"I've been a wicked girl! Oh, Dorothy! I've been so mean to you! And all the time you show me kindness. Are you trying to 'heap coals' on my head?"

"'Heap coals?'" echoed Dolly, at first not comprehending; then she laughed. "I couldn't do that. I have none to 'heap' and I'd be horrid if I tried. What do you mean?"

"It began the night you came. I made up things about you in my mind and then told them to our 'set' for facts. I'd--I'd had trouble with the 'set' because they would not remember about--about keeping ourselves apart from those who hadn't t.i.tles. I felt we ought to remember; that if our England had made 'cla.s.ses' we ought to help her, loyally. That was the first feeling, way down deep. Then--then I don't get liked as I want to be, because I can't help knowing things about other girls and if they break the rules I felt I ought to tell the teachers. Somehow, even they don't like that; for the Lady Princ.i.p.al about as plain as called me 'tale-bearer.' I hate--oh! I do hate to tell you all this! But I can't help it. Something inside me makes me, but I'm so miserable!"

She looked the fact she stated and Dorothy's sympathy was won, so that she begged:

"Don't do it, then. Just get well and--and carry no more tales and you'll be happy right away."

"It's easy to talk--for you, maybe. For me, I'd almost rather die than own I've been at fault--if it wasn't for that horrid, sick sort of feeling inside me."

In spite of herself the listener laughed, for Gwendolyn had laid her hands upon her stomach as if locating the seat of her misery. She asked merrily:

"Is it there we keep our consciences? I never knew before and am glad to find out."

But Gwendolyn didn't laugh. She was an odd sort of girl, and always desperately earnest in whatever she undertook. She had made up her mind she must confess to the "Commoner" the things she had done against her; she was sincerely sorry for them now, but she couldn't make that confession gracefully. She caught her breath as if before a plunge into cold water and then blurted out:

"I told 'our set' that you were Dawkins's niece! I said you were a disgrace to the school and one of us would have to leave it. But Mamma wouldn't take _me_ and I couldn't make _you_ go. I got mad and jealous. Everybody liked you, except the girls I'd influenced. The Bishop petted you--he never notices me. Miss Tross-Kingdon treats you almost as lovingly as she does Millikins-Pillikins. All the servants smile on you and n.o.body is afraid of you as everybody is of me.

Dawkins, and sometimes even Mamma, accuses me of a 'sharp tongue'

that makes enemies. But, somehow, I can't help it. And the worst is--one can't get back the things one has said and done, no matter how she tries. Then you went and saved my life!"

At this, the strange girl covered her face and began to cry, while Dorothy stared at her, too surprised to speak. Until the tears changed to sobs and Gwendolyn shook with the stress of her emotion. Then, fearing serious results, Dorothy forgot everything except that here was someone in distress which she must soothe. Down on her knees she went, flung her arms around the shaking shoulders, and pleaded:

"Well, you poor dear, can't you be glad of that? Even if you can never like me isn't it good to be alive? Aren't you grateful that somebody who could swim, even poor I, was at the pool to help you out of it that day? Forget it, do forget it, and get well and happy right away.

I'll keep away from you as far as I can and you must forgive me for coming here again just now."

"Forgive you? Forgive you! Oh! Dorothy Calvert, can you, will you ever forgive me? After all my meanness to you, could you make yourself like me just a little?"

Gwendolyn's own arms had now closed in eager entreaty about the girl she had injured. Her pride was humbled at last and completely. But there was no need of further speech between them. They clung together in their suddenly awakened affection, at peace and so happy that neither felt it possible they had ever been at odds.

When, at last, Dorothy drew back and rose, Gwen still clung to her hand, and penitently said:

"But that isn't all. There's a lot more to tell that, maybe, will make you despise me worse than ever. I've done--"

"No matter what, dearest. You've talked quite enough for to-night and Dorothy should be in bed. Bid one another good night, my dears, and meet again to-morrow;" interrupted Lady Jane, who had quietly returned.

So Dorothy departed, and with a happier heart than she had had since her coming to Oak Knowe; for now there was n.o.body there with whom she was at discord.

But--was there not?

Gayly tripping down the long corridor, humming a merry air and hoping that she hadn't yet broken the retiring-rule, she stopped short on the way. Something or somebody was far ahead of her, moving with utmost caution against noise, yet himself, or itself, making a peculiar rat-a-tat-tat upon the polished boards.

Instantly Dorothy hushed her light song and slackened her steps. The pa.s.sage was dimly lighted for it was rarely used, leading as it did to the distant servants' quarters and ending in a great drying-room above the laundry. Even this drying-room was almost given up to the storage of trunks and other things, the laundry itself being more convenient for all its requirements.

Rumors came back to her of the burglaries which the kitchen-folk had declared had been frequent of late, none more serious than the loss of a dinner provided and the strange rifling of safes and cupboard. Such had happened weeks before, then apparently ceased; but they had begun again of late; with added rumors of strange noises heard at night, and in the quieter hours of the day.

The faculty had tried to keep these fresh rumors from the pupils'

ears, but they had leaked out. Yet no real investigation had been made. It was a busy household, both above and below stairs; and as is usual, what is "everybody's business is n.o.body's" and things were left to run their course.

But now, was the burglar real? And had Dorothy come suddenly upon his track? If she only could find out!

