CHAPTER VII
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
One morning, late in October, there was great excitement at HighlandHall. It was just at recess time and all the girls (except Maude Wilderand Debbie Clark who were under the porch foraging for pie) were on theveranda or the graveled walk. Two new pupils were arriving. They werenot together for they came in separate hacks. The first was a large girlof fourteen who, followed by a small, meek father, marched fearlessly upthe steps and looked each girl straight in the eye until she reachedSallie Dickinson, who stood in the doorway, smiling a welcome.
"I'm Victoria Webster of Iowa," said she, "and I've come here to school.Where's Doctor What d'ye-callum? I've come here after an education and Iwant it right away."
And then Victoria deliberately turned and winked at the Miller girls; areal wink, with one bold blue eye wide open, the other shut. Victoria,the surprised girls perceived, was as fresh as a breeze from her ownprairie, and they were instantly prepared to enjoy her.
The other hack disgorged its contents. An overdressed woman inridiculous shoes stepped out; an overdressed girl in even moreridiculous shoes followed her. The girl, fair-haired and exceedinglyfluffy was almost as violently perfumed as Madame Bolande herself.
Jean, Marjory, Bettie and Mabel glanced casually at this second youngperson and suddenly gasped. They had received a jolt. Then they lookedinquiringly at one another and back again at the girl. They couldn'tquite believe their eyes.
"What's her name?" demanded Marjory, when Sallie, who had escorted thelast newcomers inside returned to the porch.
"Gladys de Milligan, of Milwaukee," returned Sallie, holding her nose."Her father must be a perfume factory."
The Lakeville girls looked at one another again.
"Gladys de Milligan," breathed Marjory.
"Laura Milligan!" gasped Mabel. "Of all things, Laura Milligan!"
"Hush," warned Jean, a finger on her lips. "Come down on the lawn. We'llhave to talk this over by ourselves."
"It's Laura all right," said Bettie. "Her hair's a lot lighter than itused to be and she's taller and much more elegant; but it's the sameturned up nose and the same twisty shoulders and the same small eyes,too close together."
"And the same horrid mother," said Mabel. "What shall we do?"
"Let's not do anything," counseled wise Jean. "Let's wait and see if sherecognizes us."
"Perhaps anybody as grand as that," offered Marjory, hopefully,"wouldn't _want_ to know plain blue serge folks like us. Of course wewouldn't exactly want the Highland Hall girls to think she was an oldfriend of ours--"
"She _wasn't_," said Mabel, emphatically.
"Well," argued Jean, "perhaps Laura has changed--certainly she haschanged her name. It wouldn't be quite fair or kind for us to tell theother girls the things we know about her. We can wait until we have herby herself before we seem to recognize her. And maybe she has improved--"
"She needed to," said Marjory, sagely. "Shan't we even tell Henrietta?"
"I don't believe we need to," returned Jean. "Henrietta won't like heranyway. She's too--well, too cheap. She isn't Henrietta's kind, youknow."
"The Milligans must have made money," said Marjory. "They hadn't anysuch clothes in Lakeville."
"Lakeville would have dropped dead if they had," giggled Bettie.
At first "Gladys" pretended not to recognize the little girls with whomshe had once played in Lakeville; but, needing some one to show her theway to a class room, she waylaid Marjory in the hall and called her byname.
"Now, listen," warned Gladys, shifting her gum to the other side of hermouth. "Don't let anybody hear you calling me Laura. It isn't my nameany more. I always hated that name and Milligan, too. Mother calls meGladys--Gladys Evelyn de Milligan."
"What's the 'D' for," asked honest Marjory.
"That's French," explained Laura. "It's d e, _de_."
"But Milligan isn't French."
"It's more elegant that way," explained Laura, shifting her gum again."We're society people now. It looks better in print when Mother's 'Amongthose present.' Now listen. Now that you know my name, see that youremember it. And tell those other Lakeville girls they can do the samething."
Although the Miller girls' father supplied the world with soap, althoughthree continents ate the breakfast food that Hazel Benton's unclemanufactured, no one at Highland Hall paraded her wealth and herso-called "Social standing" as vulgar little Gladys de Milligan paradedhers. She was always painted and powdered and overdressed; she wasreckless with her spending money, snobbish and artificial to the veryfinal degree; yet, fortunately for gum-chewing Laura, there were girlswho seemed to like her.
Most of the girls, however, liked Victoria Webster much better. To besure Victoria had her faults, but they were pleasanter faults thanLaura's. Every one of the youngsters admired and tried to imitateVictoria's marvelously perfect wink. Maude came the nearest to achievingsuccess; and little Lillian Thwaite failed the most dismally.
