The Little Colonel at Boarding-School

by Annie F. Johnston

  CHAPTER II.

  A NEW FRIEND

  LLOYDSBORO SEMINARY was not an especially attractive place viewed fromthe outside of the high picket fence, which surrounded its entiredomain. The fence itself was forbidding. Its tall pickets, sharp-pointedand close together, seemed to suggest that strict rules were to be foundinside; rules like the pickets, too firm and pointed to be easily brokenthrough or climbed over.

  The building was old and weather-beaten, but in its prime the school hadbeen one of the best in the State, and many a woman remembered itloyally in after years when she had daughters of her own to educate. Soit happened that some of the pupils came long distances, and from manyparts of the country, to sit at the same old desks their mothers sat at,to study the same old lessons, and to learn to love every rock and treeon the seminary grounds, because of their associations with all the warmyoung friendships formed there.

  A group of maples and cedars stood between the seminary and the highgreen picket gate in front, with a score of rustic seats and woodenswings scattered about in their shade. On the east an old neglectedapple orchard sloped away from the house, where during the first fewweeks of school, hard juicy winesaps, russets, and bellflowers lay inhiding from the hungry schoolgirls, who searched for them in the tallgrass, waving knee-deep among the trees. On the other side, the highfence separated the grounds from the closely clipped lawn ofClovercroft, one of the hospitable old homesteads of the Valley, whosewide porches and vine-covered tower made a charming picture from thewestern windows of the seminary.

  The opening day of school was always a sort of gala occasion. No regularwork could be done, for pupils were continually coming in on the varioustrains to be registered and assigned to classes. After chapel exercisesthe day pupils were at liberty to go home, but it was a time-honouredcustom for them to adjourn to the apple orchard, to hold a reunion withall the last year's boarders who had returned.

  The swings and seats in front of the seminary were left for thenewcomers. Many a longing glance was cast toward the orchard by thestrangers, who, left thus inhospitably alone, made shy advances towardacquaintance among themselves. On the morrow they, too, might beincluded in the friendly little groups exchanging confidences with theirheads close together, and walking with their arms around each otherunder the gnarly old trees; but that they should be ignored the firstday was as binding as the unwritten "laws of the jungle."

  From her seat in the swing nearest the house, a new girl watched theothers swarming out from chapel, laughing and talking and calling tothose ahead to wait. The primary grades went racing through the warmmorning sunshine, down to their playhouses by the spring. The seniorsand juniors strolled off in opposite directions in dignifiedexclusiveness, to different parts of the orchard. Each group as itpassed attracted the new girl's attention, but her interest centred in adozen or more girls lingering on the front steps. Their ages seemed torange from twelve to fifteen years. They were evidently waiting for someone.

  "Why don't they hurry?" asked an impatient voice. "What's the matter?"

  "The matron stopped them," some one answered. "I heard her asking aboutsome bedding that was to be sent from Locust."

  It was nearly five minutes before some one interrupted a discussion thathad begun, to call "Here they come!" Then a chorus of calls began mostconfusing to the girl in the swing, who did not know the names of thenewcomers who seemed to be so popular.

  "I bid to walk with the Little Colonel!"

  "Come on, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, I'm waiting for you."

  "Hurry up, Betty! I've got something to tell you!"

  "Lloyd! Lloyd Sherman! Can't you hear? Is it really true that you aregoing to board here?"

  With the two girls in their midst, trying to explain to a dozendifferent questioners in the same breath, when and why they had becomeresident pupils, the noisy procession moved on. Only one was leftbehind, a pale-faced child in spectacles, who, in spite of all theirprotests, stood looking after them, insisting she must wait for SueBell.

  As the others moved away, the new girl beckoned to her with a friendlysmile. "You're Janie Clung, aren't you?" she asked, as the little girladvanced a few steps, and then stood awkwardly rubbing one foot againstthe other.

  "You see I couldn't help hearing your name. They spoke it so often. I amIda Shane, from Clay County. Won't you sit here in the swing with meuntil the girl you are waiting for comes out, and tell me somethingabout the school? It's so hard," she added, plaintively, "to be astranger in a place where everybody else has so many friends. You seemto know every one here. From the way they all begged you to go withthem, I imagine you must be very popular."

