A Pair of Schoolgirls - Angela Brazil (nonfiction book recommendations txt) 📗

a member of which she was justly proud. Her inclusion in this, though a supreme satisfaction, brought the penalty of added work. She was expected to learn parts and submit to severe drilling at rehearsals, the standard required being greatly above what had contented the Upper Fourth.

The Union was looking forward to shortly displaying its talent on the occasion of the school festival. This was to be held on the twelfth of May, partly because it was the anniversary of the laying of the foundation stone of the present building, and partly because, being old May Day, it gave an opportunity for many quaint and charming methods of celebration.

Miss Tempest, who loved to revive bygone customs, had introduced maypole plaiting, morris dances, and other ancient "joyous devices" at the school, and the girls had taken them up with enthusiasm. At this festival, instead of giving dances and May Day carols, such as had been popular for the last year or two, the Dramatic Union was to act a floral pageant called "The Masque of the Blossoms", a pretty performance in which interesting old catches and madrigals were included, and many historical and emblematical characters represented. Miss Hicks, the singing mistress, undertook the direction of the musical part of the piece, and coached the girls at private practices in the songs.

Dorothy, after the allotment of the parts, came home brimming over with excitement.

"It's the most delightful, quaint thing, Auntie! 'Queen Elizabeth' is in it, and 'Raleigh' and 'Spenser', as well as 'Venus' and two nymphs, and the spirit of the woodlands. The songs are charming. I know you'll like 'Now is the month of maying' and 'The trees all budding'. Nora Burgess is to be 'Leader of the Masque', and Ottilia Partington is 'Spring'. And oh, Auntie! what do you guess is my part? I'm to be 'Queen of the Daffodils'! It lay between me and Vera Norland; we both knew the words equally well, so we drew lots, and I won. I've brought a book to show you what the costume must be. Look! it gives a picture."

"It's extremely pretty, but it seems rather elaborate," said Miss Sherbourne, scanning the dainty creation figured in the illustration with an eye to its home-dressmaking possibilities.

"Do you think so? The green part's to be made of satin, and the skirt underneath is all folds of soft yellow silk, to represent petals. Then there are wreaths of artificial daffodils, and a veil of gauze covered with gold sequins."

"Perhaps we can copy it in sateen and art muslin," said Aunt Barbara.

"Auntie! It ought to be real silk and satin! It won't look anything if it's only made of cheap materials."

"But I can't afford to buy dearer ones for a costume that will only be used once."

"Muriel, and Fanny, and Olga, who are taking the other flowers, are having beautiful things made at a dressmaker's," returned Dorothy rather sulkily.

"I dare say; but that doesn't make it any easier for us."

"I can't be the only one in a cheap dress!" burst out Dorothy. "Oh, Auntie, you might let me have something nice, just for once! It's too bad that I never get anything like other girls."

"You don't know what you ask, Dorothy," said Miss Sherbourne, with a pained tone in her voice. "I do all for you that's in my power. It hurts me to deny you even more than it hurts you to go without what you want. No, I can't promise anything; you must learn to realize what a small margin we have for luxuries."

Dorothy flung down the book and rushed upstairs to her bedroom. She was thoroughly out of temper, and hot tears started to her eyes. She had set her heart on making a good effect as "Queen of the Daffodils". It was an important part in the Masque, and she was extremely triumphant that the lot had fallen to her. To act at the College Anniversary was a great honour, and Dorothy knew that Hope Lawson and Valentine Barnett, neither of whom was included this time, would have been only too delighted to have her chance.

"They envy me ever so much, and it will make them extra-censorious," she thought. "They'll turn up their noses dreadfully if I only wear a costume of sateen and art muslin."

To Dorothy, who had not yet forgotten her disappointment at losing the election for the Wardenship, and who was always on the defensive against real or imaginary slights, this occasion of the festival seemed a unique opportunity of asserting her position in the school. She knew, from former experience, how the girls discussed and criticized the dresses worn by the players, and what elaborate and expensive costumes were often provided: many beautiful accessories in the way of scenery were generally lent by parents of the pupils, and the whole performance was on a very handsome scale. To be one of the masquers in this year's pageant would increase her social standing, and magnify her importance in her Form as nothing else could possibly do. She pictured the triumph of the scene, the select company of picked actors on the platform, the music, the flowers, and the lovely effects of colour grouping. The large lecture hall would be filled to overflowing with pupils and guests. Alison's uncle would no doubt be there, and Percy and Eric Helm. She would like them to see her as "Queen of the Daffodils". She might give three "performer's invitations", so she could ask Dr. and Mrs. Longton as well as Aunt Barbara. Oh, it would be the event of her life! But how was all this to happen if she could not be provided with a suitable costume?

"What it comes to is this," she said to herself. "The thing, to be done at all, ought to be done well; the girls will laugh at me if I turn up in sateen, with sixpence-halfpenny bunches of daffodils. I'd rather not act if I can't have a nice dress. Aunt Barbara might manage it somehow."

