What Katy Did at School

by Susan Coolidge

  Sally Austin added to her autograph these lines of her own composition:

  When on this page your beauteous eyes you bend, Let it remind you of your absent friend,

  SALLY J. AUSTIN

  Galveston, Texas

  The girls found this sentiment charming, at least a dozen borrowed it, and in half the albums in the school you might read, ‘When on this page your beauteous eyes,’ etc. Esther Dearborn wrote in Clover's book: ‘The better part of valour is discretion.’ Why she wrote it nobody knew, or why it was more applicable to Clover than to any one; but the sentiment proved popular, and was repeated over and over again, above various neatly-written signatures. There was a strife as to who should display the largest collection. Some of the girls sent home for autographs of distinguished persons, which they pasted in their books. Rose Red, however, outdid them all.

  ‘Did I ever show you mine?’ she asked one day, when most of the girls were together in the schoolroom.

  ‘No, never!’ cried a number of voices. ‘Have you got one? Oh, do let us see it!’

  ‘Certainly, I'll get it right away, if you like,’ said Rose, obligingly.

  She went to her room, and returned with a shabby old blank book in her hand. Some of the girls looked disappointed.

  ‘The cover of mine isn't very nice,’ explained Rose. ‘I'm going to have it re-bound one of these days. You see it's not a new album at all, nor a school album; but it's very valuable to me.’ Here she heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘All my friends have written in it,’ she said.

  The girls were quite impressed by the manner in which Rose said this. But, when they turned over the pages of the album, they were even more impressed. Rose had evidently been on intimate terms with a circle of most distinguished persons. Half the autographs in the book were from gentlemen, and they were dated all over the world.

  ‘Just listen to this!’ cried Louisa, and she read –

  Thou may'st forget me, but never never shall I forget thee!

  ALPHONSO OF CASTILE

  THE ESCURIAL, April 1st

  ‘Who's he?’ asked a circle of awe-struck girls.

  ‘Didn't you ever hear of him? Youngest brother of the King of Spain,’ replied Rose, carelessly.

  ‘Oh, my! and just hear this,’ exclaimed Annie Silsbie –

  If you ever deign to cast a thought in my direction, Miss Rose remember me always as Thy devoted servitor,

  POTEMKIN MONTMORENCY

  ST PETERSBURG, July 10th

  And this!’ shrieked Alice White –

  They say love is a thorn. I say it is a dart,

  And yet I cannot tear thee from my heart.

  ANTONIO, Count of Valambrosa

  ‘Do you really and truly know a count?’ asked Bella, backing away from Rose, with eyes as big as saucers.

  ‘Know Antonio de Valambrosa? I should think I did,’ replied Rose. ‘Nobody in this country knows him so well, I fancy.’

  ‘And he wrote that for you?’

  ‘How else could it get into my book, goosey?’

  This was unanswerable, and Rose was installed from that time forward in the minds of Bella and the rest as a heroine of the first water. Katy, however, knew better, and the first time she caught Rose alone she attacked her on the subject.

  ‘Now, Rosy-Posy, confess. Who wrote all those absurd autographs in your book?’

  ‘Absurd autographs! What do you mean?’

  ‘All those counts and things. No, it's no use; you shan't wriggle away till you tell me.’

  ‘Oh, Antonio and dear Potemkin, do you mean them?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘And you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will you swear not to tell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then,’ bursting into a laugh, ‘I wrote every one of them myself.’

  ‘Did you really? When?’

  ‘Day before yesterday. I thought Lilly needed taking down, she was so set up with her autographs of Wendell Phillips and Mr Seward, so I just sat down and wrote a book full. It only took me half an hour. I meant to write some more; in fact, I had one all ready -

  I am dead, or pretty near:

  David's done for me I fear.

  GOLIATH OF GATH;

  but I was afraid even Bella wouldn't swallow that, so I tore out the page. I'm sorry I did now, for I really think the geese would have believed it. Written in his last moments, you know, to oblige an ancestor of my own,’ added Rose, in a tone of explanation.

  ‘You monkey!’ cried Katy, highly diverted. But she kept Rose's counsel, and I dare say some of the Hillsover girls believe in that wonderful album to this day.