  Much flattered by this last remark from one so much older than herself,Janie climbed into the seat in the swing, opposite the girl from ClayCounty, and scrutinized her shyly.

  Ida Shane was very pretty, she decided. She must be nearly sixteen, ormaybe more, for she wore her dresses long and her hair in a soft, fluffypompadour. Then Janie's gaze wandered from her hair to a bewitchinglittle dimple that came at the corner of Ida's mouth when she smiled,and she thought to herself that the slow, soft drawl in which Ida spokewas exceedingly musical and ladylike. She found herself talking in alower tone than usual, and quite slowly, when she answered.

  "You know, I think it is always best to be very particular in choosingfriends when one goes to a new place," Ida remarked, in a confidentialtone, which seemed to insinuate that Janie could be safely chosen. "Idon't want to take up with everybody. That's why I want you to tell mewhich are the first families here in the Valley, and which are the girlswhose friendship is worth while having."

  Simple little Janie, who considered friendship with everybody worthhaving, looked puzzled.

  "Well, for instance, who were those two girls in white duck dresses whomyou were all waiting for so long? The one with the lovely long lighthair that they called Lloyd and the Little Colonel? Now _she's_aristocratic-looking, and all the girls seem to regard her as a sort ofleader. Tell me about her."

  "Oh, that's Lloyd Sherman," answered Janie. "I reckon you might say shebelongs to one of the first families. She lives in a perfectly beautifulplace called Locust. The Valley is named after some of her ancestors,and old Colonel Lloyd is her grandfather. 'Little Colonel' is just oneof her nicknames. She's had everything that heart could wish, and hasbeen to Europe. When she came back she brought a magnificent St. Bernarddog with her that had been trained as a Red Cross war-dog for theambulance service in the German army. They called him Hero, and he actedin a play they gave here last fall, called the 'Rescue of the PrincessWinsome.' I was one of the flower messengers in the play. Lloyd was thePrincess. She looked exactly like one that night. The dog saved her lifewhile they were in Switzerland, and when he died the family made as muchfuss over him as if he had been a person. He was buried with militaryhonours, and there is a handsome monument over his grave. I'll show itto you sometime, when we walk past Locust."

  Janie paused with a long breath. It was more of a speech than she wasaccustomed to making, but Ida had listened with such flatteringattention that it was easier to talk to her than to any one whom she hadever known.

  "I thought she was like that," remarked Ida, in an I-told-you-so tone."I rarely make mistakes in people. Now that other one they call Betty.She has a sweet face."

  "I should say she has!" cried Janie, warmly. "She's the dearest girl inschool. Everybody loves Betty Lewis. She is Mrs. Sherman's goddaughter,and lives at Locust too. She writes the loveliest poetry. Why, she wrotethat whole play of the Princess Winsome, and every one thought it waswonderful. Mr. Sherman had several copies of it printed and bound incarved leather. He gave one copy to the seminary library, so you canread it if you want to."

  "That'll be the first thing I shall draw from the library," said Ida,nodding approvingly at the account of Betty. "Then there's some one elseI want to ask about," she continued. "I was told that General Walton'sfamily lives here, and that his daughters go to this school. I don'tmind telling you, in confid
ence, you know, that that is what made myaunt finally decide to send me to this school instead of the one inFrankfort. Were they here this morning?"

  "Yes, and they are Lloyd's best friends. Maybe you noticed two girls inpink, with great dark eyes, lovely eyes, who walked off with her, one oneach side."

  "Yes, I wondered who they were."

  "The larger one was Allison and the other one Kitty. They live at TheBeeches. We walk past there nearly every day. Once, last year, MissEdith took some of us in there, and Mrs. Walton showed us all her curiosand relics. It is a fascinating place to visit. There are things fromall over the world in every room, and a story about each one."

  "How interesting!" smiled Ida, showing a glimpse of her dimple andpassing a slim hand, glittering with many rings, over her pompadour."You can't imagine how entertaining you are, Janie; tell me some more."

  With a slight movement of the foot she started the swing to swaying,and, leaning back in the seat with an air of attention, waited for Janieto go on. With such a listener, Janie was in a fair way to tell all sheknew, when Sue Bell appeared in the doorway, beckoning to her. She evenfelt a decided sense of annoyance at the interruption, although Sue Bellwas her dearest friend, so much was she enjoying Ida as an audience.

