CHAPTER XII
Dorothy rested with such thoroughness, that when the doctor came to see her next day he told her with a laugh that she was a fraud so far as being an invalid was concerned, and that she could go to work again as soon as she liked.
Her head was fearfully sore, of course, and if she moved quickly she had a queer, dizzy sensation, but otherwise she did not seem much the worse, and she was back in her Form-room before the work of the morning had ended.
Every one was very nice to her. There was almost an affectionate ring in Rhoda’s tone when making inquiry as to how she felt, and Dorothy was a little ashamed of her own private feeling against Rhoda. Then Daisy Goatby giggled in a silly fashion, and Rhoda’s face turned purply-red with anger.
Work went all the more easily because of the rest she had had, and Dorothy thought the doctor must be something of a wizard to understand so completely what was really best for her. There was more zest in doing to-day, and the hours went so fast that evening came even more quickly than usual.
Jessie Wayne’s foot was still bad, and she had not come up to the study. The other girls had taken her books down to her, and she was given a quiet corner in the prep room of the Lower Fifth; so the three girls were alone upstairs.
Being alone, the chance to find out Dorothy’s position with regard to Rhoda was much too good to be passed by, and sitting at ease in a low chair by the gas fire, Hazel started on her task.
Dorothy listened in silence, and in very real dismay, while they told her what Dora had overheard; but she sat quite still when they had done, making no attempt at clearing the matter up.
“Why don’t you say something, Dorothy?” Hazel’s tone was a trifle sharp, for there was an almost guilty look on Dorothy’s face, as if she were the culprit, and not Rhoda at all.
“There is nothing I can say.” Dorothy wriggled uneasily in her chair, and her hands moved her books in a restless fashion, for she wanted to plunge into work and forget all about the disagreeable thing which always lurked in her mind with regard to Rhoda.
“You do admit you know something which makes Rhoda afraid of you?” persisted Hazel.
“Oh, she need not be afraid of me; I shall not do her any harm.” Dorothy spoke hurriedly. She was afraid of being drawn into some admission which might give away her knowledge of what Rhoda had done.
“I think you ought to tell, Dorothy,” Hazel said. “It is all very well to keep silent because you don’t like to do Rhoda any harm; but when a girl sets out to work such mischief as Rhoda tried to do yesterday, it is quite time something is done to stop her.”
“You can’t call it real proof that Rhoda did give me that knock-out blow yesterday,” said Dorothy slowly. “Or even supposing that she did, you can’t be certain it was anything but an accident. When one is excited—really wrought up, as we all were—there is not much accounting for what happens.”
“Still, she might have owned up.” Hazel meant to have the last word on the subject, and Dorothy made a wry face—then laughed in a rather forced manner.
“It would not have been an easy thing to have owned up if it had been an accident; while, if the blow had been meant to knock me over, it would have been impossible to have explained it. In any case, she would think that the least said the soonest mended.”
“What about her coaching Daisy and Joan, so that your Form position should be lowered?” Hazel’s brows were drawn together in a heavy frown; she left off lounging, and sat erect in her chair looking at Dorothy.
“Rather a brainy idea, don’t you think?” Dorothy seemed disposed to be flippant, but she was nervous still, as was shown by her restless opening and shutting of her books. “When I want to get you and Margaret lowered in your Form position I will prod a couple of girls into working really hard, and then we shall all three mount in triumph over your diminished heads. Oh, it will be a great piece of strategy—only I don’t quite see how I am going to get the time to do my work, and that of the other girls too. That is the weak point in the affair, and will need thinking out.”
“Look here, Dorothy, you are just playing with us, and it is a shocking waste of time, because we have got our work to do before we go to bed.” Margaret slid a friendly hand into Dorothy’s as she spoke. “Will you tell us what you know about Rhoda? You see, she is a candidate for the Mutton Bone; she is climbing high in the Form, and it is up to us to see that the prize goes only to some one worthy of it.”
“It is because she is a candidate that my tongue should be tied,” answered Dorothy. “When Rhoda asserted that there was nothing to prevent her from being enrolled she took all the responsibility for herself into her own hands, and so I have nothing to do with it.”
“You will keep silent, and let her win the Lamb Bursary?” cried Hazel in a shocked tone.
“I won’t let her win the Lamb Bursary if I can help it. I jolly well want to win it myself,” laughed Dorothy; and then she simply refused to say any more, declaring that she must get on with her work.
