GOSSIP
As the days went by, Cathalina became accustomed to her new surroundings
and the school routine, with the stimulating life in the midst of much
young companionship. Yet no one knew just what it cost her to overcome
her timidity. She was, to be sure, not the only young girl at Greycliff
who was learning lessons of self-reliance, and the very knowledge of
that fact helped her. Pride, also, came to the rescue. She was not going
to appear like a dunce, not she! And as confidence grew, she discovered
that many even of the older girls, for all the superior years and wisdom
for which she had given them credit, could not recite as correctly as
she, nor cared, apparently, to use their brains in thinking things out.
“Why, Helen,” she said one day to Helen Paget, as they came together
from Randolph, where their Literature class had been reciting, “Victoria
Parker did not even blush when she made that awful mistake today.”
“O, she really hasn’t enough sense, Cathalina, to know how bad it was,
and doesn’t care anyhow. She’s one of the ‘Simps.’ Her father sent her
here, I heard, because she was so silly and he was afraid she might run
away to be married.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if we had not just been studying George
Eliot. The way she rattled it off, that Adam Bede was an English monk
and was called the venerable Bede!”
“But you ought to hear her recite in French or Latin, Cathalina. She
doesn’t think it needs to make sense and takes any meaning that she can
find in the dictionary for the words and strings them together. We just
nearly die when she recites. You can imagine what a fit Dr. Carver takes
over her Latin recitations, and the French teacher has all she can do to
keep her face straight sometimes.”
“Who is the French teacher?—there are several of the teachers on the
platform at Chapel that I don’t know yet.”
“Madame Dumont. She is wonderful, a perfect dear! The girls work their
heads off for her. She’s a native, you know, and goes over home every
summer. But she’s terribly worried since the war started in August, you
know. She had a son and other people in it, of course. You must meet
her. She’d only be too delighted since you can talk with her.”
“It would be wonderful for me, only I’m afraid of making mistakes. But
what did you mean by ‘simps’?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Simpletons?”
“Yes. She and that queer girl that she is always with were rather snippy
to Diane and me and called us the ‘Imps,’ so we sometimes call them the
‘S’Imps,’ with our crowd, of course.”
“Victoria is quite pretty,” said Cathalina.
“Yes; she looks just like one of those yellow-haired dolls that I used
to have. Pearl is rather stunning, with those big black eyes. But the
way they both dress! And it would be worse if Miss Randolph did not tell
us all occasionally what to wear. The first time they came down to
dinner last year, Pearl had on a blue silk evening dress with a train,
and Victoria wore a fussy lace and chiffon dress with satin slippers to
match.”
“I suppose,” remarked Cathalina, thoughtfully, “that it isn’t criminal
not to know that George Eliot wrote ‘Adam Bede,’ or not to be able to
translate a foreign language. Lots of good people don’t know either, I
guess.”
“O, of course,” Helen laughed. “I can forget history over night. But I
don’t know what these girls do care for that amounts to anything. I
reckon”—and Helen’s drawl was much in evidence, “our fathehs and mothes
want us to get our lessons paht of the time anyway! They say that Pearl
has a silly motheh that wants huh to be ‘in society’ and huh fatheh
wo’ks his head off to get money enough foh them. He was here one time, a
kind-looking man, not very much fixed up, and Pearl acted as if she felt
ashamed of him!”
“Victoria has been real nice to me.”
“That is because”—but Helen stopped and changed the reference she was
going to make to the style and daintiness of Cathalina’s clothes to
“well, I feel sorry for Vic. She hasn’t any mother. She has more common
sense, too, in some ways than Pearl.”
That very day, after study hours, it chanced that Cathalina had callers.
Hilary was off with some of the girls, but Cathalina had a theme to
write and since genius had begun to burn, was scribbling away at a great
rate.
A light tapping came at the doors and a rather pretty voice called, “Is
Miss Van Buskirk at home?”
“She is,” replied Cathalina pleasantly, opening the door to admit two
beruffled and befurbelowed young ladies of the Junior Collegiate
classes, Victoria Parker and Pearl Opal Taylor.
