The aim that Dorothy had in view was so ambitious that she hardly dared confess it even to herself. Every year a prize was given at Avondale called the William Scott Memorial. It was thus named after the founder of the College, who had left a sum of money in his will for the purpose. It was awarded annually to the girl in any form who obtained the highest percentage of marks in the examinations. Though it was generally gained by members of the Sixth, it did not of necessity fall to them; every girl had an equal opportunity, for it went entirely by their relative scores, the object being to distinguish the pupil who had worked the best, irrespective of age.
"I believe it fell once to the Second; but the Sixth have had it for four years now," thought Dorothy. "Time for a new departure. I don't suppose I've the slightest ghost of a chance, but it's worth trying. I shan't mention my hopes to anybody, though—not even to Aunt Barbara—they're so remote."
Her increased efforts could not fail to win notice, however, at the College.
"Dorothy Greenfield, you're just swatting!" said Mavie Morris one day. "I don't believe you'd a fault in your last German exercise, and you recited all that Virgil without one single slip. What's come over you?"
"Nothing," replied Dorothy, turning a little red. "You talk as if I'd been committing a crime."
"So you have. You're raising the general average of the standard, and that's not fair to the rest of the Form. When Pittie sees you with three 'excellents' to your name, she thinks I ought to do the same."
"Why can't you?"
"Why? You ask me why? Do you think I'm going to muddle my brains more than I can help, just in the middle of the tennis season? You little know Mavie Morris. No, Dorothy, I've a distinct grievance against you. There you are now—actually surreptitiously squinting at a book while I'm talking to you!"
"It's not a lesson book, at any rate; it's from the library," retorted Dorothy.
"Let me look at it. You humbug, it's a Manual of Botany! I call that lessons, in all conscience."
"Well, it has jolly coloured illustrations," said Dorothy, trying to plead extenuating circumstances. "I want to hunt out the names of some specimens I've found. We have heaps of wild flowers growing in the lanes at Hurford."
"Whitewashed, but not exonerated! Your manual smacks too much of school for my taste. Why don't you take a leaf from me and practise tennis?"
"No luck for such a bad server as I am."
"Well, I didn't say you'd win the championship. I've no chance myself against Val and Margaret. Here's Alison; she'll reason with you. She isn't on the rising balance of the Form any more than I am myself. Alison, tell Dorothy to quit this everlasting studying. Don't you agree with me that it makes it far harder for us slackers?"
Alison laughed good-naturedly. She never troubled much about her own lessons, for her mother was generally so anxious regarding her health, and so afraid of her overworking herself, that an hour's preparation sufficed for her home work—and, indeed, if she took more, Mrs. Clarke would threaten to complain to Miss Tempest.
"Yes, Dorothy's turning into quite an old bookworm," she replied. "She even insisted on looking over her Latin in the train this morning. I can't stand that, because I always like to talk. I don't get too much of Dorothy's company."
It was still a grievance to Alison that her mother would not sanction any closer intimacy with her friend. She had hoped, after the visit to Ringborough, that matters would be on a different footing, and that she would be allowed to introduce Dorothy at home and invite her frequently. She could not understand why, for no apparently adequate reason, she must be debarred from her society. The fact that she was discouraged from being on too familiar terms had the effect of making her even more enthusiastic in her affection. There was a strong vein of obstinacy in her disposition, and if she once took up an idea she was apt to keep to it.
"Uncle David likes Dorothy," she argued. "He told Mother not to be ridiculous. I heard him say so. Perhaps in time I shall get my own way."
Mrs. Clarke, anxious not to thwart her darling more than was necessary, had many times proposed that some other classmate from Avondale should be asked to Lindenlea. But Alison had flatly refused.
"I can't possibly have Grace Russell or Ruth Harmon without inviting Dorothy. She'd think it most peculiar and unkind. No, Mother dearest, if I mayn't have her I'd rather not ask anybody at all."
"But you ought to have young companions, Birdie," protested Mrs. Clarke fretfully. "Your uncle was speaking to me on that very subject before he went to Scotland; and he is your guardian, so he is partly responsible for you. I believe I shall have to send you to a boarding school after all."
"No, no; I should be miserable, and so would you without me. I'd hate to leave the Coll. Don't worry, Motherkins, Uncle David shan't lecture you. Naughty fellow! I won't be friends with him if he hints at boarding school again."
"I shall certainly talk it over with him when he returns from Lochaber," said Mrs. Clarke.
"When is he coming back? Is he really going to take a house near here, Mother?"
"I don't know. He may possibly settle in the South, in which case I should certainly decide to remove, and to go and live near him."
"Oh, please no! I don't want to leave Latchworth or the Coll.," protested Alison.