There was silence in the study after that—a quiet so profound that some one, coming and opening the door suddenly, fled away again with a little cry of surprise at finding it lighted and occupied.
Dorothy turned as white as paper. She was thinking of the night when she had been up there alone, and had been so scared at the opening of the door.
“Now, who is playing pranks in such a silly fashion, I wonder?” said Hazel crossly, and jumping up, she went into the passage to find out.
Dora Selwyn had two girls in with her; they declared that they had heard nothing—but as they were all talking at once when Hazel went into the room, this was not wonderful.
In the next study Rhoda Fleming was busily writing at the table, while Daisy dozed in a chair on one side of the gas fire, and Joan appeared to be fast asleep on the other side.
These also declared that they had heard nothing; and as the room of the Upper Fifth was empty, and there was no one in the private room of the mistresses, the affair was a bit of a mystery.
Hazel had sharp eyes; she had noticed that Rhoda’s hand was trembling, and that her writing was not clear and decided. She had seen Daisy wink at Joan, and she came to certain conclusions in her own mind—only, as she had no proof, it seemed better to wait and say nothing. So she went back to the study to tell Margaret and Dorothy that evidently some one had come to play a silly prank on them, only had been scared to find that they were all wide awake and at work.
Dorothy stayed awake a good long time that night, thinking matters over, and trying to find out what was the wisest course to take. She was disposed to go to Rhoda and tell her what she had heard, and to say that there was no need for Rhoda to fear her, as there was no danger of her speaking.
When morning came this did not look so easy, and yet it seemed the best thing to do. The trouble was to get the chance of a few quiet words with Rhoda, and the whole day passed without such a thing being possible.
It was two days later before her chance came. But when she tried to start on something which would lead up to the thing she wanted to say, Rhoda swung round with an impatient air, speaking sharply, “You and I do not care so much for each other that we need to hang round in corners gossiping.”
“There is something I wanted to say to you rather badly,” said Dorothy, laying fast hold of her courage, and looking straight at the other.
Rhoda flinched. “Well, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it—so there you are.” She yawned widely, then asked, with a sudden change of tone, if Dorothy’s head was better, or if it was still sore.
“It is getting better, thank you.” Dorothy spoke cheerfully, and then she burst out hurriedly, “I wanted to say to you that there is no need for you to be afraid of me, or—or of what I may say.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Rhoda, with such offence in her tone that Dorothy flushed and floundered hopelessly.
“I—I mean just what I say—merely that, and nothing more.” Dorothy looked straight at Rhoda, who flushed, while a look of fear came into her eyes, and she turned away without another word.
After that, things were more strained than before. There was a thinly veiled insolence in Rhoda’s way of treating Dorothy which was fearfully trying to bear. But if they had to come in contact with each other when people were present, then there was a kind of gentle pity in Rhoda’s way of behaving which was more exasperating still.
Dorothy carried her head very high, and she kept her face serene and smiling, but sometimes the strain of it all was about as much as she could stand up under.
One thing helped her to be patient under it all. Her Form position was mounting again. Daisy Goatby and Joan Fletcher had dropped below her, and by the last week of term she had risen above Rhoda again. Great was the jubilation in the No. 1 study on the night when this was discovered. Hazel and Margaret made a ridiculous paper cap, with which they adorned Dorothy, and Jessie Wayne presented her with a huge paper rosette in honour of the event.
“I foresee that you will have us down next term, Dorothy, and then, instead of celebrating, we shall sit in sackcloth and ashes, grousing over our hard lot in being beaten,” laughed Hazel, as she settled the paper hat rakishly askew on Dorothy’s head, and fell back a step to admire the effect.
“There won’t be much danger of that unless we get to work,” answered Dorothy, and then they settled down to steady grind, which lasted until bedtime.
Next morning there was a letter from Tom for Dorothy, which bothered her not a little.
Twice already that term Tom had come to her for money. They each had the same amount of pocket-money, but he did not seem able to make his last. He was always in a state of destitution; he was very often in debt.
The letter this morning stated that if she could not let him have five shillings that day he would be disgraced, the family would be disgraced, and the doors of a prison might yawn to let him in.
That was silly, of course, and she frowned at his indulging in nonsense at such a time. She had the five shillings, and she could let him have it; but it seemed to her grossly unfair that he should spend his own money and hers too.