Dorothy did her lessons in her den that evening, although there was no fire and the weather was still cold. She came down to supper so moody and unresponsive that Miss Sherbourne, after a vain attempt at conversation, gave up the effort, and the meal passed almost in silence. The subject of the Masque was not mentioned by either.

Dorothy cried bitterly in bed that night, hot scalding tears of disappointment—tears that did not soften and relieve her grief, but only made it harder to bear; and she woke next morning with a splitting headache.

"Have you finished with this book, Auntie?" she said after breakfast, taking up the ill-fated catalogue of costumes, which had been left the night before on the sideboard.

"You might leave it for a day or two, if Miss Hicks can spare it," replied Miss Sherbourne. "There is still plenty of time before May the twelfth."

"What's the matter with Dorothy?" said Mavie Morris that morning at school. "She's so glum and cross, one can't get a civil word from her. When I mentioned the pageant, she nearly snapped my head off."

"Tantrums again, I suppose," said Ruth Harmon, shrugging her shoulders. "The best plan is to leave her alone till she comes out of them. You ought to know Dorothy Greenfield by this time."

"You shouldn't tease her," said Grace Russell.

"I didn't. I only asked her what her dress was to be like, and she told me to mind my own business. All those who are acting are just full of their costumes. They talk of nothing else."

"Is Dorothy's going to be a nice one?" asked Ruth.

"I don't know; she wouldn't tell me anything. Dorothy doesn't generally have handsome things, does she?"

"No; she's one of the plainest-dressed girls in the Form."

"But she'll surely come out in something decent for the Masque! She must, you know."

"Perhaps that's the rub—poor Dorothy!" murmured Grace Russell.

When Dorothy returned home that afternoon she found Miss Sherbourne busy at her writing table. Generally all papers were cleared away before tea-time, and Aunt Barbara was ready to help with lessons, or play games and chat afterwards; to-day, however, she instituted a new regime.

"I am going to write in the evenings now," she said, "so you must be quiet, dear, and not disturb me. I have a piece of work that I particularly want to finish."

Dorothy prepared her German translation and learned her Latin vocabularies, then, taking up a volume of Scott, began to read. It was rather dull with only the scratching of Aunt Barbara's pen to break the silence. She missed their usual game of chess and their pleasant talk. It seemed so extraordinary not to be allowed to say a single word. The next evening and the next the programme was the same. Except at meal times, Dorothy hardly had the opportunity of exchanging ideas with Aunt Barbara. She did not like the innovation.

"Auntie does nothing but write—write—write the whole time," she complained to Martha.

"Yes; she's overdoing it entirely, and I've told her so!" returned Martha indignantly. "She's at it from morning till night, and then she's not finished, for she's sitting up to the small hours. There's no sense in fagging like that. You can't burn a candle at both ends."

"Then why does she?" questioned Dorothy.

"That's what I asked her. She's not strong enough to stand it. She's been ill again lately, and if she doesn't mind she'll have a breakdown."

"Auntie, won't you go to bed early too?" suggested Dorothy, as she said good night, looking rather anxiously at the pale face bent over the papers. Miss Sherbourne put her hand to her head wearily.

"I can't. I must make a push and put in a certain number of hours' work, or these articles will never be finished in time. If I can send them in by the second, and they are accepted, I may possibly get a cheque for them at once. That would just give us time before the twelfth. We can't buy silks and satins without the wherewithal, can we?"

"Oh, Auntie! are you slaving like this for me?" exclaimed Dorothy. "Can't we get the dress any other way?"

"No, dear; I can't afford it out of the house-keeping money, and it is one of my rules never to run into debt for anything. Don't worry; another day will see me through, and I think the editor of the Coleminster Gazette will like the articles—they're better than the ones he accepted last year."

Dorothy went upstairs uneasy and dissatisfied with herself. Aunt Barbara's good-night kiss had roused something that had been slumbering for a long time. Thoughts that the girl had suppressed lately began to make themselves heard, and to clamour loudly and reproachfully. She tried to put them away, but they refused to be dismissed. With her eyes shut tight in bed, she seemed to see a vision of Aunt Barbara's tired face as she sat working, working so painfully hard in the sitting-room below.

"And for me—always for me—never for herself," reflected Dorothy. "She hasn't bought a new dress of her own this spring, though she needs one badly."

She looked with compunction next morning at Miss Sherbourne's pale cheeks.

"Does your head ache, Auntie?"

"Yes. I haven't been quite well lately, but I expect it will pass. You shall buy me some phenacetin powders in town; they always do my head good. Dr. Longton recommended them."

"She looks more fit to be in bed than at her writing table," thought Dorothy, as she left the room, armed with the necessary prescription. She hurried away from school at four o'clock in order to give herself time to call at the chemist's, and ran anxiously into the house on her return, bearing the packet of powders in triumph.

"Sh! Sh! Don't make a noise," said Martha, coming from the kitchen. "Your aunt's lying down. I told her it would