present Dorothy is rather inclined to rebel against authority, and to
assert herself in many directions. She needs most careful leading and
management. She's affectionate, at any rate, and that's something to go
upon."
Aunt Barbara could not guess all the trouble that was in Dorothy's mind.
Though the latter had never referred again to the story of her adoption,
the fact that she was a foundling continually rankled. She was so
sensitive on the point that she imagined many allusions or slights which
were not intended. It was extremely silly, but when the girls at school
talked about their brothers and sisters, she often believed they did so
purposely to make her feel her lack of relations. If two friends
whispered together, she would think they were speaking of her; and any
small discourtesy, however unintentional, she put down as an indication
that the others considered her inferior to themselves. She contrived to
make herself thoroughly miserable with these ideas, and they had the
unfortunate effect of causing her to be even more abrupt and brusque
than before. Sometimes one traitor thought would even steal in, and she
would question whether Aunt Barbara really loved her as truly as if she
had been her own flesh and blood; but this was such a monstrous and
unjust suspicion that Dorothy would thrust it from her in horror at
having ever entertained it.
One pleasure that she had at Avondale was her friendship with Alison
Clarke. Owing to their daily companionship in the train, she had managed
to keep Alison pretty much to herself, and she watched over her with
jealous eyes, unwilling to share her with anybody else. Alison had been
away from school on the day that the truants went to the wedding, and it
was nearly a week before she returned. Each morning Dorothy had looked
out for her at Latchworth, and every time she had been disappointed. At
last, however, the familiar little figure appeared again on the
platform, and the round, rosy face smiled a greeting.
"No, I've not been very ill--only a bad cold. It's almost gone now. Oh,
yes, I'm delighted to go back to the Coll. It's so dull staying in the
house with nothing to do except read, and one gets sick to death of
chicken broth and jelly! I want somebody to tell me school news. It
seems more like a year than a week since I stopped at home."
Dorothy was accommodating in the matter of news, and the two chattered
hard all the way to Coleminster.
"It's a fearful nuisance you're out of rehearsals," said Alison. "Can't
we all come up to the classroom and have them there instead?"
"No; Miss Pitman won't let us. We six sinners are on penance; we mayn't
do anything but read. Oh, it's disgusting! I shall be out of the
Christmas performance altogether."
"No, you shan't," declared Alison; "not if I can compass it in any way."
She said no more just then, but when they were returning in the train
that afternoon she mentioned the subject again.
"I was talking to the girls at dinner-time," she began. "We were
planning out the programme. Really, the scene from _Vanity Fair_ is very
short. Hope says it won't take as much time as the play you had last
year, so I suggested that we should have some tableaux as well. You
could do characters in those without any rehearsing. What do you think
of my idea?"
"Ripping!" said Dorothy. "We haven't had tableaux at the Coll. for ages.
But we must manage to get hold of some decent costumes."
"I've heaps and heaps in a box at home," announced Alison complacently.
"I can lend them all. We'll get up something worth looking at. Tell me
what you'd like to be, and you shall have first choice of everything."
"It depends on what there is."
"There's a lovely mediaeval dress that would do for Berengaria of
Navarre."
"She had golden hair, and mine's brown!"
"Bother! so she had. Then that's off. Never mind, there are heaps of
others. There's a Cavalier's, if it will only fit. I wonder if it's big
enough? You'd look nice with the crimson cloak and huge hat and feather.
Or there's a Norwegian peasant's--I think the skirt would be long
enough--and a Robin Hood jerkin and tall leather boots. I believe you
could wear them. Oh dear! you ought to try all the things on. I wish I
could show them to you. They're kept in an oak chest on the landing."
"I should like to see them," said Dorothy pensively.
"Then look here! Get out with me at Latchworth and come to our house.
Mother has gone to Bardsley this afternoon and won't be home till seven,
so I shall be quite alone. You'd have heaps of time to come, and catch
the next train on to Hurford."
It was a most tempting proposal. Dorothy wanted immensely to go. She
knew she was expected to come straight home from school every day, and
not to accept any invitations without permission, but she dismissed that
remembrance as inconvenient.
"Auntie'll only think I've missed the train. It will be all right if I
catch the next," she reasoned. "One must have a little fun sometimes,
and I'm getting too old to have to ask leave about everything. All
right, I'll come," she added aloud; "I'd just love to see those
costumes."
It was delightful to get out of the train with Alison and walk to the
house on the hill which she had so often admired from the carriage
window. Dorothy was in wild spirits, and made jokes till Alison almost
choked.
"It makes me cough to laugh so much," she protested. "Do be sensible,
Dorothy! Here we are. Leave your books and your umbrella in the porch.
We'll go straight upstairs."
Dorothy could not help looking round with interest as her friend led her
up the staircase. At every step her feet sank into the soft carpet.