The boys were coming over that evening, and Tom asked that he might have the money then. Dorothy decided that the time had come for her to put her foot down firmly on this question of always standing prepared to help him out when he was stoney.
That afternoon they were busy in the gym practising a new set of exercises, and Dorothy was endeavouring to hang by one hand from the cross-bar, while she swung gently to and fro with her right foot held in her left hand—she was succeeding quite well too, and was feeling rather proud of herself—when a chance remark from Blanche Felmore caught her ear.
“The boys are having a fine run of luck this term,” said Blanche, as she poised lightly on the top of the bar to which Dorothy was clinging. “Bob sent me ten shillings yesterday as a present; he says he has won a pot of money this week.”
“How did he do it?” asked a girl standing near.
“They get up sweepstakes among themselves, and they get a lot of fun out of it too,” said Blanche. “Bob told me that half of the boys are nearly cleaned out this week, and——”
Just then Dorothy’s hold gave way, and she fell in a heap, hearing no more, as Blanche fell too.
CHAPTER XIII
Dorothy had come to nearly hate that pretty evening frock of hers, because it seemed to her the buying of it had been at the root of most of her troubles since she had been at the Compton School. She argued to herself that if she had not been on the spot when Rhoda stuffed the jumper under her coat, most of the unpleasant things could not have happened.
Of choice Dorothy would not have worn the frock again that term, but when one has only a single evening frock, that frock has to be worn whenever the occasion demands it. The rules of the school were that each girl should have one evening frock, and only one, so it was a case of Hobson’s choice. Dorothy slipped the frock over her shoulders on the evening when the boys were coming over, and felt as if she would much rather go up to the study, and grind away at books until bedtime.
Such a state of mind being a bit unnatural, she gave herself a shake, which served the double purpose of settling her frock and her mind at the same time; then she went downstairs, and cracked so many jokes with the other girls, that they all wondered what had come to her, for she was usually rather quiet, and not given to over-much in the way of fun-making.
When the boys came trooping in Bobby Felmore made straight for her—he mostly did. Dorothy received him graciously enough, but there was a sparkle in her eyes which should have shown him that she was out to set things straight according to her own ideas.
“How many dances are you going to let me have to-night?” he asked, bending closer to her and looking downright sentimental.
Dorothy laughed softly, and her eyes sparkled more than ever as she murmured in a gentle tone, “This one, and never another, unless——”
“Unless what?” he demanded blankly.
“Blanche says you have been winning a lot of money in a sweepstake of some sort in your school during the last week or so. Is it true?” she asked.
“You bet it is true,” he answered with a jolly laugh. “I just about cleaned out the lot of them, and I’m in funds for the rest of the term, with a nice little margin over to help me through the Christmas vac.”
“I think you are a horrid, mean thing to take my money, that I had saved by going without things,” she said, with such a burst of indignation, that Bobby looked fairly knocked out by her energy.
“There were none of the girls in this sweepstake—at least I did not know of any,” he said hurriedly.
“Perhaps not; and if there had been, I should not have been one of them,” she answered coldly. “It would not have been so bad if I had put down the money—I should have felt that at least I had spent it myself, and I had chosen to risk losing it. As it is, I have to go without the things I want, just to fill your pocket—and I don’t like it.”
“I can’t see what you are driving at yet,” he said, and he looked blanker than ever.
“You are teaching Tom to gamble,” she said coldly, “and Tom is not satisfied with risking his own money, but he must needs go into debt, and then come to me to help him out. It would have been bad enough if he had bought more than he could afford to pay for, but it is unthinkable that he should go and stake more money than he has got. A stop must be put to it somehow; I could not go home and look my father in the face, knowing that I was standing by without raising a finger to stop Tom from being ruined.”
“Oh, he is all right,” said Bobby, who looked rather sheepish and ill at ease. “All kids go in for flutters of this sort, and it does them no end of good to singe their wings a bit. He’ll learn caution as he gets older—they all do. Besides, if he had won, you would not have made any stir.”
“Perhaps if Tom had won I should not have known anything about it,” Dorothy said a little bitterly. “It is not merely his own wings that Tom has singed, it is my wings that have been burned. I am not going to sit down under it. You are the cause of the trouble, for it is you who have got up the sweepstake. Blanche said so, and she seemed no end proud of you for doing it, poor dear little kid. But I am not proud of it. I think you are horrid and low down to go corrupting the morals of boys younger than yourself, teaching them to gamble, and then getting your pockets filled with the money you have won from them. I don’t want anything more to do with you, and in future I am going to cut you dead. Good evening!”