  It was not long after that a sad piece of news came for Bella. Her father was dead. Their home was in Sorra, too far to allow of her returning for the funeral; so the poor little girl stayed at school, to bear her trouble as best she might. Katy, who was always kind to children, and had somewhat affected Bella from the first on account of her resemblance to Elsie in height and figure, was specially tender to her now, which Bella repaid with the gift of her whole queer little heart. Her affectionate demonstrations were rather of the monkey order, and not infrequently troublesome; but Katy was never otherwise than patient and gentle with her, though Rose, and even Clover, remonstrated on what they called this ‘singular intimacy’.

  ‘Poor little soul! it's so hard for her, and she's only eleven years old,’ she told them.

  ‘She has such a funny way of looking at you sometimes,’ said Rose, who was very observant. ‘It is just the air of a squirrel who has hidden a nut, and doesn't want you to find out where, and yet can hardly help indicating it with his paw. She's got something on her mind, I'm sure.’

  ‘Half a dozen things very likely,’ added Clover; ‘she's such a mischief.’

  But none of them guessed what this ‘something' was.

  Early in January Mrs Nipson announced that in four weeks she proposed to give a ‘soirée’, to which all young ladies whose records were entirely free from marks during the intervening period would be allowed to come. This announcement created great excitement, and the school set itself to be good; but marks were easy to get, and gradually one girl after another lost her chance, till by the appointed day only a limited party descended to join the festivities, and nearly half the school was left upstairs to sigh over past sins. Katy and Rose were among the unlucky ones. Rose had incurred a mark by writing a note in study hour, and Katy by being five minutes late to dinner. They consoled themselves by dressing Clover's hair, and making her look as pretty as possible, and then stationed themselves in the upper hall at the head of the stairs to watch her career, and get as much fun out of the occasion as they could.

  Pretty soon they saw Clover below on Professor Seccomb's arm. He was a kindly, pleasant man, with a bald head, and it was a fashion among the girls to admire him.

  ‘Doesn't she look pretty?’ said Rose. ‘Just look at Mrs Searles, Katy. She's grinning at Clover like a Cheshire cat. What a wonderful cap that is of hers! She had it when Sylvia was here at school, eight years ago.’

  ‘Hush! she'll hear you.’

  ‘No, she won't! There's Ellen beginning her piece. I know she's frightened by the way she plays. Hark! how she hurries the time!’

  ‘There! they're going to have refreshments, after all!’ cried Esther Dearborn, as trays of lemonade and cake-baskets appeared below on their way to the parlour. ‘Isn't it a shame to have to stay up here?’

  ‘Professor Seccomb! Professor!’ called Rose, in a daring whisper. ‘Take pity upon us. We are starving for a piece of cake.’

  The Professor gave a jump, then retreated, and looked upward. When he saw the circle of hungry faces peering down, he doubled up with laughter. ‘Wait a moment,’ he whispered back, and vanished into the parlour. Pretty soon the girls saw him making his way through the crowd with an immense slice of pound-cake in each hand.

  ‘Here, Miss Rose,’ he said, ‘catch it.
’ But Rose ran half-way downstairs, received the cake, dimpled her thanks, and retreated to the darkness above, whence sounds proceeded which sent the amused Professor into the parlour convulsed with suppressed laughter. Pretty soon Clover stole up the backstairs to report.

  ‘Are you having a nice time? Is the lemonade good? Who have you been talking with?’ inquired a chorus of voices.

  ‘Pretty nice. Everybody is very old. I haven't been talking to anybody in particular, and the lemonade is only cream-of-tartar water. I think it's jollier up here with you,’ replied Clover. ‘I must go now; my turn to play comes next.’ Down she ran.

  ‘Except for the glory of the thing, I think we're having more fun than she,’ answered Rose.

  Next week came St Valentine's Day. Several of the girls received valentines from home, and they wrote them to each other. Katy and Clover both had one from Phil, exactly alike, with the same purple bird in the middle of the page, and ‘I love you' printed underneath; and they joined in fabricating a gorgeous one for Rose, which was supposed to come from Potemkin de Montmorency, the hero of the album. But the most surprising valentine was received by Miss Jane. It came with others, while all the household were at dinner. The girls saw her redden and look angry, but she put the letter in her pocket, and said nothing.

  In the afternoon, it came out through Bella that ‘Miss Jane's letter was in poetry, and that she was just as cross as possible about it” Just before tea, Louisa came running down the Row, to No. 4, where Katy was sitting with Rose.

