Part 6 (1/2)
Just as Miss Marr came to the conclusion of these reflections, she looked up at the clock on the mantel, and gave a quick start. Victor, following the direction of her eyes, stopped the story of camp-life that he was telling, and jumped to his feet, saying,--
”Do excuse me, Aunt Angel; I'd no idea it was so late.”
Dolly's face fell like a disappointed child, and she burst out impatiently,--
”Oh, finish the story, finish the story!”
Victor Graham gave her a glance of surprise; then, flus.h.i.+ng a little, said gently,--
”This is Aunt Angel's busy hour; I'll finish the story some other time.”
The blood mounted to Dolly's forehead. That glance of surprise p.r.i.c.ked her sharply. It angered her too. Who was this boy to set his priggish manners above hers? And in hot rebellion, she cried out flippantly,--
”No, no, tell it now, tell it now! Ten minutes longer can't make much difference.”
She had been accustomed to persist in this fas.h.i.+on at home; and beyond a ”Dolly, how impolite!” or ”Be quiet, Dolly!” spoken at the moment by father or mother or Mary, not much further notice was taken of her offence. But neither Miss Marr nor Victor made the slightest suggestion of a reproving comment now. They made no comment whatever. The boy simply stared at her a second, then lowered his eyes, showing clearly that he was embarra.s.sed by the girl's rudeness. Miss Marr looked at her with an expression of wondering astonishment that was in itself a shock and a revelation to Dolly. There was not a particle of personal resentment in this expression; it was the wondering astonishment of a person who is regarding for the first time some strange new species of development. Dolly had hitherto gloried in her impertinence, as something witty and audacious. Now all at once she was made to see that to another person, and that person this ”stylish girl in a stunning plain gown,” this audacious impertinence looked vulgar. The shock of this revelation was so sudden to Miss Dolly that all self-possession deserted her, and again Miss Marr saw her apparently shy and awkward and speechless. The deep red flush that overspread her face at the same time added to the appearance of shyness, and pleaded for her more than words would have done.
”She'd be a jolly girl, if she didn't break up into such Hottentot ways.
I wonder where she came from?” was Victor's inward reflection. His concluding reflection, as he went out of the house, was, ”Wonder what Aunt Angel will do with her.”
Aunt Angel wondered, too, as she accompanied Dolly up to the room that had been arranged for her; and as she wondered, she could not help thinking, ”How glad I am the girl is going to have a room to herself, and not with any one of the other girls!”
The room was small, but it was charmingly furnished,--a little pink and white chamber, with all sorts of pretty contrivances for comfort and convenience. As Dolly looked about her, when Miss Marr closed the door upon her, she thought of what her mother had said, after inspecting the room the day before: ”It isn't in the least like a boarding-school,--it is like a visitor's room, Dolly, as you will see.”
And Dolly did see, but she was in no mood to enjoy the pretty details just then, for the sense of humiliation was weighing heavily upon her.
In vain she tried to blow it away with the breath of anger,--to call Miss Marr ”old Madam Prim,” and Victor ”that prig of a boy.” Nothing of this kind availed to relieve her. Never in her life had she been so impressed by anybody as by Miss Marr, and she was also sure that she had also begun to impress Miss Marr, in her turn. And now and now!--and down on the pink and white bed Dolly flung herself in a paroxysm of mingled regret, rage, mortification, and disappointment, and, like the big, overgrown, undisciplined child that she was, sobbed herself to sleep.
The short October afternoon had come nearly to an end when she woke; and she looked about her in dismay. It must be late; and, springing up, she glanced at her watch. It was half-past four. At this moment she heard, in the hall outside, a murmur of girls' voices. One called, ”Miss Marr;”
and another said, ”The Boston train was delayed, or I should have been here earlier.”
Then followed a soft tinkle of laughter, a little tap of heels, and an opening and shutting of doors. Dolly, listening, knew what this meant,--knew that these girls were the late arrivals, the returning pupils.
”And they all know each other,” she commented rather lonesomely and enviously, ”and I shall dress myself and get down before them. I'm not going to enter a room full of strange girls, if I know it!”
Dolly's taste was generally excellent. She knew what to wear and when to wear it; but some mistaken idea of outs.h.i.+ning those strange girls at the start took possession of her, and instead of putting on a gown suited to the occasion, she donned a fine affair,--a combination of old-rose cashmere and velvet, with rose ribbons at her throat. As she left the room in this finery, she saw a door farther down the hall open, and a tall slender girl, dressed with the severest simplicity, come forth.
One of those strange girls! And Dolly, as they met, stared at her, with her head in the air. But the strange girl, with a matter of course manner, gave a little courteous inclination of greeting as she pa.s.sed, whereat Dolly grew rather red. ”I wonder if that is the girl who talked about 'my train,'” thought Dolly. ”I'll bet it is. She has a look like that girl I saw one day last spring with the Edlicotts at Papanti's dancing-school. I wonder what her name is.”
As the girl ran lightly down the stairs, one of the maids came up. Dolly stopped her and asked, ”Is that one of the pupils?”
”Yes, miss.”
”What is her name?”
”Miss Hope Benham.”
CHAPTER VIII.