  "That new girl is perfectly lovely!" she declared to Sue Bell, as theymoved off together. She repeated the opinion so often after she reachedthe orchard, and had so much to say about Ida Shane's hair and IdaShane's dimple, and the stacks of rings she had, and the stylish clothesshe wore, that some of the girls exchanged amused glances. Kitty Waltonremarked in a teasing tone that she believed the new girl must havehoodooed Janie Clung, so that she couldn't do anything but sing herpraises.

  "You ought to be ashamed to talk that way, Kitty Walton," cried Janie,in angry defence of her new friend, "especially when she said such nicethings about your family being celebrities, and that was one reason heraunt sent her to this school, because the daughters of such a famousgeneral were pupils here. And she thinks Lloyd is so aristocratic-looking,and Betty awfully sweet, and so smart to write that play. And she said,even if you all are lots younger than herself, she'd rather have you forher friends than any of the seniors, because she could tell just bylooking at you that you belong to the best old families in the place."

  "What did she say about the rest of us?" cried Mittie Dupong, mockingly,winking at her nearest neighbour.

  Janie, turning in time to see the wink, answered shortly, "Nothing. Shedoesn't intend to make friends with _everybody_."

  It was an indiscreet speech, and the moment it was made she realizedthat it would be counted against Ida, instead of in her favour, as shehad intended it to be. Significant glances passed among those who hadnot been included in Ida's classification of celebrities or firstfamilies, and Mittie Dupong retorted, with a shrug of her shoulders,"Hm! Miss Shane may find that there are people in the world asparticular as herself. Who is _she_, anyway, that she should giveherself such airs?"

  No one answered the question, but there was sown at that moment in morethan one girl's mind a little seed of dislike which took deep root asthe days went by. But if Ida's thoughtlessly repeated speech worked herill in one way, it had an opposite effect with those whose favour shewished most to gain. Allison and Kitty met her with especialfriendliness when Janie stopped them at the swing, as they started homeat noon. It was pleasant for them to feel that she had been drawn to theschool partly on their account. It gave them a sense of importance theyhad never experienced before.

  Lloyd, too, unconsciously influenced by the flattering recollection thatshe had been singled out from all the others as aristocratic-looking,took especial care to be gracious when she found herself seated acrossfrom Ida at the dinner-table. The old pupils had been given their usualplaces, but Betty and Lloyd were among the newcomers.

  "Now I feel for the first time that I'm really away at bo'ding-school,"Lloyd said, with a smile, which included Ida in the conversation, as sheglanced down the long table, stretched the entire length of thedining-room. "It seems as if we might be hundreds of miles away fromhome instead of one. I can hardly believe that we are still inLloydsboro Valley. Betty, isn't it time for us to begin to feelhomesick?"

  "Not till dark comes," answered Betty. "Twilight is the regulation timein boarding-school stories."

  Lloyd smiled across at Ida. "Do you think you are going to be homesick?"

  "Oh, no, indeed!" answered Ida, in her slow, sweet voice. The dimplewhich had charmed Janie flashed into sight. "This is the fourthboarding-school I have been sent to. I am used to going to new places."

  "The fo'th!" exclaimed Lloyd, with surprised emphasis. A curious "Why?"almost slipped off her tongue, but she stopped it politely in themiddle, and managed to stammer instead, as she salted her soup, "Wh-whatfun you must have had!"

  "I have," answered Ida, with a glance toward the end of the table whereMiss Bina McCannister sat grim and watchful. "Sometime I'll tell youabout some of my adventures."

  As the dinner progressed, both Lloyd and Betty felt themselves yieldingto the soft charm of manner which had won little Janie Clung'sadmiration, and by the time they had finished their dessert they wereready to join in Janie's most enthusiastic praises of the new girl.

  "Do you know that my room is in the same wing with yours, just nextdoor?" Ida asked, as they rose from the table. "At least, I think so,for as I came down to dinner I saw some trunks being carried in there,marked E. L. L. and L. S."

  "I am so glad!" exclaimed Lloyd. "I wondered who we should have forneighbahs. Betty and I ran up there a few minutes this mawning, but thebeds and things mothah wanted us to use hadn't been sent ovah fromLocust, and it was so topsy-turvy we didn't stay."