Alison was indeed absolutely happy at Avondale. For a day school the arrangements were perfect, and there were many features of the course there which suited her tastes. She liked the Ambulance Guild and the Tennis Club, and both the gymnasium and the laboratory were large and specially well equipped, far more so than in most boarding schools. This term, also, Miss Carter, the science mistress, had begun a very interesting series of Nature Study lessons, which included birds and insects, and made a special point of botany; and Alison, who adored flowers, threw herself into it heart and soul. It was the one subject over which she really gave herself much trouble. She collected specimens and pressed them, identified them from the big volumes of "Sowerby" in the library at Lindenlea, mounted them on sheets of cardboard, and printed their names neatly underneath.
"I shall have something to send to the Arts and Crafts Exhibition," she said, "though I'm no good at anything else."
"No good! Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"True, my dear! Have you ever seen me top at an exam., or even second? Why, I only get 'excellent' once in a blue moon, and then I'm so astonished, I think it must be a mistake! I'm not picked out to play at school concerts, or recite, or act, or show off in any way. Oh, don't think I'm complaining! I don't crave for notoriety. There's nothing I detest worse than having to perform in public. But pressed flowers are different. I can do them in private at home, and let them be seen without exhibiting myself. I wish I could find a few more specimens. I believe I've picked everything that's to be had at Latchworth."
"Miss Carter promised she'd take us a botanizing ramble some afternoon," said Dorothy.
"So she did. We must keep her to her word. Let us try to catch her now in the corridor, and see if we can get her to name a definite day. Ask Mavie and Grace to come too. They're the keenest next to us."
The little group of enthusiasts waylaid the mistress as she came out of the library, and, reminding her of the projected expedition, nailed her to the point.
"Very well, we will decide on next Saturday afternoon, provided, of course, that it's a fine day," replied Miss Carter.
"And the place?" asked Alison.
"I think we can't do better than Beechfield. We could walk along the embankment to Longacre, and take the train back from there. We ought to find plenty of flowers on the way."
"And we might stop and have tea somewhere," suggested Alison, who was determined to make an outing of it.
"Yes, so we might. There's an inn by the river about half-way to Longacre, and several cottages that cater for visitors."
"We can start quite early, I suppose?"
"I'll look up the railway guide, and pin a programme on the notice board to-morrow."
"There, you see!" said Alison, as the deputation returned in triumph, "there's nothing like sticking to a thing. I believe in people keeping promises when they make them."
"We shall have a ripping afternoon. Miss Carter is ever so jolly."
"And I expect she'll be jollier still when she's 'off duty'."
Notwithstanding the tempting nature of the programme, only ten put down their names for the botanizing expedition. In summer there were many diversions for Saturday's holiday—the tennis season was in full swing, and the girls had attractions at their own homes that outweighed a country ramble.
"It's far nicer without too many," declared Alison. "I've been school excursions before, at Leamstead, and it's generally so hard to get everybody to come along. Half the party is always lagging behind, and then a dozen come running up and want all the explanations over again, just when the mistress has finished describing something. You waste an immense amount of time in collecting people. I mean to stick to Miss Carter like glue the whole afternoon."
"Absorbing information like a piece of blotting-paper!" laughed Mavie. "Quite a new character for you, Alison Clarke."
"Don't mock. You're as keen on going as I am myself."
The ten Nature students met Miss Carter at Coleminster station at half-past two on the Saturday, and started off for Beechfield, which was on a different line from Hurford and Latchworth. Neither Dorothy nor Alison knew the place, so to them at least it had the charm of novelty.
"I've often walked over the fields to Longacre," said Grace Russell, "but I don't mind going again. It will seem fresh if we're looking for flowers. I like an object when I'm out."
"And I like the fun of being out, object or no object," said Mavie. "I honestly confess I'm looking forward to tea-time."
"You shameless materialist!" said Miss Carter. "You shan't have a single cup unless you can name a dozen flowers. I shall put you through an examination first."
"I'll be attentive—with tea as my goal."
There was no doubt about it—Miss Carter was jolly. She talked and joked as merrily as the girls themselves, climbed stiles with agility, and, much to her pupils' amusement, exhibited an abject terror of cows.
"It was born in me, and I can't conquer it," she declared. "I suppose it's partly because I'm town-bred. The very sight of their horns puts me in a panic."
"I'll walk along first and shoo them away with my umbrella," said Dorothy, laughing.
"What heroism! I really envy your courage. To me the pleasures of botany are sadly spoilt by cows; there is invariably one in the meadow where I want to pick my best specimens."
In spite of her real or pretended fears, Miss Carter ventured to take the path which led over the fields to Longacre. It was a pretty walk, partly through a park shaded with beautiful trees, and partly along an embankment which formed the remains of an ancient fortification against the Danes. The hay was still uncut, so the fields were full of flowers, and without unduly trespassing into the long grass the girls were able to pick many specimens. Alison kept to her intention of sticking to Miss Carter, and scarcely left her side; she enjoyed the explanations, and passed them on to Mavie, who was collecting her dozen plants with ostentatious zeal. Dorothy was told off as policeman to bring up stragglers.