Dorothy slid away from Bobby as she spoke, and slipping round behind an advancing couple, she was out of the room in a moment, and fleeing upstairs for all she was worth.
She had made her standpoint clear, but she felt scared at her own audacity in doing it. She could not be sure that it had done any good, and she was downright miserable about Tom.
Of choice, she would have gone to the Head, and laid Tom’s case before her. But such a thing was impossible. She could not submit to being written down sneak and tell-tale, and all the rest of the unpleasant titles that would be indulged in.
Staying upstairs as long as she dared, trying to cool her burning cheeks, Dorothy stood with her face pressed against the cold glass of the landing window. Presently she heard a girl in the hall below asking another where to find Dorothy Sedgewick; and so she came down, and passing the big open doors of the lecture hall where they were dancing, she went into the drawing-room, intending to find a quiet corner, and to stay there for the rest of the evening if she could.
Margaret found her presently, and dragged her off to dance again. She saw Bobby Felmore coming towards her with a set purpose on his face, but she whirled round, and cutting him dead, as she had said she would, she seized upon Wilkins Minor, a small boy with big spectacles, and asked him to dance with her.
“That is putting the shoe on the wrong foot; you ought to wait until I ask you,” said the boy with a swagger.
“Well, I will wait, if you will make haste about the asking,” she answered with a laugh; and then she said, “You dance uncommonly well, I know, because I have watched you.”
Wilkins Minor screwed up his nose in a grin of delight, and bowing low he said, with a flourish of his hands, “Miss Sedgewick, may I have the pleasure?”
“You may,” said Dorothy with great fervour. Then she and the small boy whirled round with an abandon which, if it was not complete enjoyment, was a very good imitation of it.
Tom was waiting for her when she was through with Wilkins Minor—Tom, with a haggard look on his face, and such a devouring anxiety in his eyes that her heart ached for him.
“Have you got that money for me?” he asked. He grabbed her by the arm, leading her out to the conservatory to find a quiet place where they could talk without interruption.
“What do you want it for?” she asked. “See, Tom, this is the third time this term you have come to me to lend you money you never attempt to pay back. You have as much as I have, and it does not seem fair.”
“Oh, if you are going to cut up nasty about it, then I have no more to say.” Tom flung away in a rage. But he did not go far; in a minute he was back at her side again, pleading and pleading, his face white and miserable. “Look here, old thing, you’ve always been a downright good sport—the sort of a sister any fellow would be glad to have—and it isn’t like you to fail me when I’m in such an awful hole. Just you lend me that five shillings, and you shall have a couple of shillings for interest when I pay it back.”
“How can you be so horrid, Tom?” she cried in great distress. “You are making it appear as if it is just merely the money that is worrying me. I know that you have been gambling. You know very well that there is nothing in the world that would upset Dad more if he found it out, while Mums would pretty well break her heart about it.”
“It wasn’t gambling; it was only a sweepstake that Bobby Felmore got up. All the fellows are in it, and half of them are as badly bitten as I am,” he explained gloomily. “Of course, if I had won it would have been a different matter altogether. I should have been in funds for quite a long while; I could have paid you back what I have had, and given you a present as well. You wouldn’t have groused at me then.”
“You mean that you would not have stood it if I had,” she corrected him. Then she did a battle with herself. Right at the bottom of her heart she knew that she ought not to let him have the money—that she ought to make him suffer now, to save him suffering later on. But it was dreadful to her to see Tom in such distress; moreover, she was telling herself perhaps she could safeguard him for the future by making him promise that he would never gamble again.
“Well, are you going to let me have it?” he demanded, coming to stand close beside her, and looking down at her with such devouring anxiety in his eyes that she strangled back a little sob.
“I will let you have it on one condition,” she said slowly.
“Let’s have it, then, and I will promise any mortal thing you like to ask me,” he burst out eagerly, his face sparkling with returning hope.
“You have got to promise me that you will never gamble again,” she said firmly.
“Whew! Oh, come now, that is a bit too stiff, surely,” growled Tom, falling back a step, while the gloom dropped over his face again.