  ‘Girls, what do you think? That letter which Miss Jane got this morning was a valentine, the most dreadful thing, but so funny!’ She stopped to laugh.

  ‘How do you know?’ cried the other two.

  ‘Miss Marsh told Alice Gibbons. She's a sort of cousin, you know; and Miss Marsh often tells her things. She says Miss Jane and Mrs Nipson are furious, and are determined to find out who sent it. It was from Mr Hardhack, Miss Jane's missionary – or no, not from Mr Hardhack, but from a cannibal who had just eaten Mr Hardhack up; and he sent Miss Jane a lock of his hair, and the recipe the tribe cooked him by. They found him “very nice”, he said, and “he turned out quite tender”. That was one of the lines in the poem. Did you ever hear anything like it? Who do you suppose sent it?'

  ‘Who could it have been?’ cried the others. Katy had one moment's awful misgiving; but a glance at Rose's face, calm and innocent as a baby's, reassured her. It was impossible that she could have done this mischievous thing. Katy, you see, was not privy to that entry in Rose's journal, ‘Pay Miss Jane off'’, nor aware that Rose had just written underneath, ‘Did it. Feb. 14, 1869.’

  Nobody ever found out the author of this audacious valentine. Rose kept her own counsel, and Miss Jane probably concluded that ‘the better part of valour was discretion’, for the threatened inquiries were never made.

  And now it lacked but six weeks to the end of the term. The girls counted the days, and practised various devices to make them pass more quickly. Esther Dearborn, who had a turn for arithmetic, set herself to a careful calculation of how many hours, minutes, and seconds must pass before the happy time should come. Annie Silsbie strung forty-two tiny squares of cardboard on a thread, and each night slipped one off and burned it up in the candle. Others made diagrams of the time, with a division for each day, and every night scored off one with a sense of triumph. None of these devices made the time hasten. It never moved more slowly than now.

  But though Katy's heart bounded at the thought of home till she could hardly bear the gladness, she owned to Clover, ‘Do you know, much as I long to get away, I am half sorry to go! It is parting with something which we shall never have any more. Home is lovely, and I would rather be there than anywhere else; but if you and I live to be a hundred, we shall never be girls at boarding-school again.’

  13

  PARADISE REGAINED

  ‘Only seven days more to cross off,’ said Clover, drawing her pencil through one of the squares on the diagram pinned beside her looking-glass, ‘seven more, and then – oh, joy! – papa will be here, and we shall start for home.’

  She was interrupted by the entrance of Katy, holding a letter, and looking pale and aggrieved.

  ‘Oh, Clover,’ she cried, ‘just listen to this! Papa can't come for us. Isn't it too bad?’ And she read:

  ‘Burnet, March 20th

  ‘MY DEAR GIRLS

  ‘I find that it will not be possible for me to come for you next week, as I intended. Several people are severely ill, and old Mrs Barlow struck down suddenly with paralysis, so I cannot leave. I am sorry, and so will you be; but there is no help for it. Fortunately, Mrs Hall has just heard that some friends of hers are coming west-ward with their family, and she has written to ask them to take charge of you. The drawback to this plan is, that you will have to travel alone as far as Albany, where Mr Peters (Mrs Hall's friend) will meet you. I have written to ask Mr Page to see you in the train, and under the care of the guard, on Tuesday morning. I hope you will get through without embarrassment. Mr Peters will be at the station in Albany to receive you; or, if anything should hinder him, you are to drive at once to the Delavan House, where they are staying. I enclose a cheque for your journey. If Dorry were five years older, I should send him after you.

  ‘The children are most impatient to have you back. Miss Finch has been suddenly called away by illness of her sister-in-law, so Elsie is keeping house till your return.

  ‘God bless you, my dear daughters, and send you safe.

  ‘Yours affectionately,

  ‘P. CARR’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said Clover, with her lip trembling, ‘now papa won't see Rosy.’

  ‘No,’ said Katy, ‘and Rosy and Louisa, and the rest won't see him. That is the worst of all. I wanted them to so much. And just think how dismal it will be to travel with people we don't know. It's too – too bad, I declare.’

  ‘I do think old Mrs Barlow might have put off being ill just one week longer,’ grumbled Clover. ‘It takes away half the pleasure of going home.’

