Dorothy at Oak Knowe

“Thank you. My errand could easily have been done without so troubling you. I came to see if you have any more of that variety of apples that you sent us last time. The chef declares they are the finest yet. Have you?”

“Yes, lady, I’ve got a few bar’ls left. Leastwise, my Dame has. She can speak for hersel’, if so be she wants to part with ’em. I heard her say she meant to keep ’em for our own winter use. But – ”

“That will do, John. Bring a pan from the further bin and show Miss Tross-Kingdon. Maybe she’ll like them just as well.”

“All right, wife. I’ll step-an’-fetch ’em to oncet.”

So this obedient husband went out, his lame foot once more dragging heavily behind him, and he managing as he departed to pass by Dorothy and firmly clutch her sleeve, as he hoarsely whispered:

“Did you ever see the beat! In your mortal ’arthly life, did ye? Well, I’m ashamed to the marrer of my bones to be caught cavortin’ round like the donkey I was. Come on down suller with me and I’ll get the apples. But carry ’em back – I shan’t. Not this night. That woman – lady, I mean – has got eyes like gimlets and the less she bores ’em into old John Gilpin the better he’ll like it. Worst is, what’ll dame think? She won’t say much. She’s a rare silent woman, dame is, but she can do a power of thinking. Oh! hum!”

So it happened that Dorothy returned to the kitchen, fairly staggering under the weight of the biggest pan of apples that the farmer could find. Mrs. Gilpin took them from her and showed them to the Lady Principal, who was inwardly disappointed at the failure of her visit. But the business was speedily concluded and, rising, she bade Mrs. Gilpin good evening. The only notice she bestowed upon her runaway pupils was to offer:

“If your visit is ended, young ladies, you may return to Oak Knowe in my carriage.”

Dorothy did not yet know how serious an offense she had committed and merely thought that the Lady Principal was “stiffer” even than usual; not once speaking again until the school was reached. Then, as she moved away ignoring Winifred entirely, she bade Dorothy:

“Go to your dormitory, take a warm bath, and dress yourself freshly all through. Your luggage has been unpacked and arranged in your wardrobe. Put on one of your wool gowns for the evening, and come to Assembly Hall. We are to have a lecture and concert, beginning at eight. Punctual attendance required.”

“She acts and looks as if we had done something dreadful, but I can’t guess what,” said Dorothy, perplexed.

“Lucky for you that you can’t! Your ignorance of school rules may save you this time, but it can’t save me. One of the hardest things about it is, that you and I will be prohibited each other’s ‘society’ for nobody knows how long. I’m a wild black sheep, who’s led a little lamb – that’s you – astray. It was fun —was fun, mind you, but – but it’s all over for Winifred!”

“Win, you darling, what do you mean?” demanded Dolly, throwing her arms about her new friend’s neck in great distress.

“I mean exactly what I say. I’m an old offender, I’ve been there before and ought to know better. I did like you so! Well, never mind! The milk is spilled and no use crying about it!”

Dorothy was surprised to see tears suddenly fill Winifred’s eyes and to feel her clinging arms gently loosened. Under all her affected indifference, the girl was evidently suffering, but as evidently resented having sympathy shown her; so the new pupil made no further comment, but asked:

“Do we have supper before that lecture? and should I dress before the supper?”

“Huh! There’ll be no supper for you nor me this night! And I’m just ravenous hungry! Why was I such a fool as to dance that jig instead of eating that pudding and beans? Yorkshire pudding’s just delicious, if it’s made right, and the Dame’s looked better even than our chef’s. If one could only look ahead in this world, how wise one would be, ’specially in the matter of suppers! Well, good-by, Queenie, with aching heart from you I part; when shall we meet again? Ah! me! When?”

With a gesture of despair, half-comical, half-serious, the older girl dashed down the corridor and Dorothy turned slowly toward her own little room. There she found her luggage unpacked, her frocks and shoes neatly arranged in the wardrobe, underclothing in the small bureau, her toilet things on the tiny dressing table, and the fresh suit she had been asked to put on spread out upon the bed.

It was all very cosy and comfortable, or would have been if she hadn’t been so hungry. However, she had hardly begun undressing before Dawkins appeared with a small tray of sandwiches and milk, explaining:

“Supper’s long past, Miss Dorothy, but the Principal bade me bring this. Also, if there’s time before lecture, you are to go to her private parlor to speak with her. I’ll help you and ’twill make the time seem shorter.”

“Thank you, Dawkins, that’s sweet and kind of you; but – but I don’t feel any great hurry about dressing. Maybe Miss Tross-Kingdon’ll be better-natured – I mean not so cross – Oh! dear, you know what I mean, don’t you, dear Dawkins?”

“Sure, lassie, I know you have a deal more fear of the Lady Principal ’an you need. She’s that just kind of a person one can always trust.”

