by Sophie May
CHAPTER IX
DOROTHEA'S FRIENDS
Alma Montague, a wealthy doctor's daughter; Elsie and Minnie Stevenson,daughters of a Queensland squatter; and Nellie Harden, only child of aSupreme Court Judge, were Dorothea Bruce's "intimate" friends. MonaParbury was her only "bosom" friend. Thus she defined them herself whenspeaking of them to members of her family and to the girls themselves,who were one and all eager to stand a "bosom" friend to pretty TheaBruce as they called her.
The difference between an "intimate" friend and a "bosom" friend is toosubtle to be described, but school-girls all the world over, and thosewho have left school days just behind them, will know and understand.
Mona Parbury was one week older than Dorothea and one inch (theymeasured upon the verandah wall) taller. Her waist was two sizes larger;her boots and gloves were three. In every way she was cast in adifferent mould from Dorothea. She was a heavily built girl, who lookedat sixteen as though her teens were a year or two behind her. Herfeatures were pronounced--high cheek-bones, square chin, high forehead;her hair was black and straight and plentiful, and she wore it in aheavy plait down her back. Her eyes were brown, clear, faithful, goodeyes, and her mouth was distinctly large and ill-shaped.
Such was Mona in the days when Dorothea loved her--in the days whenDorothea told her all her hopes, and dreams, and often very foolishthoughts; when she made her the heroine of her stories; and wrote littlepoems to her as--"her love"--and little loving letters if the cruel fatewhich sometimes hovers over such friendships separated them for half aday.
We have seen Dorothea before. She was small and fairy-like;slender-waisted and light in movement. Her hair was golden and curly,and was usually worn quite loose about her shoulders; her eyes were blueand sunshiny and lashed by dark curling lashes; her mouth was small andred, and her complexion delicate pink and white. All of her "intimate"friends gave her the frankest admiration--they all loved her, and theywere all eager to stand first with her.
But it was Mona who loved her the most. Mona who kept and treasuredevery one of the little "private" notes sent to her by Dot. She workedout all her most troublesome sums, brushed and curled her hair; boremany of her punishments; brought her numberless fal-lals (keepsakes shecalled them); wore a lock of her golden hair in a locket around herneck, and told her all of her secrets--she had as many as ten a weeksometimes.
Miss Weir, the "principal" of the school, had, many years ago, given toDorothea's mother much the same sort of love as Mona Parbury now gave toDorothea. And it was owing to this old love that Dorothea was nowadmitted on very low terms to the most fashionable school in Sydney.
No one among all the pupils (there were fifteen) knew anything aboutpoverty--no one but Dorothea. As she once said in a burst of anguish toher mother--
"They are all rich, every _one_ of them. They live in beautiful housesand have parlourmaids and housemaids and nursemaids, and kitchenmaidsand cooks and carriages, and as much money to spend as we have to liveon, I believe."
It was very rarely, though, that any of her troubles ruffled her calmserenity. Dorothea was usually as placid as the placidest baby. Shelonged to be rich, and to have pretty things to wear and a handsomehouse to live in, but she never talked of her poverty. Instead shedraped its cloven foot gracefully, and turned her back on it--and_imagined_ she was rich--from Monday till Friday.
She discussed "fashion" and "society" with Alma Montague and NellieHarden, and grew quite familiar with the names and doings of the greatsociety dames. She even learned--at considerable pains--a "society"tone of voice with a drawl in it and a little lisp.
School life was a great happiness to her--the regular hours, thebeautifully ordered house, the neat table, the daily constitutional, themorning and evening prayer-time, and the hour in the drawing-room atnight, everything that made life from Monday till Friday.
It was Friday till Monday that was the cross, Friday till Monday, thedays when the cloven foot would not be draped, when the elegancies oflife were left behind in the city, when the twins and the babies wereeverywhere, when the meals were often but suddenly thought of snatchesof food.
Sometimes the thought of the looming future--the time when all the dayswould be as Friday till Monday, when there would no longer be any schooldays to be lived by her--would quite break down her placidity, and makeher feel she could put down her head anywhere and cry.
Yet away they were marching, one by one, all the beautiful school-days,all the days of discipline and pleasant duty, and the ugly slack days,when there would be nothing but home with house-work to do, were drawingnear.