"We shall never get there at all if you can't keep together and come along," said Miss Carter. "I can see a little peep of the river, and one chimney of the inn over there in the distance. Don't you feel inclined for tea?"
"Rather!" agreed the girls, making a spurt.
The inn was one of those small, wayside places common in rural districts. It catered for anglers and tourists, and had a pretty, flowery garden, set with wooden benches and tables ready for picnic parties. It was a suitable spot for a halt; everyone felt warm with the walk, and disposed to welcome the sight of cups and saucers.
"How sweet it is here!" said Alison to Dorothy. "Something smells perfectly delicious—I don't know what."
"I think it must be honeysuckle down by the river."
"Then let us go and see. It's rather early for honeysuckle; I haven't found any out yet. It might perhaps be a sweetbrier. Tea isn't quite ready, so we shall have plenty of time."
The two girls strolled out of the garden and down a short lane that led to the river. It was beautiful there—the grassy banks were white with tall, lacy, umbelliferous plants, and groups of willows drooped their picturesque, shimmering boughs over the water.
"Look at the old weir," said Alison. "I believe there used to be a mill here once, only it isn't working now. Dorothy, what's that growing in the river? Isn't it water plantain?"
"It looks uncommonly like it."
"I must have a piece—I positively must! How can we get some? Do you think we could walk along the edge of the weir and reach it? It's only a few yards off."
"I dare say we might, if we could hold on to those willows."
"Let us try. Give me your hand."
"It's rather slippery," said Dorothy, as she essayed to follow.
Catching on to the branches of a willow, the two girls stepped cautiously along the uncovered stones at the edge of the weir towards the spot where the water plantain was growing so temptingly.
"There's a splendid piece almost within reach," said Alison. "Stick tight to my hand, Dorothy, and I'll bend over. I'm within an inch of it."
"Be careful!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Don't pull!"
But her warning came too late. Alison, in her effort to grasp the plantain, put her weight on her friend, and to support the strain Dorothy leaned backwards. Alison, snatching a piece of the flower, suddenly released the tension; the pair swayed for an instant, overbalanced, and then slipped, shrieking, down the sloping side of the weir.
The two girls sank into the pool below, then, rising to the surface, caught with frantic fingers at a rotten willow bough that overhung the water. Neither could swim, and in desperate plight they clung to the frail and insecure support. Almost choked with their dipping, their hair and clothes streaming, they still managed to call vigorously for help. But already their weight was splitting the decayed old willow: there was an ominous crack, a sudden rending, a piteous cry, and, still clutching the severed branch, they went whirling down the river. Mercifully their first wild shriek had been heard, and a farmer who lived at the old millhouse by the weir had come running instantly from his garden. He arrived on the scene just as the branch broke, and wading into the water he contrived to catch Dorothy, who was the nearer, and to drag her into safety. But when he turned to look for her companion, Alison had drifted along with the stream, and was out of his reach. He could not swim, so he ran back towards the inn, shouting for help. At the sound of his cries the stable boy and several others came rushing down the field.
"Fetch a rope!"
"Where's the boat?"
"Cut a long pole!"
"She'll drown while you're doing it!"
"For Heaven's sake don't let her go down again!"
"I can only swim a few strokes, but I'll try if I can reach her," exclaimed the stable boy, flinging off his coat and plunging into the river, which was shallow for a yard or so at the edge.
Venturing out of his depth, he grasped Alison by her dress, then turned, floundering hopelessly towards the bank. For a moment it seemed as if both lives must surely be lost, but with a desperate effort the boy managed to keep himself afloat, and to reach the hand of one of the men who had waded out to meet him. Between them they pulled the unconscious girl from the water and laid her on the grass.
"She's gone!"
"No, no; I've seen worse than her as came round."
"Take 'em both into the inn and send Sam on his bike for the doctor."
The first intimation of the accident which Miss Carter received was the sight of Dorothy walking dripping wet up the garden, followed by a group of men carrying Alison. She was a woman of sound, practical common sense, and after the first momentary shock was over she set to work at once to administer treatment for the drowning, with the help of the other members of the Guild who were present. Their combined efforts were so successful that by the time the doctor arrived they had succeeded in restoring animation.
Dorothy, rolled up in hot blankets, was little the worse for her immersion, and did not need attention; but the medical man looked grave when he saw Alison.
"She is suffering from severe collapse. Have you sent for her mother?" he asked.
Miss Sherbourne and Mrs. Clarke had both been summoned by telegram. They drove up within five minutes of each other. Poor Mrs. Clarke's frantic, white-lipped agony was terrible to witness.
"You must save her! She's all I have in the world!" she cried, turning desperately, almost fiercely, upon the doctor.
"Madam, I use my utmost skill, but life and death are in greater hands than mine," he replied.
For many hours Alison's life trembled in the balance. The district nurse had been sent for, and with the doctor watched the case anxiously all night through. At length, when morning dawned, a turn came for the better.
"Let her sleep now and she'll do," said Dr. Hall to the nurse. "Can't we get her mother out of the room somehow?"