“I can’t help it. They are my terms; take them or leave them as you like,” she said with decision. But she felt as if a cold hand had gripped her heart, as she saw how he was trying to back out of giving the promise for which she asked.
“Do you mean to say that you won’t give me the money if I don’t promise?” he asked, scowling at her in the blackest anger.
“I do mean it,” she answered quietly, and she looked at him in the kindest fashion.
“Well, I must have the cash, even if I have to steal it,” he answered, with an attempt at lightness that he plainly did not feel. “I promise I won’t do it again; so hand over the oof, there’s a good soul, and let us be quit of the miserable business.”
“You really mean what you say—that you will not gamble again?” asked Dorothy a little doubtfully, for his manner was too casual to inspire confidence.
“Of course I mean it. Didn’t I say so? What more do you want?” His tone was irritable, and his words came out in jerks. “Do you want me to go down on my knees, or to swear with my hand on the Bible, or any other thing of the sort?”
“Don’t be a goat, Tommy lad,” she said softly, and then she slipped two half-crowns into his hand, and hoped that she had done right, yet feeling all the time a miserable insecurity in her heart about his keeping his promise to her.
He made an excuse to slip away soon after he had got the money, and Dorothy turned back into the drawing-room in search of diversion. She quickly had it, too—only it was not the sort she wanted.
Bobby Felmore was prowling round the almost empty room, studying the portraits of the founders of the Compton Schools, as if he were keenly interested in art; but he wheeled abruptly at sight of her, and came towards her with eager steps.
“I’ve been nosing round to find you. Where have you been hiding?” he said, beaming on her. “Come along and have another dance before chucking-out time. I thought I should have had a fit to see that young bantam chick, Wilkins Minor, toting you round.”
“I said I did not intend dancing with you again, and I meant it,” she said coldly.
“You said ‘unless,’ but you did not explain what that meant.” He thought he had caught her, and stood smiling in a rather superior fashion.
Dorothy coloured right up to the roots of her hair. The thing she had to say was not easy, but because she was in dead earnest she screwed up her courage to go through with it, and said in calm tones, “The ‘unless’ I spoke about was, if you had seen fit to pay back what you have had from the boys for that sweepstake you got up.”
“A likely old story, that I should be goat enough to do that, after winning the money!” He burst into a derisive laugh at the bare suggestion of such a thing.
Dorothy turned away. There was a little sinking at her heart. She really liked Bobby, and they had been great pals since she had come to the Compton School. If he could not do this thing that she had put before him as her ultimatum, then there was no more to be said, and they must just go their separate ways, for, having made up her mind as to what was right, she was not going to give way.
“You don’t mean that you are going to stick to it?” he said, catching at her hand as she turned away.
“Of course I mean it, and you know that I am right, too,” she said, turning back so that she could stand confronting him. “You know as well as I do that gambling in any shape or form is forbidden here, and yet you not only do it yourself, but you teach smaller fellows than yourself to gamble, and you fill your pocket by the process. You are about the meanest sort of bounder I have seen for a long time, and I would rather not have anything more to do with you.”
“Well, you are the limit, to talk like that to me,” snarled Bobby, who was as white as paper with rage, while his eyes bulged and shot out little snappy lights, and Dorothy felt more than half scared at the tempest she had raised.
But she had right on her side. She knew it. And Bobby knew it too, but it did not make him feel any nicer about it at the moment.
Just then a crowd of girls came scurrying into the room. The foremost of them was Rhoda, and she called out in her high-pitched, sarcastic voice, “What are you two doing here? The other fellows are just saying good night to the Head, and you will get beans, Bobby Felmore, if you are not there at the tail end of the procession.”
For once in her life Dorothy was downright grateful to Rhoda. Bobby had to go then, and he went in a hurry. Dorothy could not comfort herself that she had had the last word, since it was really Bobby who had spoken last. But at least it was she who had dictated terms, and so she had scored in that way.
She did not encounter Bobby again until the next Sunday afternoon. It was the last Sunday of the term, and only a few boys had come over to see their sisters. It was a miserable sort of day, cold wind and drizzling rain, so that nearly every one was in the drawing-room or the conservatory, and only a few extra intrepid individuals had gone out walking.
Dorothy was looking for Tom. She could not find him anywhere, and was making up her mind that he had not come over when she encountered Bobby coming in at the open window of the drawing-room, just as she was going out to the conservatory in a final search for Tom.