And at last she could bear the thought of it by herself no longer.
It was early evening, and she was on the schoolroom verandah, watchingthe young moon rise over a distant chimney. Every moment she expectedthe prayer-bell to ring, and meanwhile, as it was not ringing, shefilled up the time by counting how many more evening prayer-bells wouldring before the end of term.
She counted on her fingers, out aloud, and found there were justtwenty-nine--twenty-nine without Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays.Twenty-nine days, and then came the end of term, and the end of herschool-days.
It would then be Betty's turn--larrikin Betty's! The moon sailed overthe chimney, and Dot put her head down on the verandah railing and beganto cry. She did not cry in the vigorous whole-hearted way in which Bettycried, but she sighed heavily, and sobbed gently, and allowed two orthree tears to run down her cheek before she brought out her daintyhandkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
And at that precise moment Mona was crossing the schoolroom floor, andshe saw her darling Thea in tears! She was not given to light impulsivemovements at all, but this time she really did _spring_ forward andkneel at Dot's side.
"Dear, darling Thea!" she whispered, "what is the matter? Miss Cowdellhas been bullying you for the silly old French? That's it, isn't itdear?"
"Oh, no!" said Dot hopelessly, "nothing _half_ as small as that."
"You've lost the new sleeve-links Alma gave you? Never mind--there areplenty more. Not that? What then? Tell your own Mona--tell your own oldMona."
Two more tears ran down Dot's cheeks.
"It's--it's nearly the end of term," she said.
Mona nodded.
"And I'm going to leave school," she said.
Again Mona nodded and waited.
"I've to go home," said Dot, and she put her head down on Mona'sshoulder heavily.
"I've to go home too," said Mona, and she sighed, "right away to theRichmond river, where you girls never come."
"My home," said Dot, "is like a little plain, hedged round with pricklypear, and put on the top of a mountain. No one ever comes in, and wenever go out."
"Poor little Thea," said Mona.
"And we're very poor," went on Dorothea with strange recklessness; "weought to be rich, but we're not, and the house is full of children, andthere's never any peace from morning till night."
Mona grew crimson. She wanted to say something very much, and she lackedthe courage. Instead she asked how old were the children, as if she didnot know!
"There's Betty," said Dot, "she's to come here when I leave, and shewon't enjoy it a bit--she's such a romp--and there's Cyril, they're bothabout twelve. And there's Nancy, she's six, and the baby."
"I wish," said Mona, "I _wish_ they belonged to me."
"How can I practise with them everywhere about. How can I read, how canI paint even, write my book, do anything, with them everywhere?" askedDot dismally. "They just fill the house."
Again Mona stumbled to what she wanted to say, and stopped. Dot wouldsay she was "lecturing." It would never do.
"You're rich," said pretty Dot pouting; "you can have everything youwant, do anything, go anywhere."
A few puckers got into Mona's high forehead.
"Once," she said, "I had four sisters, all younger than myself, and theyall died. I told you, didn't I?"
"But it's long ago," said Dot. "Three years ago since the baby died. Youmust ha
ve forgotten."
"I'd promised my mother, when she was dying, to be a mother to them.Father and aunt _made_ me go to school, and all the time I was countingon when I should leave, and be an elder sister."
Dot opened her eyes very wide.
"Why did you want to be an elder sister?" she asked.
Mona still looked red and ashamed.
"You should read _The Flower of the Family_," she said, and "_The Eldestof Seven, Holding in Trust_. You'd know then."
Dorothea had read the last, and she began to see and understand.
"You've got your mother and sisters," said Mona shyly.
And then for the first time it occurred to Dorothea that she herself wasan elder sister, that she was the eldest of five, and that infinitepossibilities lay before her.
"There's only my father and my aunt and brother when _I_ go home," saidMona. "And I've only twenty-nine days, too, and then, oh! Thea darling,I have to lose you."
"We'll write twice a week always," whispered Dot, twining her arms roundher friend's waist.
"And always be each other's bosom friend," said Mona.
Then the prayer-bell rang, and the four intimate friends scanned Theaclosely, seeing that she had been crying, and feeling angry with "that"Mona Parbury for letting her.