"Miss Sherbourne is downstairs. I know her, and I dare say she will help," suggested the nurse.
Aunt Barbara had also spent the night at the inn, partly because she thought it wiser to let Dorothy keep warm in bed, instead of attempting to remove her; and partly because she felt she could not leave till she knew that Alison was out of danger. She had sat up, hoping that she might be of assistance, though she had not liked to intrude her presence into the sick-room until she was asked. She came now at the nurse's request, and gently persuaded poor worn-out Mrs. Clarke to go downstairs and have some hot tea, which the inn-keeper's wife had made ready.
"It is better to leave the room in absolute quiet for a while," she said. "Nurse is keeping watch, and indeed the doctor says there is no further cause for anxiety."
Mrs. Clarke's hand shook as she held her cup.
"I can hardly realize yet that she is safe. Oh, if you knew how I have suffered! My head is on fire. I want to go out into the air," she replied pantingly.
The light was breaking clearly in the east, and Miss Sherbourne opened the front door. The two women stepped together into the garden.
"Everything seems quiet," said Mrs. Clarke, looking up at Alison's window. "You are sure, if there is the slightest change, that Nurse will call me? Then let us walk across the lawn. I want to talk to you. I must speak now—at once, while I have the courage."
"Shall we sit here?" said Miss Sherbourne, indicating a bench that faced the dawn.
The hour was strangely beautiful. The sky, flushing in tints of rose and mauve, heralded the rising sun; the bushes were still masses of rich, warm shadow, but a group of turn-cap lilies stood out fair and golden against the dark background, shedding their heavy fragrance around. A thrush had begun to stir in the laburnum tree, and piped his fine mellow notes; and a blackbird answered from the elm opposite. The world was waking to another day of wonderful, pulsing life.
"Weeping and heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning," murmured Aunt Barbara softly.
Mrs. Clarke sat for a few moments gazing at the quiet scene. She was still intensely agitated, and kept clasping and unclasping her hands nervously upon her knee.
"I must speak," she began again hurriedly. "If I do not tell you now, the resolution may go. When I saw my darling lie there, at the very gate of death, I knew it was a judgment upon me for my long silence—my criminal silence."
She paused, as if scarcely able to continue. She was weeping bitterly, and her restless fingers pulled to pieces a rose that she had plucked from a bush as she passed.
"I hardly know how to explain everything," she went on at last, "but perhaps it will make it clearer if I begin at the beginning, and relate the story of my life. Have you the patience to hear it? My sister Madeleine and I were twins. My mother died in our infancy, and left no other children, so we two were everything to each other. My father was a clever but eccentric man, a student and an astronomer. He had never been fond of company, and after my mother's death he shut himself up more closely than ever, and became quite a recluse, devoting himself entirely to his books and his telescope. Though he was fond of us in his way, we did not see much of him, and he was always so reserved and silent that we were shy and constrained in his presence. When we were old enough to leave school, our life at home, in a remote country grange, with little society to be had in the neighbourhood, was dull and triste in the extreme. Just after our twenty-first birthday, we made the acquaintance of two brothers who were staying at a house in the adjoining parish, and the friendship soon ripened into a warmer feeling on both sides.
"David Clarke, the elder, fell in love with my sister Madeleine, and Herbert, the younger, with myself. When we broached the subject to my father, however, he professed great indignation, and forbade either of the young Clarkes to come to the house. It was extremely arbitrary and unjust of him to behave thus, for he had no reasonable objections to raise against them. I can only imagine that he was annoyed that he had not been taken earlier into our confidence, and hurt that we wished to leave him. Perhaps, also, he may have had some other matrimonial projects in his mind for us, though he never made the slightest attempt to introduce us to any suitable friends. Can you imagine the situation? Two impulsive, motherless girls in the lonely old house, with no one to counsel us or help to smooth away any of our difficulties! Our lovers had business in India, and were shortly leaving the country; and the idea of parting from them was terrible to us. They pleaded and urged, so what wonder that there were clandestine meetings, and that one morning we took the law into our own hands and made a double runaway match of it? We were both of age, and could therefore legally marry whom we chose.