Victoria’s flaxen locks were puffed and waved and frizzled. She was
short and plump, her arms and hands fair and pretty, for Victoria would
not risk her white skin in any of the athletic sports. A wide gold
bracelet, long earrings, and half a dozen finger rings were her chief
ornaments. She sank gracefully into a chair, patting her puffs and
turning the bracelet right side before.
Pearl was tall and thin. Much powder and careless eating had had its
effect already upon her dark complexion, but she added more powder and
even a bit of rouge upon occasion, though not when in the presence of
her teachers. Her stylish silk frock was adorned with braid and beads
and dabs of color until it almost made Cathalina’s eyes ache.
“I undehstand that your home is in N’Yawk, Miss Van Buskirk,” simpered
Victoria, after the exchange of greetings was completed and the three
were settled for a visit.
“Yes, we have always lived there, though Father’s people came from near
Troy. But don’t call me Miss Van Buskirk. I am not grown up yet.”
“But you have quite an air about you, and as you recite with us in
literature,—”
“Mother wants me to be a little girl as long as possible, she says.”
“O, indeed! When will she let you come out?”
“O, we aren’t that kind of people. We don’t give balls and big affairs
as a rule. We have lovely family parties, and nice teas and dinners with
our friends.”
“Do you know Nora Perry?” asked Pearl abruptly.
“No, I think not; though it is hard to remember whom I have met—there
are so many.”
“She is in our class,” said Virginia, forgetting to drop her r’s. “She
told me that she was going to take the first opportunity to call on you
because she thinks it was your brother that she met at Virginia Beach
last summer.”
“Very likely,” said Cathalina, thinking “poor Phil!”
“O, then you do have a brother?” continued Victoria, brightening. “Is he
quite a little older than you?”
“Several years.”
“Nora was saying that your father is vary wealthy and that you could
have all the clothes and jewelry you wanted.” This came from Pearl, and
even Victoria frowned at the remark.
Cathalina froze a little at this and said, “Mother says that there is
nothing people are so often mistaken about as other people’s money, and,
anyway, she thinks it isn’t in good taste for little girls like me to
have fussy clothes.”
By this time Cathalina was very much tried; but she wanted to be polite
and finally succeeded in getting away from clothes, her own private
affairs and boys to interest them in some other things. They asked many
questions about New York and talked volubly about their own experiences
of the summer. When at last the dinner gong released Cathalina, the two
girls went away happily, thinking that they must have made quite an
impression upon “that little Van Buskirk girl”.
As Cathalina went to the bureau to choose a fresh hair ribbon, she
picked up her mother’s picture in its ivory frame. “There is the ‘real
article, all wool and a yard wide,’ as Father says. She looks just as
she does at Father when he comes home, tender and glad to see him,—bless
her! My, I’m thankful for the kind of a home I have!” and Cathalina was
thinking neither of its elegance or wealth. “I never realized it, nor
was half thankful enough. Those poor girls! I wish I could do something
for Victoria; she has a kind, pleasant way, after all.” But Cathalina
shook her head doubtfully. “Nineteen and such ideas!” For Cathalina, who
did not realize the changes taking place in her own ideas of life,
thought nineteen quite too late for an awakening.
After dinner, as Cathalina left the dining room, she happened to be near
Miss Randolph, who slipped her hand through Cathalina’s arm.
“How are you, dear child?” she asked. “I have been too busy to look
after you properly, but I have watched your cheeks get rosy, and the
bright face you carry. Have you been homesick?”
“Not much, Miss Randolph,—it’s all so interesting and I know the nicest
girls!”
“I have a letter from your Aunt Knickerbocker and another from your
mother, and before I reply I would like a little visit and talk with
you. Suppose we take our Sunday evening lunch together in my rooms.” And
with a kind look, Miss Randolph went on her way, leaving Cathalina.
“Somebody is terribly intimate with ‘Ellen,’” said one of the girls who
did not like Miss Randolph and now included in her displeasure “that
stuck up Van Buskirk girl”.
Hilary, who happened to be near, replied, “Her aunt is a friend of Miss
Randolph’s.”
Cathalina just then joined Hilary and with a group of girls they
wandered out to the porch seats.
“Does Miss Randolph teach anything?” inquired Hilary.
“No,” one of the older girls replied. “She did a year or so ago, but was
too busy and gave it up. She taught History of Art and was a perfectly
grand teacher, the girls say.”