Without fear of consequences to herself and forgetful of that retiring-rule she tip-toed noiselessly in the wake of whatever was in advance, and so came at last to the door of the drying-room. It stood ajar and whatever had preceded her pa.s.sed beyond it as the girl came to it.

She also entered, curiosity setting every nerve a-tingle, yet she still unafraid. Stepping behind the open door she waited what next, and trying to accustom her eyes to the absolute darkness of the place.

The long row of windows on the outer wall were covered by wooden shutters, as she had noticed from the ground, and with them closed the only light which could enter came through a small scuttle, or skylight in the center of the ceiling.

From her retreat behind the door she listened breathlessly. The rat-a-tat-tat had died away in the distance, whither she now dared not follow because of the darkness; and presently she heard a noise like the slipping of boards in a cattle shed.

Then footsteps returning, swiftly and softly, as of one in bare or stockinged feet. There was a rush past her, the door to which she clung was s.n.a.t.c.hed from her and shut with a bang. This sound went through her with a thrill, and vividly there arose the memory of a night long past when she had been imprisoned in an empty barn, by the wild freak of an old acquaintance of the mountain, and half-witted Peter Piper for sole companion. Then swiftly she felt her way back along the door till her hand was on its lock--which she could not move. Here was a situation suitable, indeed, for any Hallowe'en!

CHAPTER IX

THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED

It was long past the hour when, on ordinary nights, Oak Knowe would have been in darkness, relieved only by a glimmer here and there, at the head of some stairway, and in absolute stillness.

But the Hallowe'en party had made everything give way and the servants were up late, putting the great a.s.sembly Hall into the spotless order required for the routine of the next day.

Nut sh.e.l.ls and scattered pop corn, apple-skins that had been tossed over the merrymakers' shoulders to see what initial might be formed, broken masks that had been discarded, fragments of the flimsy costumes, splashes of spilled cider, scattered crumbs and misplaced furniture, made Dawkins and her aids lift hands in dismay as, armed with brooms and scrubbing brushes they came to "clear up."

"Clear up, indeed! Never was such a mess as this since ever I set foot at Oak Knowe. After the sweepin' the scrubbin'; and after the scrubbin' the polishin', and the chair fetchin' and--my heart! 'Tis the dear bit la.s.sie she is, but may I be further afore Dorothy Dixie gets up another Hallowe'en prank!" grumbled Dawkins, yet with a tender smile on her lips, remembering the thousand and one trifles which the willing girl had done for her.

For Dawkins was growing old. Under her maid's cap the hair was thin and gray, and stooping to pick up things the girls had carelessly thrown down was no longer an easy task.

The rules against carelessness were stringent enough and fairly well obeyed, yet among three hundred lively girls some rules were bound to be ignored. But from the first, as soon as she understood them, Dorothy had been obedient to all these rules; and it was Dawkins's pride, when showing visitors through the building to point to Dolly's cubicle as a model. Here was never an article left out of place; because not only school regulations but real affection for the maid, who had been her first friend at Oak Knowe, made Dorothy "take care."

Then busy at their tasks, the workers talked of the evening's events and laughingly recalled the incident of the goat, which they had witnessed from the upper gallery; a place prepared for them by the good Bishop's orders, that n.o.body at his great school should be prohibited from enjoying a sight of the pupils' frequent entertainments.

"But sure, 'tis that lad, Jack, which frets me as one not belongin' to Oak Knowe," said Dora, with conviction.

"Not belonging? Why, woman alive, he's been here longer nor yourself.

'Twas his mother that's gone, was cook here before the _chef_ and pity for his orphaned state the reason he's stayed since. But I own ye, he's not been bettered by his summers off, when the school's not keepin' and him let work for any farmer round. I note he's a bit more prankish an' disobliging, every fall when he comes back. For some curious reason--I can't dream what--he's been terrible chummy with Miss Gwendolyn. Don't that beat all?" said Dawkins whirling her brush.

"I don't know--I don't really know as 'tis. He's forever drawing pictures round of every created thing, and she's come across him doin'

it. She's that crazy for drawing herself that she's likely took an int'rest in him. I heard her puttin' notions in his head, once, tellin' him how 't some the greatest painters ever lived had been born just peasants like him."

"Huh! Was that what made him so top-lofty and up-steppin'? When I told him he didn't half clean the young ladies' shoes, tossin' his head like the simpleton he is, and saucin' back as how he wouldn't be a boot-boy all his life. I'd find out one these days whom I'd been tongue-lashin' so long and'd be ashamed to look him in the face. Huh!"

added another maid.

"Well, why bother with such as him, when we've all this to finish, and me to go yet to my dormitory to see if all's right with my young ladies," answered Dawkins and silence fell, till the task was done and the great room in the perfect order required for the morning.

Then away to her task above hurried good Dawkins and coming to Dorothy's cubicle found its bed still untouched and its light brightly burning. The maid stared and gasped. What did this mean? Had harm befallen her favorite?

Then she smiled at her own fears. Of course, Dorothy was in the room with little Grace, where the cot once prepared for her still remained because the child had so begged; in "hopes I'll be sick some more and Dolly'll come again." So Dawkins turned off the light and hurried to her reclining chair in the outer hall, where she usually spent the hours of her watch.