"We tried to make peace with our father after the weddings, but he utterly refused to see us, and we were obliged to start for India without having received his forgiveness. Within a year we had news of his death. I think he had been in failing health for some time, and perhaps on that account had been the more loath to part with us; but he had shown us so little tenderness that we had never realized that he wished for our sympathy or affection. Now that I have a child of my own, I regret that I was not a better daughter to him. In his will he showed that he had not pardoned either us or our husbands. He left only a small annuity each to Madeleine and myself, and the bulk of his estate in trust for his first grandchild. My sister Madeleine's little girl was born a fortnight before mine, so it was she, and not Alison, who inherited her grandfather's fortune. I was very angry at the injustice of the proceeding. It seemed to me monstrously unfair that my little one, because she came into the world a fortnight too late, should be deprived of what in all equity ought to have been hers. I was the elder of the twins, and I considered that any preference should have been in my favour. I was anxious to bring a lawsuit, and try to upset the will and cause the estate to be equally divided between my sister and myself, but our solicitor assured me I had no legal case, and should only involve myself in endless proceedings and costs. Madeleine and I were too much attached to each other to have an open quarrel, and before her I managed to hide my bitter disappointment. We were about to be separated, for my husband was returning to England, while hers was still remaining in India. I was thankful afterwards that we had parted on such good terms, for I never saw her again. Only a few days after our steamer started she succumbed to a sudden epidemic of cholera that swept over the place where they were living, and the telegram announcing her death met me at Port Said. I had loved her dearly, and the blow was cruel. But there was a harder one still in store for me. My husband, whose ill health had been the cause of our leaving India, became rapidly worse, and before I even realized the extent of the danger, he too was taken from me. In a single year I had lost father, sister, and husband, and at twenty-three I found myself a young widow, with an only child.
"At this juncture my brother-in-law, David Clarke, returned to England, bringing his motherless baby in charge of an ayah. He did not intend to stay, only to settle a few necessary business matters and to make some arrangement for his little girl, who was delicate, and could not be reared in India. He had no near relations of his own who were willing to be troubled with the child, so he asked me if I would undertake to bring her up with mine, and I accepted the charge. I was drawn to little Rosamond for her mother's sake, though I could never forgive her for being a fortnight older than her cousin. So everything was settled. I took a house in Scotland for the summer, which I thought would be healthy for the children, and I sent Alison on there in advance with her own nurse. The ayah who had brought Rosamond from India was to return in the same ship as my brother-in-law, who was starting immediately for Madras. He wanted to see his baby till the very last, so I accompanied him to London, taking with me Mrs. Burke, a respectable woman who had once been a maid at my father's house, and was now married, to act as temporary nurse after the ayah's departure.
"When the last good-byes were said, and my brother-in-law and the ayah had started, I found I wished to do some shopping in London before I went north. It is awkward and inconvenient to keep a baby at a hotel, so I determined to send Mrs. Burke with my little niece to Scotland, where my own responsible nurse was already settled in charge of Alison. I took them to the station and saw them safely off in the express. In a few days I intended to follow them. That very night, as I sat at dinner in the hotel, I heard the newsboys shouting 'Special edition', and learnt of a terrible northern railway smash. I set off by the first available train for the scene of the disaster. It was impossible to get beyond Burkden, for the line was disorganized, but I hired a carriage and went on to Greenfield. The first point to be ascertained was whether my niece was among the victims. I wasted some time enquiring at the railway offices, and it was not till late in the afternoon that I saw a newspaper poster with the heading: 'Baby's Wonderful Escape from the Accident'. It was only after further investigations and delays that I learnt the child was being taken care of by its rescuer at the Red Lion Hotel. Do you remember how I came into the inn parlour that evening? The scene is stamped vividly upon my memory. You sat by the fireside with the baby on your knee; the light falling from the hanging lamp above made a picture of you both. It had taken a fancy to you, though it was always shy with me, and its soft little cheek was pressed against your face. I looked at it, and I think if it had given one sign of recognition, or held out its arms to me, I should have claimed it. But it took no notice at all, and my heart hardened against it. A terrible temptation assailed me. If I disowned the baby, nobody would ever know its identity. It would be so easy to tell its father that it had perished in the fire; there could be no positive evidence about any of the victims of the disaster. If it were out of the way, then my baby would inherit the fortune which I had always considered was my due. I was not left well off, and money meant so much to me. I had not been brought up to study economy, and I hated to be poor. I am a good judge of character, and I knew from your face that you would not abandon the child you had saved. I thought Fate had interfered forcibly, and had given it into your keeping instead of mine. At the moment it seemed to me a direct interposition of Providence, and a sign that my father's inheritance was not intended to be lost to me after all. Before me stood a great choice—the good of my sister's little one, or my own—and I chose my own. The sequel proved easy—only too easy. I said the baby I had seen at the inn was not my niece, and nobody doubted my word. My brother-in-law and the ayah were already on their way to India, Mrs. Burke was dead, and no one else was likely to raise the question of identity. The portrait circulated in the newspapers was such a poor snapshot that neither my nurse nor any of Mr. Clarke's relations recognized it. They had not known the child intimately; they had only seen her once or twice in her ayah's arms. Before I left the Red Lion at Greenfield I ascertained your name—I scarcely knew why; it seemed an instinct at the moment. I wished to forget it, but it remained all the same—one of those things which it is impossible to wine from one's remembrance.