Bobby jerked his head higher in the air at sight of her, and stood back to let her pass, but he took no more notice of her than if she had been an utter stranger. Dorothy’s pride flamed up, and with a cold little bow she went past, walking along between the banks of flowering plants, and not seeing any of them. It was horrid of Bobby to treat her like that. Of course she had said that she would cut him dead—she had done it too—but that was a vastly different matter from being cut by him.
“Still, I had to speak, and I am glad that I did. I don’t want to have anything to do with any one who will teach younger boys to break rules, and then will get rich at their expense,” she whispered to herself in stormy fashion.
She went the length of the conservatory, and was just coming back, deciding that for some unknown reason Tom had not come over, when Charlotte Flint of the Fourth called out to her,—
“Your brother Tom has gone out for a walk with Rhoda Fleming. I saw them go; they slipped out of the lower gate, and went down the road as if they were going on to the Promenade.”
Dorothy groaned. She did not want to go out walking that afternoon; the weather was of the sort to make indoors seem the nicer place. But if she did not go, there would be trouble for Tom, and for Rhoda too. So she scurried into the cloakroom, and putting on boots and mackintosh, let herself out by the garden door, meaning to slip out of the lower gate as they had done.
Miss Groome came into the hall as she was going out by the garden door, and she said, “Oh, Dorothy, do you know it is raining? Are you going for a walk?”
“I am going a little way with Tom, only he has started first,” she answered with a nod and a smile; and then she scurried away, grateful for the Sunday afternoon liberty, which made it possible for a girl to take her own way within certain limits.
It would not be pleasant walking with Rhoda and Tom, for Rhoda would certainly say malicious things, and Tom was not feeling pleased with her because of the promise she had exacted from him. But the only way to save Rhoda from getting into trouble was for her to be there.
There was to be a breaking-up festivity over at the boys’ school on Tuesday night. If Rhoda was hauled up for breaking rules to-day, she might easily be shut out from that pleasure.
Rhoda and Tom were sheltering from the rain under the railway arch at the bottom of the lane; it was too wet and windy to face the Promenade. They walked back to the school with Dorothy, but neither of them appeared the least bit grateful for her interference.
CHAPTER XIV
The Christmas vacation went past in a whirl of merry-making. It was delightful to be at home again, and to do all the accustomed things. Dorothy hugged her happiness, and told herself she was just the most fortunate girl in the world.
Tom at home was a very different person from Tom at school, swanking round with Rhoda Fleming. Dorothy felt she had her chum back for the time, and she made the most of it. Her common sense told her that when they were back at school once more he might easily prove as disappointing as he had done in the past, so it was up to her to make the most of him now that he was so satisfactory.
One bit of news he told her three days after they got home which interested her immensely. She was sitting by the dining-room fire in the twilight making toast for her father’s tea, because he was out on a long, cold round in the country.
Tom was lolling in a big chair on the other side of the fire, when suddenly he shoved his hands deeper in his pocket, and pulling out two half-crowns, tossed them into her lap, saying with a chuckle, “There is your last loan returned with many thanks. I did not have to pay up after all.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, as she picked up the money and looked at it.
Tom laughed again. “Some sort of a microbe bit Bobby Felmore, and bit him uncommon sharp, too. He suddenly turned good, and paid back all the money he had won from the sweepstake, treated us to a full-blown lecture on the immorality of gambling, and announced that in the future he stood for law and order, and all the rest of that sort of piffle. Of course we cheered him to the echo, for we had got our money back, but we reckoned him a mug for not having the sense to keep it when he had got it.”
Dorothy felt the colour surge right up to the roots of her hair; she was very thankful it was too dark for Tom to see how red her face was. Then, because she had to say something, she asked, “What made him do that?”
“He had got a bee in his bonnet, I should say,” answered Tom with an amused laugh. “It was great to hear old Bobby lecturing us on what sort of citizens we have got to be, and rot of that sort. Of course we took it meekly enough—why not? We had got our money back, and could do a flutter in some other direction if we wished. Oh, he is a mug, is Bobby. He doesn’t think small beer of himself either. They are county people, the Felmores. In fact, I rather wonder that they come to the Compton Schools. But they say that old Felmore has great faith in boys and girls being educated side by side, as it were, and allowed to mix and mingle in recreation time. There would be more sense, to my way of thinking, if the mixing and the mingling were not so messed up and harassed by silly little rules.”