Through an open door she could catch a glimpse of a beautiful
drawing-room, and beyond was a conservatory full of flowers. On the
landing, which surrounded the hall like a gallery, were marble statues,
pictures, and inlaid cabinets; and the floor was spread with Turkey
rugs. From the window she could see a tennis lawn and a vinery. After
the modest proportions of Holly Cottage, it all seemed so spacious and
handsome that Dorothy sighed.
"What a lovely house to live in!" she thought. "Alison is lucky. She's
no foundling. I wish I had half her things. I wonder why some girls have
so much more than others?"
Quite unconscious of the storm of envy that she had roused, Alison
walked on. She was so accustomed to her surroundings that it never
struck her how they might appear to anyone else, and her sole thought
was of the tableaux.
"Here's the chest," she cried, lifting the lid in triumph, and
commencing to pull out some of the dresses. "This is the Norwegian
peasant's--I knew it was on the top. Let me try the skirt by yours. Oh,
it is too short after all! Then you must have the mediaeval one. Look!
Isn't it a beauty?--all trimmed with gold lace and spangles."
Dorothy examined the costume with appreciation, but shook her head
ruefully.
"You don't imagine that would meet round my waist?" she enquired. "It
looks about eighteen inches. For whom was it made?"
"Mother, before she was married. I always tell her, girls must have been
like wasps in those days. Try the Cavalier's. Oh, I don't believe you
can wear that either! You're so big! I wish I could lop a little off
you. Can't you possibly squeeze into this?"
"I would if I could, but no--I'm several sizes too large. Haven't you
anything else?"
"Not so nice. These are quite the best. You see, they're made of really
good materials, and the others are only of glazed calico and sateen.
I'll tell you how we'll manage. We must put several costumes together.
Take off your coat and hat and I'll show you. Now, if you have the
mediaeval dress on first, we can tuck the bodice inside, and drape the
Cavalier's cloak like a pannier to cover the waist. The Norwegian bodice
goes quite well with it, and that's big enough, at any rate. Now this
gauze scarf round your shoulder, and this big hat, and there you are.
Oh, it's lovely!"
"What am I intended to be?" asked Dorothy, looking down at her
miscellaneous finery.
"A Venetian lady in the time of the Doges. It is after the picture in
the drawing-room. Oh, it is like! It's simply splendid--you've no idea
how good!"
"What picture?"
"The portrait of Aunt Madeleine in fancy dress. Why, Dorothy, you're
just the living image of it! Come downstairs at once and let me show
you. It's perfect."
Quite carried away by her own enthusiasm, Alison dragged Dorothy along
the landing, the latter much encumbered by her long skirt and the
necessity for holding on most of the articles of her attire.
"Don't go so fast," she implored; "I'm losing the pannier, and the hat's
nearly bobbing off. If you'll hold the train behind, I may manage
better."
"All right; but then I can't see you--the back view isn't nearly so
nice. This way--I have to steer you like a ship. Here's the
drawing-room. Now, take a good look in the glass first, and then please
admire the picture."
The face that greeted Dorothy in the mirror was the prettiest version of
herself that she had ever seen. The quaint costume, the scarf, and the
big hat suited her admirably; the excitement and fun had brought
unwonted roses to her cheeks, and her eyes were as bright as stars. She
had had no idea that it was possible for her to look so well, and the
surprise heightened the colour which was so becoming.
"Now the picture--look straight from yourself to the picture!" commanded
Alison.
The portrait hanging on the opposite wall was that of a young lady of
perhaps seventeen. The face was pretty, with grey eyes and regular
features; the splendid Venetian dress set off to advantage the dark
curls and the graceful turn of the neck; the slender hands held a lute,
and the lips looked as if they had just closed after finishing the last
refrain of a song. Whether it was the effect of the costume or not,
there certainly was some resemblance between the face in the painting
and that of the girl who was scrutinizing it. Dorothy could see that for
herself, though the likeness did not seem so striking to her as it
appeared to her friend.
"You're the absolute image!" declared Alison. "It might have been
painted directly from you. Bruce!" (to a servant who was crossing the
hall) "Bruce, come here! I want you to look. Did you ever see anything
so exact? Isn't she Aunt Madeleine to the life?"
Bruce gazed contemplatively from the painted face to the living one.
"The young lady certainly favours the picture," she said. "I suppose
it's the dress, and the way her hair's done. Miss Alison, your tea's
ready. I've put it in the library this afternoon."
"Then bring another cup. Dorothy, you must stay and have tea with me.
Yes, you must! You don't know how I hate being alone, and Mother won't
be home till seven. Oh, do, do! You can't think how much I want you."
"But I shall miss the 5.30!"