"Years went by, years of prosperity, for in trust for Alison I was a rich woman. I tried to banish all thoughts of Rosamond, and to justify my action to myself, yet in my inmost heart I knew I had sinned. For some time I lived in the Midlands, but Leamstead did not suit my little girl's health, so I removed to Latchworth. When Alison started to go to the College and I first saw Dorothy in the train, I was immediately struck with her appearance. I could not think of whom she reminded me; her eyes haunted me continually. One day I came home and found that she had been at our house in my absence, and that Alison was full of her resemblance to the portrait of my sister Madeleine which hung in the drawing room. Then I knew, even without the extra links that made the connection only too plain—the story of her adoption, which Alison had heard at school; the very name of Dorothy Greenfield, and your name, which I had not succeeded in forgetting. Alarmed at the recognition, I forbade Alison to invite her again, and in every way in my power discouraged the acquaintance between the two girls. I thought of removing from Latchworth, but I had taken my house on a lease and spent much on improving it. Everything appeared to conspire against me: first Alison's extreme affection for Dorothy, then our meeting at the Hydro., where my brother-in-law, unaware of her identity, was so charmed with his daughter. Then came Alison's visit to your cottage on the afternoon when I fetched her in the pony trap. I at once recognized your servant as the one I had seen in the inn parlour at Greenfield, and I could tell by her face that she remembered me. It seemed as if Fate, whom I thought I had conquered so successfully, was dogging my footsteps. I felt my position was most unsafe, and only yesterday afternoon I definitely decided to sacrifice the improvements I had made at Lindenlea and to remove to the south of England, where there would be no further chance of Dorothy crossing our path.
"As if in direct consequence of my determination followed this terrible accident. It seemed to me like Heaven's vengeance on my sin. Was my innocent child to suffer as the scapegoat for my wrongdoing? I vowed to God that if in His mercy He would spare her life, I would make a full confession and reparation, no matter what it cost me. There, I have told you the whole. Do you despise me utterly? Can you possibly ever forgive me that I deliberately thrust the child upon you, and let you bear so heavy a burden all this time? Her own father will be only too thankful to take her now."
Miss Sherbourne's face was turned towards the golden streak of dawn. For a few moments she was silent.
"We have both so much to be thankful for this morning, that it makes it easier to forgive," she said at last. "Yes, the wrong must be righted, and father and daughter restored to each other; but I am glad I was able to keep my little Dorothy for my own those fourteen happy years."
Dorothy, who was little the worse for her dangerous experience, went home on the morning following the accident, but it was several days before Alison was able to be removed from the inn. She was not a strong girl, and the fright and immersion combined had produced a state of complete exhaustion. The quiet and rest which the doctor prescribed had, however, their due effect, and by the end of a week she began to seem her old self again. The surprise of the two girls when later they learnt the news of their relationship can be imagined. Mrs. Clarke wrote to her brother-in-law, making a full avowal of everything; and though at first he found it hard to grant her the forgiveness she implored, his delight at finding his daughter alive outweighed his anger at the long and cruel course of deception that had been practised upon him. For the sake of Alison, to whom he was much attached, he allowed himself to be reconciled to his sister-in-law, and agreed to forget the past and let bygones be bygones. Both he and Miss Sherbourne decided emphatically that Mrs. Clarke's share in the story must be kept a strict secret among themselves; it was most undesirable that either Dorothy or Alison should know of the dishonourable part she had played. To both the girls and the outside public it was enough to announce, without detailed explanations, that the mystery of Dorothy's parentage had been solved. Martha, the only other person who had guessed at the facts of the situation, could be safely trusted to preserve silence.
"I shall not at present claim for my daughter the fortune which is legally hers," said Mr. Clarke. "I do not need it, for I have been very successful financially in India, and am now in comfortable circumstances and able to retire from business. I could not see my brother's child in poverty, so the trust money must still be devoted to Alison's benefit. When Rosamond is twenty-one, and of age to decide such matters for herself, I hope that she will agree to divide the legacy equally with her cousin, and thus set right what was originally a most unjust will."
To Dorothy the discovery was both a delight and a pain. It removed the stigma that she considered had formerly attached to her, and placed her in the position of other girls as regarded name and family; but it had certain drawbacks which must be faced. Though she welcomed her newly-found father, she clung passionately to the one friend who had hitherto made the sum of her life.
"Aunt Barbara has brought me up and done everything for me. I can't leave her. I've promised to work for her and take care of her when I am old enough," she said earnestly.
"I know, child. I know what we owe her. You and I will look after Aunt Barbara together," replied Mr. Clarke.
Dorothy's news made a great sensation at the College. The romantic story appealed to the girls, and congratulations poured in upon her. Even Hope Lawson and Valentine Barnett waxed cordial.
"We've never had such an excitement at school before," declared Ruth Harmon. "It's the most interesting thing I've ever come across in my life."
"We don't know what to call you now," laughed Mavie Morris. "You're Dorothy Greenfield, alias Rosamond Clarke. Which is it to be?"
"Dorothy Greenfield, please, till the end of the term. Next session my new name can be entered on the College register, and I'll start in a fresh character."
"Then in the meantime we'll call you Rosador, as a compromise."