“I think it is awfully decent of Bobby to give the money back,” said Dorothy, and then she had to turn her attention to the toast, which was getting black.
“So do I, since I am able to pay you back, and get free of that stupid promise you insisted on,” answered Tom, lazily stretching himself in the deep chair.
Dorothy picked up the two half-crowns and held them out to him. “You can have the money, and I will hold your promise still. Oh, it will be cheap at five shillings. Take it, Tommy lad, and go a bust with it; but I have your promise that you will not gamble, and I am going to keep you up to it.”
“Not this time you are not,” he said, and there was a surly note in his voice. “You worried the promise out of me when I was fair desperate. Now, I have paid the money back, and I will not be bound.”
Dorothy realized the uselessness of urging the point, and pocketed the money. She tried to comfort herself that she would exact the same promise if Tom appealed to her for help again, yet could not help a feeling of disquiet because of the tone he had taken.
It was wild weather when they went back to the Compton Schools. There was deep snow on the ground that was fast being turned into deep slush, and a fierce gale was hurtling through the naked woods.
Dorothy went to work with a will. Indeed, she had contrived to do quite a lot of work during the vacation, and it told immediately on her Form position. Week by week she rose, and when the marks were put on the board at the end of the third week of the term she was at the top of the school.
The girls gave her a great ovation that night; the row they made was fairly stupendous. She was carried in a chair round and round the lecture hall, until the chair, a shaky one, collapsed and let her down on to the enthusiasts who were celebrating her victory, and they all tumbled in a heap together.
The next week she was top again; but now it was Rhoda Fleming who was next below her, and Rhoda was putting her whole strength into the task of beating Dorothy.
The next week was a really fearful struggle. Dorothy worked with might and main; but all along she had the feeling that she was going to be beaten. And beaten she was, for when the marks were put up on the board it was found that Rhoda was top.
There was another ovation this week, but it lacked the whole-hearted fervour of the one given to Dorothy.
Rhoda Fleming was not very popular. Her tendency to swank made the girls dislike her, and her fondness for snubbing girls whom she considered her social inferiors was also against her. Still, there can mostly be found some who will shout for a victor, and so she had her moment of triumph, which she proceeded to round off in a manner that pleased herself.
Meeting Dorothy at the turn of the stairs a little later in the evening, she said, with a low laugh that had a ring of malice in it, “I have scored, you see, Miss Prig, in spite of all your clever scheming, and I shall score all along. I have twice your power, if only I choose to put it out; and I am going to win the Lamb Bursary somehow, so don’t you forget it.”
Dorothy laughed—Rhoda’s tendency to brag always did amuse her. Then she answered in a merry tone, “If the Mutton Bone depended on the striving of this week, and next, and even the week after, I admit that there would not seem much hope for the rest of us; but our chance lies in the months of steady work that we have to face.”
Rhoda tossed her head with an air of conscious power, and came a step nearer; she even gripped Dorothy by the arm, and giving it a little shake, said in a low tone, “I suppose you are telling yourself that I am not fit to have the Mutton Bone; but you would have to prove everything you might say against me, you know.”
Dorothy blanched. She felt as if her trembling limbs would not support her. But she rallied her courage, and looking Rhoda straight in the face, she said calmly, “What makes you suggest that I have anything to bring against you? Of your own choice you enrolled for the Bursary. You declared in public that there was no reason why you should not enrol; so the responsibility lies with you, and not with me.”
It was Rhoda’s turn to pale now, and she went white to her very lips. “What do you mean by that?” she gasped, and she shook Dorothy’s arm in a sudden rage.
“What are you two doing here?” inquired a Form-mistress, coming suddenly upon them round the bend of the stairs.
“We were just talking, Miss Ball,” replied Rhoda, with such thinly veiled insolence that the Fourth Form mistress flushed with anger, and spoke very sharply indeed.
“Then you will at once leave off ‘just talking,’ as you call it, and get to work. No wonder the younger girls are given to slackness when you of the Sixth set them such an example of laziness. I am very much inclined to report you both to your Form-mistress.” Miss Ball spoke with heat—the insult of Rhoda’s manner rankled, and she was not disposed to pass it by.