"Never mind, you'll get the next train. Isn't there one at six? Bruce,
fetch the railway guide please. Oh, thanks! Now then, Coleminster to
Hurford--where are we? Latchworth--yes, there's one at 6.5. Dorothy,
you'll have oceans of time. I can't let you go without tea."
It seemed a pity, when she was there, not to stay, so Dorothy argued. Of
course, Aunt Barbara would be getting rather anxious, but her mind would
soon be set at rest afterwards, and Dorothy was not given to troubling
very much about other people's fears.
"It's twenty-five past now," she said, looking at the Sevres clock that
stood on a bracket. "I should have a fearful rush to catch the 5.30."
"You couldn't do it, so that settles the matter. Take off your costume
and come to the library. Oh, never mind folding the things up; Bruce
will do that. Leave them anywhere."
A dainty little tea awaited the girls in the library, an attractive room
to Dorothy, with its bookcases, filled with beautifully-bound volumes;
its big lacquered cabinet, and the many curios and Eastern weapons that
adorned the walls.
"Where do all these things come from?" she asked, gazing round with
interest while Alison wielded the teapot.
"Most of them are from India. My father was out there. Uncle David is at
Delhi still, only perhaps he's coming home next year for good. Aunt
Madeleine died at Madras."
"The one in the picture?"
"Yes; she and Uncle David had only been married quite a short time. She
was Mother's twin sister; but they weren't the least scrap alike--Aunt
Madeleine was dark, and Mother is so very fair. Wasn't it funny for
twins? You're far more like Aunt Madeleine than Mother is. That's quite
absurd, isn't it?"
"Quite," agreed Dorothy.
"Uncle David sends me such lovely presents from India," continued
Alison, who liked to talk when she could find a listener. "I've all
sorts of little scented boxes and things carved in ivory. I simply must
show some of them to you. I'll get them in half a second," and away she
fled, returning to spread the table with her treasures.
To Dorothy the meal was a mixture of cake, filigree ornaments,
blackberry jam, and sandalwood boxes.
"I wish we had some of the roseleaf preserve left," remarked Alison. "It
was the queerest stuff--rather too sickly, but I should like you to have
tasted it; it came from Kashmir. Look here, I want to give you one of
these boxes; yes, you must take it! I've so many others, and I'd love
you to have it. I'm going to put it in your pocket, and I shall be very
offended if you take it out."
Alison crammed the box into Dorothy's pocket as she spoke. It was the
greatest pleasure to her to give a present, and she would willingly
have bestowed far more of her treasures if she had thought there was a
likelihood of their being accepted. She had enough delicacy and tact,
however, to understand that her proud little friend would not care to be
patronized, so she restrained her generosity for the present.
"It's so delightful to have you here!" she continued. "Wouldn't it be
lovely if you could come for a whole Saturday, or to stay the night some
time? I'm going to ask Mother to ask you. We'd have such a jubilee! Can
you play poker patience? Oh, I love it too! And I've the sweetest wee
packs of cards you ever saw. I want to show you my stamps and my crests.
I've got two big books full, and some are really rare ones. I'll bring
the stamps now."
"Alison, I simply can't stay!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Look at the time!
Why, I shall just have to race to the station!"
"Oh, bother! Yes, you'll have to fly. I always allow five minutes. I've
never tried running, because Mother says I mustn't--it makes me cough.
Where are your hat and coat? Why, of course, we left them on the
landing. You haven't finished your cake----"
"Never mind!" cried Dorothy, who was already out of the door and
hastening upstairs to fetch her outdoor garments. "Oh, it's been so
jolly to come and see you, Alison! I have enjoyed it. Just hold my
coat--thanks. I'm putting on my hat wrong way about! Bother! I'll alter
it in the train. Where are my satchel and umbrella? Good-bye; I shall
just have to sprint."
Alison stood looking regretfully down the drive as her friend hurried
away. She was loath to part with her, and turned indoors with a sigh.
She dearly loved young companions, and the beautiful house and its many
treasures seemed dull without a congenial soul of her own age with whom
to "go shares". She was full of Dorothy's visit when her mother returned
home, and poured out a most excited and rather jumbled account of it.
"It just suddenly occurred to me to ask her, you know, Mother, because I
did so want her to try on those costumes. She put on the mediaeval one,
and the Cavalier's cloak and hat, and the Norwegian bodice, and then she
looked exactly like the picture of Aunt Madeleine. Wasn't it queer?"
"I dare say the combination of costumes made quite a good copy of the
Venetian dress," responded Mrs. Clarke.
"But it wasn't the dress that was so like--it was Dorothy. You never saw
anything so funny, Mother! She was the absolute image of the
portrait--far more like than I am to you. Even Bruce saw it."
"You take after your father, not me."
"I don't know who Dorothy takes after, and I don't suppose she does
either. She's never seen her father or mother. She doesn't even know who
they were. Isn't it horrid for her?"