"Don't try it on a cold day," warned Victoria, "you might freeze thatway, Lillian, with your mouth half way up your cheek and your nose in aknot."
It was a joy to see Victoria and Maude play ball. They went at itprecisely like a pair of boys. And Victoria shared Maude's affection forpie.
Madame Bolande liked Gladys Evelyn de Milligan but sarcastic MissWoodruff did not. When she called upon that young person in class, shefrequently pretended that she had forgotten her name, so that one day,to the great amusement of her classmates, Laura would be called AmbrosiaNectarine and the next Miss Woodruff would address her as VerbenaHeliotrope, Gladiolus Violet or Lucretia Calliopsis or something elseequally ridiculous; but a new one for every occasion. This, of course,wasn't exactly kind or even quite courteous; but it is safe to say thatGladys Evelyn began to regret having changed and embellished her plainif not beautiful name. Perhaps, before Miss Woodruff had entirelyexhausted her supply of fancy names, poor Gladys Evelyn may have enviedlittle Jane Pool. No one ever forgot or pretended to forget Jane's verybrief and very plain name, except Doctor Rhodes, who forgot everybody's.
Jane was a small girl with a very bright, eager face, smooth brown hairand a great deal of character. Just about everybody liked Jane.
"Are you related to those grand Chicago Pools?" asked Gladys Evelyn oneday, as she peeled a fresh stick of gum.
"Mercy, no," returned Jane, who had listened for a weary half hour toLaura's tales about her own wonderful people. "There's nothing grandabout _us_--we're just plain Pools--little common Pools like mud puddles.No limousines, no diamonds, no ancestors. Just three meals a day and abed at night. We're just folks--the commonest kind."
And Gladys, not noticing the twinkle in Jane's bright black eye,believed the little rascal, only to learn later that Jane's father wasaccounted one of the wealthiest men in the state of Wisconsin. But younever would have known it from Jane.
"I wish," complained Henrietta, one day, "we hadn't been two days latein getting to this school. All the girls engaged their walking partnersbefore we came. I like to walk with Victoria--she steps right off like aman--but Gladys Evelyn de Milligan--phew! With all those heels and thattight skirt she _can't_ walk. But I'll say one thing for Gladys. She_can_ chew gum."
"We didn't mean to leave you out when we four paired off," assured Jean."But Marjory asked me and Mabel asked Bettie--why, of course we canswitch off sometimes. The _old_ girls engaged their partners last year."
These walks occurred three times a week. On Sundays, when the entireschool walked two by two to church. On Tuesday, when the girls weretaken, again in twos, to the village to shop; and on Fridays when theywent to the cemetery. The only reason they went to the cemetery wasbecause a walk of a mile and a half straight west ended there.
Sallie Dickinson usually walked with poor old Abbie Smith, the chaperon.Abbie was a forlorn creature, neither old nor young. She had a long rednose, a retreating chin, drooping shoulders and a rounded back.Colorless, straggling hair and pale eyes. A spineless, unpleasa
ntperson. Like Sallie Dickinson, she was an orphan. Like Sallie, poor oldAbbie had been left penniless at Highland Hall, but at an earlier date.It was said that Abbie's stepfather had deliberately abandoned her; and,looking at Abbie, it seemed not unlikely. One would have supposed thattwenty years of school life would have _educated_ Abbie but they hadn't.Abbie was incapable of acquiring an education.
"When I look at Abbie," confided Sallie, one day, as she laid an armfulof freshly laundered garments on Jean's bed, "it makes me just sick. Am_I_ going to be like that twenty years from now?"
"Of course you're not," consoled Jean, "You're ever so bright in schooland you--why, Sallie! It's all in your own hands. If you learn everyblessed thing you can, some day you'll be smart enough to teach. Andthen, probably, they'd be glad enough to have you teach right here. Andif they wouldn't, you could go some place else. Don't ever _think_ thatyou have to stay here and be a stupid, downtrodden servant like poor oldAbbie."
"Well, do you know," said Sallie, visibly brightening, "I _did_ thinkjust exactly that. I wake up nights and worry about it. Oh, Jean! I dowish you'd poke me up once in awhile, whenever you see me losing mybackbone or looking like Abbie--"
"You _don't_ look like Abbie--you _couldn't_. Abbie never was pretty orbright and you _are_. Wait, I want to give you these history notes I dugup--I know they kept you busy all study hour sorting the clean clothes soof course you didn't have time to look anything up. You'll just _have_to have splendid marks from now on."
"You're a darling!" cried Sallie, rubbing her cheek against Jean's. "Iwish you'd reached Hiltonburg a whole lot sooner. I _needed_ you."