“Pray report us if you wish, and then Miss Groome can do as she pleases about giving us detention school; it would really be rather a lark.” Rhoda laughed scornfully. “I am top of the whole school this week, Dorothy was top last week and the week before; so you can see how necessary it is for us to be reported for slackness.”
“You are very rude.” Miss Ball was nearly spluttering with anger, but Rhoda grew suddenly calm, and she bowed in a frigid fashion.
“We thank you for your good opinion; pray report us if you see fit,” she drawled, then went her way, leaving Dorothy to bear alone the full force of the storm which she herself had raised.
It was some tempest, too. Miss Ball was a very fiery little piece, and she had often had to smart under the lash of Rhoda’s sarcasm. She was so angry that she completely overlooked the fact of Dorothy’s entire innocence of offence, and she raged on, saying all the hard things which came into her mind, while Dorothy stood silent and embarrassed, longing to escape, yet seeing no chance to get away.
“Is anything wrong, Miss Ball?” It was the quiet voice of the Head that spoke. She had come upon the scene without either Miss Ball or the victim hearing her approach.
“I have had to reprimand some of these girls of the Sixth for wasting their own time, and teaching, by example, the younger girls to become slackers also,” said Miss Ball, who looked so ashamed at being caught in the act of bullying that Dorothy felt downright sorry for her.
“I don’t think we can write Dorothy down a slacker,” said the Head kindly, and there was such a twinkle of fun in her eyes that Dorothy badly wanted to laugh.
“Example stands for a tremendous lot,” said Miss Ball. “The Sixth are very supercilious, even rude, in their manner to the Form-mistresses, and it is not to be borne without a protest.”
“Ah! that is a different matter,” said the Head, becoming suddenly brisk and active. “Do I understand that you are bringing a charge against the Sixth collectively, or as individuals?—Dorothy, you can go.—Miss Ball, come into my room, and we will talk the matter out quietly and in comfort.”
Dorothy was only too thankful to escape. It was horrid of Rhoda to treat a mistress in such a fashion. It was still more horrid of her to go away leaving all the brunt of it to fall upon Dorothy, who was entirely unoffending.
Hazel and Margaret soothed her with their sympathy when she reached the haven of the study, and even Jessie Wayne tore herself out of her books to give her a kindly word. Then they all settled down to steady work again, and a hush was on the room, until a Fifth Form girl came up with a message that the Head wanted to see Dorothy at once.
“As bad as that?” cried Hazel in consternation. “Oh, Dorothy, I am sorry for you!”
“I expect I shall survive,” answered Dorothy with a rather rueful smile, and then she went downstairs to the private room of the Head.
“Well, Dorothy, what have you to say about this storm in a teacup?” asked the Head, motioning Dorothy to a low seat by the fire, while she herself remained sitting at her writing table. A stately and gracious woman, she was, with such a light of kindness and sympathy in her eyes that every girl who came to her felt assured of justice and considered care.
“I think it was rather a storm in a teacup,” Dorothy answered, smiling in her turn, yet on the defensive, for she did not know of how much she had been accused by Miss Ball.
“What were you doing on the stairs just then?” asked the Head; and looking at Dorothy, she was secretly amused at the thought of catechising a girl of the Sixth in this fashion.
“I was going up to the study,” said Dorothy. “I met Rhoda, who was coming down from her study; we stopped to speak about her having ousted me from the top. We were still talking when Miss Ball came, and—and she said we were slackers, and setting a bad example to the rest of the girls.”
“That much I have already gathered,” said the Head. “But I am not quite clear as to what came after. What had you said that caused such a storm of angry words from Miss Ball?”
Dorothy smiled. She really could not help it—she had been so completely the scapegoat for Rhoda.
“I had said nothing,” she answered slowly. Then seeing that the Head still waited, she hesitated a moment, then went on. “I think Miss Ball was just pouring out her anger upon me because Rhoda had slipped away, and only I was left.”
“Rhoda was rude to Miss Ball?” asked the Head.
“I think she was more offensive in manner than in actual words,” said Dorothy, very anxious to be fair to Rhoda, just because of the secret repulsion in her heart, which had to be fought and to be kept down out of sight.
“I thought perhaps that was what it was all about.” The Head heaved a little sigh of botherment—so it seemed to Dorothy—and then she said in her sweetly gracious manner, “Thank you for helping me out. I knew I should get the absolute truth from you.”