“I’m scared to death every time she looks at me!” said Isabel Hunt, who
perched on the balustrade and swung one nervous foot. “I wonder if my
hair is frowzy or the button I sewed on my waist matches, or the one I
didn’t sew on will be missed. I’m sure she can see clear through me!”
“Why how funny!” exclaimed Cathalina. “I never thought of it.”
“That is because you are always as neat as a pin.”
“I wish I ‘wuz,’” and Cathalina laughed as she thought of various
hurried occasions when she had longed for Etta. “Hilary, I’m wrongfully
accused! Come to the rescue!”
Hilary made big eyes and said in a stage whisper, “Never reveal it,—but
Miss Buskirk was known to rush off to early class one morning with a
great tear in her petticoat, pinned for a yard around,—more or less!”
“Fie, fie!” cried Isabel. “I feel better!”
“And you ought to have seen her, Isabel, when she came back from her
first ride on old Poky! You wouldn’t think Poky’s going could jolt
anybody, would you?”
“She galloped awfully,” interrupted Cathalina, while the girls laughed.
“Cathalina did not have a hairpin or a ribbon left! Her hat was over one
ear, her hair flying—well, I will spare her the rest! Ever there was a
girl in distress she was it!”
“Well, I _was_ in distress. That old riding teacher showed everybody how
but me!”
“He probably thought that anybody on Poky didn’t need any showing.”
“Hilary, how you do rub it in!” said Isabel, reaching over to pat
Cathalina, who was not minding it at all.
“She appealed to me!” urged Hilary in self-defense.
“That was the way my oldest brother taught me to swim,” Isabel
continued. “He took me out to where I couldn’t stand and began to be
floated off,—’n when I was yellin’—‘Jimmy, take me out,’ the wretch swam
off with ‘strike out, Izzy’!”
“O, my,” gasped Avalon, “what did you do?”
“Well, you see I’m here,” and Isabel grinned at Avalon, who looked
sheepish.
“Putty!” said one of the girls. “I happen to know that Isabel had been
practicing for a month and could float anyway. All she needed was
confidence in herself.”
“Don’t spoil a good story,” said Isabel.
“Did you ever hear why Miss Randolph never got married?” asked Diane,
going back to the first subject of conversation.
“No; why?”—and the whole group leaned forward to catch the first word of
romance.
“She wasn’t asked!” replied Diane mischievously, and was rewarded by
groans from all quarters.
“Mean thing!”
“No, sir!” Isabel exclaimed. “There is a real love story about Miss
Randolph. She was going to marry a young professor of oratory. You know
what a lovely voice she has, so rich and deep sometimes it gives you the
shivers in Chapel when she prays!”
“Thrills, you mean,” corrected Hilary.
“Well, anyway, this young man heard her voice in another room at a party
and went in to hunt it up—oratory, you know,—and found Miss Randolph and
fell in love at first sight.”
“Sound, you mean,” softly suggested the same mentor.
“You’re awful smart, Hilary Lancaster,” grinned Isabel, “who’s telling
this?—And they picked out their furniture and he had a dandy job at some
school, and she had the love-li-est clothes, and—”
“O, don’t say that he died!” exclaimed Cathalina.
“No, he didn’t,—that was the worst of it.” The girls laughed here.
“Well, which would you rather if you were engaged, have him died and
still love you, or have something happen and maybe somebody else get
him?”
Nobody seemed to be able to decide the question.
“Just before the time to send out the invitations, something happened.
Nobody ever knew what. She wouldn’t say a word, except that the
engagement was broken. She went to Europe and studied art and things,
and I suppose he went to his old school.”
“You seem to be sure that it was all his fault. Are you so fond of Miss
Randolph?”
“Well, I always feel guilty when she’s around, but then that isn’t her
fault, and I can’t imagine her ever doing anything wrong.”
“Who told you all that, Isabel? I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Annabel Wright, in the elocution class. Her people came from the same
town, in Virginia. Just ask her.”
“Funny Cathalina never heard of it.”
“O, no; Aunt Katherine wouldn’t speak of it if she knew.”
Not a girl of this group failed to look at Miss Randolph the next time
she saw her with a new interest because she had had a lover! But it was
hard to believe that any one so calm and cheerful could have had the
note of tragedy in her life.