“I reckon I don’t like ‘just’ people. I like ’em real plain kind. I – I don’t like to be found fault with.”

“Few folks do so like; especially them as deserves it. But you will love Miss Muriel better ’an anybody at Oak Knowe afore the year’s out. Only them that has lived with her knows her. I do know. A better woman never trod shoe leather, and so you’ll find. Now, you’ve no time to waste.”

Nor was any wasted, though Dorothy would gladly have postponed the Principal’s further acquaintance till another day. She found the lady waiting and herself welcomed by a gracious word and smile. Motioning to a low seat beside her own chair, Miss Muriel began:

“You are looking vastly improved, Dorothy, since you’ve taken off your rain-soaked clothes. I hope you haven’t taken cold. Have you felt any chill?”

“Thank you, Miss Tross-Kingdon, none at all. Winifred says I will soon get used to rain, and she doesn’t mind it in the least. She says she likes it.”

The Lady Principal’s expression altered to one of sadness rather than anger, at the mention of the other girl, but she did not criticise her in words.

“My dear little Dorothy, I sent for you to explain some things about Oak Knowe which you do not understand. We try to make our rules as few and lenient as possible, but such as do exist we rigidly enforce. Where there are three hundred resident and day pupils gathered under one roof, there is need for regular discipline, and, in general, we have little trouble. What we do have sometimes comes from ignorance, as in your case to-night. Your taking so long a walk without a chaperon, and paying a social visit without permission, was a direct trespass upon our authority. So, to prevent any future mistakes, I have prepared you a list of what you may and may not do. Keep this little notebook by you until you have grown familiar with Oak Knowe life. Also, you will find copies of our regulations posted in several places upon the walls.

“And now that we have finished ‘business’ for the present, let us talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that ‘Aunt Betty’ of yours, whom our good Bishop lauds so highly.”

Vastly relieved that the dreaded “scolding” had been so mild and Miss Tross-Kingdon so really kind, Dorothy eagerly obeyed, and was delighted to see a real interest in this wonderful aunt showing in the teacher’s face.

But her enthusiastic description of Mrs. Calvert was rudely interrupted by a childish scream and little Millikins-Pillikins flying wildly into the room, to spring into Miss Muriel’s lap and hide her face on the lady’s shoulder, begging:

“Don’t you let him! Don’t you let him! Oh! Auntie, don’t you!”

“Why, darling, what is this? What sent you out of bed, just in your nightgown? What has frightened you?”

“The debbil!”

“Grace! What wicked word is that you speak?”

“It was, it was! I seen him! He come – set on my feet – an’ – an’ – Oh! Auntie Prin, you hold me close. ’Cause he was a talkin’ debbil. He come to cotch me – he said it, yes he did.”

Miss Tross-Kingdon was as perplexed as horrified. That little Grace, her orphan niece and the dearest thing in life to her, should speak like this and be in such a state was most amazing.

For a few seconds she did hold the little one “close” and in silence, tenderly stroking the small body and folding her own light shawl about it, and gradually its trembling ceased, the shuddering sobs grew fainter and fewer and the exhausted little maid fell fast asleep. Just then the clock on the mantel chimed for eight and Miss Muriel’s place was in assembly, on the platform with the famous lecturer who had come to do her great school honor. She must go and at once.

Dorothy, watching, saw the struggle in the aunt’s mind depicted on her face. With a tender clasp of the little one she put her own desire aside and turned to duty; and the girl’s own heart warmed to the stately woman as she had not believed it ever could.

Dawkins had prophesied: “You’ll love Miss Muriel, once you know her,” but Dorothy had not believed her. Yet here it was coming true already!

“Dorothy, will you please ring for a maid to look after Grace? Wake up, darling, Auntie Prin must go.”

The child roused as her aunt spoke, but when she attempted to put her down and rise, the frantic screams broke out afresh, nor would she submit to be lifted by the maid who promptly came. Miss Muriel’s bell was not one to be neglected!

“No, no, no! I shan’t – I won’t – the deb – ”

“Not that word, sweetheart, never again!” warned the Lady Principal, laying her finger on Grace’s lips. “Go nicely now with Dora, and make no trouble.”

“No, no, no!” still screamed Grace: her flushed face and feverish appearance sending fresh alarm to her aunt’s heart.

“Why, look here, Millikins! I’m Dorothy. The ‘sleepy-head’ you came to wake up this morning. Won’t you go with me, dear? If Auntie Prin says ‘yes,’ I’ll take you back to bed, and if you’ll show me where.”

Millikins looked long and steadily at Dolly’s appealing arms, then slowly crept into them.

“Pretty! Millikins’ll go with pretty Dorothy!”

So they went away, indeed a “pretty” sight to the anxious aunt. Dorothy’s white gown and scarlet ribbons transformed her from the rain-and-mud-bespattered girl of a few hours before, while her loving interest in the frightened child banished all fear and homesickness from her own mobile face.