"How is that?"
"Oh, it's quite romantic! Some of the girls at school told me, but I
daren't say a word about it to Dorothy, she's so proud and reserved. I
never even hint at it. Miss Sherbourne--that's her aunt--at least, not
her real aunt--oh! I'm getting muddled--well, Miss Sherbourne found her
in the train when she was a baby--there was a dreadful railway accident
at a place called Greenfield, and that's why she's called Dorothy
Greenfield--but it isn't her proper name, because they don't know
that--they never found out who she was--and Miss Sherbourne adopted her,
and Dorothy always calls her Auntie, though she's no relation at all.
And Hope Lawson says Dorothy's a charity child, and her parents may have
been quite poor; but I'm sure she's a lady, because--well--because she
somehow seems to have it in her. I think she's just lovely, and I like
her better than anyone else at school."
"Where did you hear this amazing story, Birdie?" exclaimed Mrs. Clarke.
"I told you, Mother dear--at the Coll. All the girls know about it. They
call Dorothy 'The Foundling' behind her back. Nobody dares to say it to
her face, because she gets into such tantrums. I think it makes her so
interesting. She may be the daughter of a nobleman, for what anyone
knows. Just imagine! Suppose she found out that her father was a duke!
Then she'd be Lady Dorothy. Don't you think, Mother, she looks
aristocratic? I do."
"I think you're a very silly child," returned Mrs. Clarke, with a
distinct tone of annoyance in her voice. "You must not bring girls to
the house without asking me first."
"But, Mother darling, you weren't in this afternoon, and I'd thought of
the tableaux, and I couldn't arrange any of the parts until I knew what
dresses would fit Dorothy. I simply had to get her to come and try them
on. And it was such fun having her to tea. Mayn't I ask her to spend the
day here next Saturday? Oh, and if you would let her stay until Monday,
we'd have such a glorious time!"
"Certainly not; I couldn't think of such a thing," replied Mrs. Clark
decisively.
"But, Mother--Mother dearest--why not? You said yourself what a nice
girl she looked that first day we saw her in the train, and how glad you
were that I had her to travel to school with."
"That was quite a different matter."
"But why shouldn't I have her to the house? Oh, Mother, I told Dorothy
that I meant to ask you to invite her, and if you don't I shall feel so
silly. What could I say to her? Mother sweetest, please, please!"
"You have no right to give invitations without consulting me first,
Birdie," said Mrs. Clarke, who looked more displeased than her daughter
remembered ever having seen her before. "I cannot allow you to make
friends with girls of whom I know nothing."
"But you'd know her if she came here, Motherkins."
"I don't wish to--nor do I want you to continue the acquaintance. No,
Birdie, it is impossible. I absolutely forbid you to ask this Dorothy
Greenfield here again."
It was the first time Mrs. Clarke had ever set her will in direct
opposition to Alison's, and the spoilt child could hardly realize that
she was not to be allowed, as usual, to do as she liked. She burst out
into a final appeal.
"But, Mother, I love Dorothy! We're always together. You don't know what
chums we are at school. If you only guessed half of how much I want it,
you'd say yes."
"But I say no, Birdie," answered Mrs. Clarke, firm for once in her life.
"I strongly discourage this acquaintance, and you must not be more
friendly with Dorothy than you can help. I prefer you to travel to
school in another carriage."
"How can I? What explanation could I possibly give? It would seem so
peculiar to cut her for no reason at all."
"I suppose you will have to be civil, but you must not be intimate. You
are to see no more of her than you can help. It is very annoying that
she goes by the same train. In such a large school as Avondale there are
surely plenty of other and more suitable girls with whom you can make
friends."
"Not one so nice as Dorothy," gulped Alison, beginning to cry. "If you'd
only ask her, and see for yourself!"
"Birdie, I don't want to be cross with you, but you must understand,
once and for all, that I will not have this girl at the house. No, I
shall not explain; it is quite enough for you that I forbid it. Don't
mention the subject to me again."
Alison ran upstairs in floods of tears. She could not understand why her
mother had taken this sudden prejudice against Dorothy. The thought of
breaking off the friendship was misery to her; added to this, she was so
used to getting her own way that it seemed strange to have any
reasonable request refused--and she considered this one to be most
reasonable. In matters of health she was accustomed to obey, to submit
to be wrapped up in shawls, to put on galoshes, to be kept in bed and
dosed and dieted; but where her health was not concerned she had almost
invariably been consulted, and her wishes gratified. It was the first
time her mother had ever flatly refused to listen to her coaxings, or
had spoken to her with the least approach to severity, and such a state
of affairs was as unpleasant as it was unusual.
"She really meant it, too," sobbed Alison. "Oh, dear! What am I to do?
Dorothy'll think me such an atrocious sneak!"