  "I came yesterday," said Ida, as the three went up the stairs together,"so I've had time to investigate. I imagine we shall be able to do aboutas we please. You see, this wing of the house was added several yearsafter the main part was built, so there are four rooms on this floor,nicely cut off by themselves."

  She opened the door from the main corridor, and led the way into thenarrow side-hall which separated the four rooms from the rest of thehouse.

  "Several nights in the week the three of us will be here alone," shesaid. "This tiny room at the end belongs to that queer little MagnoliaBudine whom everybody laughed at this morning. She lives near enough theseminary to go home every Friday night and stay till Monday morning. Thethree Clark sisters have this big room next to hers, and they go home tospend Sundays, too. By the way, wasn't it ridiculous the way MissMcCannister got their names all balled up this morning in the historydivision, trying to say _Carrie Clark_, _Clara Clark_, _Cora Clark_?"

  "It was funny," laughed Lloyd. "Kitty Walton whispered to me that theyought to be called the triplets, because every one trips and stuttahsovah their names. It's as bad as trying to say 'Six slim, slick, silvahsaplings.'"

  They had reached the third room by this time, the door of which stoodopen. "This is ours," said Lloyd. "The very same one mothah had one termwhen she was a girl."

  She paused on the threshold, looking around the large, airy apartment,well pleased.

  "I wonder if the outside stairway was built when she was here," saidIda. "I discovered it yesterday."

  "I nevah heard her say anything about it," said Lloyd. "Where is it?"

  "This way," answered Ida, leading them past her own room, which camenext, and pushing aside a heavy portiere which covered a door at theopposite end of the hall from Magnolia Budine's room.

  "The matron told me that a slight fire in the school, one time, led tothe building, of this extra means of escape, but the girls are forbiddento use the stairs for any other purpose."

  "Let's open it," proposed Lloyd, daringly, fumbling with the bolt, whichhad lain so long unused that it had rusted in its socket. It movedstiffly with a grating sound as she pushed it back. The door swung openon to a small, uncovered landing, from which an open staircase descendedto the rear of the kitchen.

  "I've often seen these
steps from the outside," said Lloyd, "but Ididn't know where they led to. No, I nevah heard mothah speak of them.Isn't it fun to have a secret stairway of our own! Why do you supposethey have a curtain ovah the doah?"

  "To hide it," said Betty, wisely, "so that the daily sight of it willnot put it into our naughty heads to make use of it, and prowl around atnights. They evidently think 'How oft the sight of means to do illdeeds makes ill deeds done.' So they cover it up."

  "That's from Shakespeare, isn't it?" asked Ida. "I'd give anything if Icould make appropriate quotations like that, but I never think of theright thing till it's too late. But then, I suppose it comes easy to anyone smart enough to write as you do. I am so anxious to read that playof yours, 'The Rescue of the Princess Winsome.' I was told that there isa copy in the library. Your room ought to be called 'Sweet Peas,' sinceit belongs to a princess and a poetess."

  Betty blushed with pleasure. They had bolted the door again and werestanding in front of their room, as Ida proposed the name of Sweet Peas.

  "It is kind of you to give us such a sweet name for our room," saidLloyd. "Will you come in while we unpack?"

  "No, thank you," was the answer. "I have some letters to write beforefour o'clock. That is the time, I believe, when we all have to turn outtogether for a walk." She turned away, but came back to ask,hesitatingly, "There's one thing I'd like to ask, Lloyd; do you mind ifI call you Princess instead of Lloyd? The Princess Winsome? That nameseems to suit you so well. The first thing I noticed about you was theproud little way you lift your head. You carry yourself like one."

  A bright colour swept across Lloyd's face. "Of co'se I don't mind," shesaid, "and it is deah of you to care to call me that."

  When Ida went back to her own room, it was with the comfortable feelingthat she had left a very agreeable impression behind her.

  "Isn't she a darling!" exclaimed Lloyd, enthusiastically, when she andBetty were alone, with their door closed. "She is pretty and stylish,and certainly has lovely mannahs. Besides, she is as sma'ht as can be,and mighty entahtaining. I've taken a great fancy to her."

