Chapter 7 No.7

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 Sèvres 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!"

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