There was very little of the term left now, for the examinations were to begin the next week, and after those were over would come the annual speech day, which always concluded the school year. Dorothy's studies had naturally been somewhat upset by the recent course of events, but she had made an extra spurt at her work, and did not feel herself ill prepared. She rather liked examinations. She had a clear head and a good memory, and a neat, concise method of setting forth her information.
"I think it's quite inspiring to see a pile of fresh sheets of foolscap and a paper of questions," she declared.
"Yes, if you can answer the questions," returned Mavie. "It's a different matter if one's stumped. I'm utterly against the competitive system."
Dorothy laughed.
"State your reasons, Mavie," urged Ruth Harmon. "We'll set 'The Competitive System' as a subject for the Debating Society."
"Well, to begin with, emulation is the wrong spirit in which to promote work."
"A grand sentiment—but nothing would promote work in you, you dear old lazybones, so it's no use arguing the point."
"Very well. If I'm content to absorb my knowledge in homeopathic doses, why must I be worried into swallowing more than I can digest? If I were running a school I'd allow the clever girls who wanted to go in for exams, to take them, and let the others alone. I call it sheer cruelty to put the ordinary rank and file on the rack. Next week will be purgatory to me. You'll see me pining day by day, and gradually wasting away."
In spite of Mavie's forebodings, she survived the ordeal of the examination, and presented her usual appearance of robust health at the end of the dreaded period.
"I've done badly, though," she protested. "I expect I've failed in at least half my subjects. The maths. was detestable and the geometry simply wicked. Rosador, you're looking very smug. I believe you liked the papers."
"They weren't bad, as papers go," returned Dorothy. She did not care to boast, but she was conscious that she had done well, and reached a mark far above her average standard.
"Still, one never knows," she thought. "Exams. are uncertain things, and heaps of other girls may have done better than I have. I just won't think about the results."
Governors' Day, as it was popularly called, was always rather a grand occasion at Avondale. The school was a famous one in the town, and numbered among its pupils many who came from the best families in Coleminster. The governors liked to assure the parents that the College was keeping up its well-earned reputation for efficiency, and to give some opportunity for a general exhibition of the work done during the year. With this end in view, the programme was representative of all branches of the curriculum. A show of drawings, paintings, and handicrafts done by the art classes was on view in the studio; the collections of pressed flowers and natural objects made in connection with the Nature Study Union were put up round the walls of the museum; and the Charity Basket garments contributed by the Ambulance Guild were spread out in the Juniors' Common Room. There were to be recitations in French and German, songs and instrumental music, speeches by the governors, and the head mistress's report on the examination results and the general progress of the whole school.
"I like the dear old Coll. when it's turned upside down like this," said Ruth Harmon, who, with Dorothy, had been told off as a steward for the occasion. "What a fearful cram! The people are simply pouring in. I don't know how we're to find seats for everybody."
"It is amazing how many the room will hold," said Dorothy. "They're bringing in more chairs, and people will have to sit very close together on the benches."
Dorothy was looking charming that afternoon, with an unwonted colour in her cheeks, and her fluffy brown hair tied back with a blue ribbon that matched the tasteful dress her father had provided for her. All the old angularity had slipped away from her lately, and a new graciousness and sweetness had taken its place.
"Dorothy Greenfield is like a hard, tight bud that has suddenly opened into a flower," commented Miss Carter, who was quick to notice the improvement.
The lecture hall was filling rapidly with guests, and the stewards had to be indefatigable in their exertions.
"I want to be here, there, and everywhere at once," said Ruth. "I wish I were a conjurer, and could contrive two chairs out of one. Someone is smiling at you near the door, Dorothy."
It was Percy Helm, who, with his father and mother and Eric, was making his way through the crush. Dorothy went to meet them and find them places.
"Gabrielle is on the platform with the chorus, and Norma is among her own Form," she whispered.
"And where are you going to sit?" asked Percy.
"Oh, I'm a wandering Jew at present. I shall slip in somewhere at the last."
Promptly at three o'clock the proceedings began, and Dorothy, her duties over for the present, found a corner that had been reserved for her on the platform. From her seat she had a very good view of the hall. How pretty it looked, she thought, with its decorations of flags and flowers, and its throng of interested faces! In the fifth row, not very far away, she could see her father with Mrs. Clarke, and dear Aunt Barbara. Dr. and Mrs. Longton were also present, and the Vicar of Hurford and his wife. The Helms were beaming at her from the back row.
"All my best friends are here to-day," said Dorothy to herself.
The first part of the programme was musical; glees were sung by picked members of the singing classes, and a few solos, both vocal and instrumental, were given. Alison, who had been taking violin lessons, played in a quartette and acquitted herself very creditably, in spite of a sudden panic of bashfulness. She came and sat beside Dorothy as soon as her part was finished.
"I'm so thankful it's over," she whispered. "I do so hate doing anything in public. I could see Mother looking at me all the time; I believe she was as nervous as myself. My hand shook so dreadfully at first, I could hardly hold my bow."