  "So have I," admitted Betty. "I love to sit and watch her. The leastthing she says in that soft, slow way sounds sweet. I am so glad thather room is next to ours."

  Mrs. Sherman had advised taking few furnishings to the seminary, butLloyd insisted that they could not feel that they were really away atboarding-school unless they had all that goes to equip a modern collegegirl's room. So pictures and posters, sofa-pillows and book-racks werecrowded into the overflowing trunks. A chafing-dish, a well-furnishedtea-basket, a dainty chocolate-pot, and a mandolin were brought over inthe carriage that took Mrs. Sherman to the depot. Both girls were keptbusy until four o'clock, finding places to put their numerouspossessions. Neither one realized how far she had passed under the spellof the new pupil, but unconsciously every picture they hung and everyarticle they unpacked was located with a thought of her approval.

  Once as Lloyd passed the mirror, when Betty's back was turned, shepaused to look at her reflection with the pleased consciousness that Idahad spoken the truth; that she did hold her head proudly and carryherself well. And Betty several times passed her hand up over the browncurls on her forehead, recalling the graceful gesture of the white,heavily ringed hand. While she tacked up posters and put away clothes,she chattered busily with Lloyd, but through her thoughts, like anundercurrent to their conversation, ran a few musical lines suggested bythe white hands and low voice. An "Ode to Ida" had already begun toweave itself into shape in her busy little brain.

  A few minutes before the gong sounded, summoning the girls to the firstof their daily walks, Ida tapped on the door. She had only stopped toask a question about the rules, she said, and must run back and put onher hat; but catching sight of a picture of the long avenue at Locust,which hung over Lloyd's bed, she crossed the room to examine it.

  "You've made a perfect love of a room with all these handsome things,"she said, looking around admiringly. "But"--she scanned the fewphotographs on the mantel, and the two on the dressing-table in theirframes of beaten silver--"it seems so queer, you know. You haven't thepicture of a single boy. Didn't you bring any?"

  "No!" answered Lloyd, in surprise. "Why should I?"

  "But you have some at home, haven't you?" persisted Ida.

  "Yes, I have lovely ones of Allison Walton's cousins, Malcolm and KeithMacIntyre, taken in the costumes they wore as 'two little knights ofKentucky.' And I have one of Ranald Walton taken in his captain'suniform, and nearly a dozen of Rob Moore. He's given me one whenevahhe's had them taken, from the time he wore kilts and curls."

  "My _dear_!" exclaimed Ida. "Why didn't you bring them? They would havebeen such an addition."

  "Because I don't want any boy's pictuah stuck up on my dressing-table. Ilike to have them, because they've been my playmates always, and whenwe're grown up I'd like to remembah just how they looked, but that's noreason I want my walls plastahed with them now."

  "What an original little thing you are, Princess," exclaimed Ida, with alaugh, which would have nettled Lloyd had not the compliment and thetitle taken away its sting. "Come into my room and see how my walls areplastered, as you call it."

  Lloyd stared around in astonishment when Ida threw open her door. Boyishfaces looked back at her from every side. Handsome ones, homely ones, ingroups, in pairs, framed and unframed, strung together with ribbons, orstuck in behind Japanese fans. Added to all the other pictures of girlsshe had known in the three boarding-schools which she had attended, itgave the room the appearance of a photograph gallery.

  "Well!" exclaimed Lloyd, at length, after a long, slow survey, "I don'tsee what you want them for." Unconsciously her head took the haughtyuplift which Ida had admired.

  "For the same reason that an Indian hangs up all the scalp-locks hetakes, I suppose," drawled Ida, sweetly. "Of course, you're young yet.You don't understand. But you'll look at things differently when you areas near 'sweet sixteen' as I am, Princess."

  Again that flattering title took the sting out of the patronizing mannerwhich Lloyd otherwise would have resented. Was it only the afternoonbefore, she wondered, that she had cried out to the friendly old locustsher longing to be a child always?

  As Ida crossed the room with a graceful sweep of long skirts, andsettled her hat with its clusters of violets jauntily over her fluffypompadour, there stole into the Little Colonel's heart, for the firsttime, a vague desire; a half-defined wish that she, too, were as nearthe borders of grown-up land as "sweet sixteen."