  The girls might be excused for being cross, for this was a great disappointment. There was no help for it, however, as papa said. They could only sigh and submit. But the journey, to which they had looked forward so much, was no longer thought of as a pleasure, only a disagreeable necessity, something which must be endured in order that they might reach home.

  Five, four, three days – the last little square was crossed off, the last dinner was eaten, the last breakfast. There was much mourning over Katy and Clover among the girls who were to return for another year. Louisa and Ellen Gray were inconsolable; and Bella, with a very small pocket-handkerchief held tightly in her hand, clung to Katy every moment, crying, and declaring that she would not let her go. The last evening she followed her into No. 2 (where she was dreadfully in the way of packing), and after various odd contortions and mysterious half-spoken sentences, she said –

  ‘Say, won't you tell if I tell you something?’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Katy, absently, as she folded and smoothed her best gown.

  ‘Something,’ repeated Bella, wagging her head mysteriously, and looking more like a thievish squirrel than ever.

  ‘Well, what is it? Tell me.’

  To Katy's surprise, Bella burst into a violent fit of crying.

  ‘I'm very sorry I did it,’ she sobbed – ‘very sorry! And now you'll never love me any more.’

  ‘Yes, I will. What is it? Do stop crying, Bella, dear, and tell me,’ said Katy, alarmed at the violence of the sobs.

  ‘It was for fun, really and truly it was. But I wanted some cake too,’ protested Bella, sniffing very hard.

  ‘What!’

  ‘And I didn't think anybody would know. Berry Searles doesn't care a bit for us little girls, only for big ones. And I knew if I said “Bella” he'd never give me the cake. So I said “Miss Carr” instead.’

  ‘Bella, did you write that note?’ inquired Katy, almost too surprised to speak.


  ‘Yes. And I tied a string to your blind, because I knew I could go in and draw it up when you were practising. But I didn't mean to do any harm; and when Mrs Florence was so cross, and changed your room, I was very sorry,’ moaned Bella, digging her knuckles into her eyes. ‘Won't you ever love me any more?’ she demanded.

  Katy lifted her into her lap, and talked so tenderly and seriously that her contrition, which was only half genuine, became real; and she cried in good earnest when Katy kissed her in token of forgiveness.

  ‘Of course, you'll go at once to Mrs Nipson,’ said Clover and Rose, when Katy imparted this surprising discovery.

  ‘No, I think not. Why should I? It would only get poor little Bella into a dreadful scrape, and she's coming back again, you know. Mrs Nipson does not believe that story now – nobody does. We have “lived it down”, just as I hoped we should. That is much better than having it contradicted.’

  ‘I don't think so; and I should enjoy seeing that little wretch of a Bella well whipped,’ persisted Rose.

  But Katy was not to be shaken.

  ‘To please me, promise that not a word shall be said about it,’ she urged; and to please her the girls consented.

  I think Katy was right in saying that Mrs Nipson no longer believed her guilty in the affair of the note. She had been very friendly to both the sisters of late; and when Clover carried in her album and asked for an autograph, she waxed quite sentimental and wrote, ‘I would not exchange the modest Clover for the most brilliant flower in our beautiful parterre, so bring it back I pray thee, to your affectionate teacher, Marianne Nipson’; which effusion quite overwhelmed ‘the modest Clover’, and called out the remark from Rose – ‘Don't she wish she may get you!’ Miss Jane said twice, ‘I shall miss you, Katy,’ a speech which, to quote Rose again, made Katy look as ‘surprised as Balaam’. Rose herself was not coming back to school. She and the girls were half broken-hearted at parting. They lavished tears, kisses, promises of letters, and vows of eternal friendship. Neither of them, it was agreed, was ever to love anybody else so well. The final moment would have been almost too tragical, had it not been for a last bit of mischief on the part of Rose. It was after the stage was actually at the door, and she had her foot upon the step that, struck by a happy thought, she rushed upstairs again, collected the girls, and, each taking a window, they tore down the cotton, flung open sashes, and startled Mrs Nipson, who stood below, by the simultaneous waving therefrom of many white flags. Katy, who was already in the stage, had the full benefit of this performance. Always after that, when she thought of the Nunnery, her memory recalled this scene – Mrs Nipson in the doorway, Bella blubbering behind, and overhead the windows crowded with saucy girls, laughing and triumphantly flapping the long cotton strip which had for so many months obscured the daylight for them all.