"Never mind, it sounded quite right," replied Dorothy. "Everybody applauded, especially Father."
"Yes, I saw Uncle David clapping hard. When are the exam. lists to be read? Have you heard?"
"Not until after the interval, so Miss Pitman says. They're to come with the speeches."
The recitations passed off well, Grace Russell, the only member of the Upper Fourth who took part in them, distinguishing herself particularly.
"Grace is A1 at languages," commented Alison. "She gets that tripping French accent most beautifully."
At four o'clock there was an interval, and the audience adjourned for tea and to see the exhibits. Alison's collection of pressed flowers was among those on view in the museum, and she bore off her particular circle of friends to look at it.
"It's got 'Highly Commended'," she remarked gleefully. "Uncle David, that's the very piece of rock rose you climbed up the cliff to pick for me—don't you remember it? Miss Sherbourne, you sent me that catchfly from Hurford. I got most of my flowers at Latchworth, and just a few from Beechfield. Do you recognize this? It's the water plantain. The innkeeper at Longacre brought me a big bunch of it just before I left. Wasn't it kind of him? I keep it as a specimen, and as a memento of my dipping as well."
Alison spoke brightly. She had not been told how serious her collapse had been after her rescue from the river; and she little knew what an important share the water plantain had played in bringing about the happy reunion between her uncle and cousin.
"Dorothy has 'Commended' for her drawing from the cast," she continued, dragging Uncle David to the other side of the room. "Isn't it good? It's the head of Clytie up there, so you can see how like it is. And we've both got 'Neatly Rendered' for our Guild garments. Yes, yes, Uncle; you must come and see them, even if you don't know anything about sewing. Mine's the flannel jacket, and Dorothy's is the child's nightdress. We did every stitch of them ourselves."
"Did you bake the cake that has just disagreed with me at tea?" enquired Mr. Clarke, with a twinkle in his eye.
"No, you naughty man! We don't have cookery classes. When we do, I'll take care to bring something home, and insist upon your eating it, every crumb. Now, we've shown you all our exhibits, and we must go downstairs again and take our places. The speechifying is going to begin directly."
The second part of the programme represented the real business of the afternoon. Alderman Herbert, the chairman of the committee of the College, gave an opening address upon the general aims and objects of the system of education pursued at the school; and this was followed by Miss Tempest's report on the work done during the year. Then came the examination lists. Dorothy listened eagerly. She had done well, certainly; but until the final scores were read, it was impossible to compare her results with those of the top girls in other Forms. She was the best in the Upper Fourth, but probably one of the divisions of the Sixth might be able to produce an even higher record.
At the end of the lists Miss Tempest paused.
"Before continuing," she said, "I should like to give a word of explanation as to the terms upon which the William Scott Memorial is awarded. It is a prize which was bequeathed by the founder of the College to be given annually to whichever girl has gained the highest percentage of marks in the examinations. This year the honour falls to the Upper Fourth Form, where Dorothy Greenfield has gained 987 out of a possible 1000."
Dorothy listened like one in a dream. She could scarcely believe the evidence of her own ears. But it was true, for Alison was nudging her, and the other girls were whispering to her to "go forward". Very shyly she rose and walked to the front of the platform, where Alderman Herbert was beckoning her.
"I think we may all congratulate the lucky winner of the William Scott Memorial," he said, laying a kindly hand on Dorothy's shoulder. "Such success can only be the result of hard work and sustained effort. The Upper Fourth may well be proud of its record. I have much pleasure, my dear, in presenting you with this watch, which has been chosen for the prize."
As he spoke, he handed Dorothy a morocco case, and taking the beautiful little blue-enamelled watch from its satin bed, he pinned it on to her dress. The audience broke into a storm of applause. Dorothy had grown popular lately among the girls, and many of their parents had heard of the strange circumstances of her loss and finding. She received quite an ovation as she stood, smiling and blushing, by the side of the chairman.
"I'm so delighted," exclaimed Alison, as Dorothy returned to her place. "Let me look. Oh, what a ducky little watch! It's the prettiest I've ever seen. But it isn't that I care about so much—it's the honour of winning. To think that our Form has got the Memorial! You dear, clever, industrious busy bee! I can't tell you how proud I am you're my relation."
"I'm glad my last appearance as Dorothy Greenfield has been a favourable one," laughed Dorothy. "Next term I shall be on the school register as Rosamond Clarke."
And here we must take leave of the cousins, for their story is all told. Mr. Clarke has bought a charming house at Latchworth, and is very busy furnishing it so that it may be ready for a certain occasion to which he is looking forward greatly. He is tired of Indian life, and has decided to settle down permanently in England. Dorothy is keenly interested in her new home, and especially pleased that it is so near to Lindenlea, and that she and Alison can still travel by train together to the College. As for Aunt Barbara, before the summer is over Dorothy will have learnt to call her by a dearer name still, and Holly Cottage will be to let.