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Page 5
Madge's sole fortune was just ten dollars a month, which she used for
her dress allowance. Her uncle and aunt were not rich, but they were
paying for her education, and Madge knew she was expected to make her
own living as soon as she was old enough. Mr. and Mrs. Butler had
hoped she would become a teacher, for they held the old-fashioned
southern belief that teaching school was the only avenue open to the
woman who was forced by necessity to make her own living.
Madge, however, had decided, a long time before, that she would much
rather die than teach. She would do anything but that. Just at
present her poverty was very inconvenient. Madge was generous to a
fault, and she would have liked nothing better than to finance royally
their proposed trip. She vowed mentally to rise to the occasion, even
though the way to do it was not yet clear.
Prudent Eleanor had also asked her whom she meant to invite to act as
their chaperon. So it was of this chaperon that Madge was thinking
while she was in the act of mailing her letters.
Down in Virginia, on a big place next to her uncle's, was a girl whom
she had decided would make an ideal chaperon. She was as fond of larks
as was Madge herself. She could fish, ride, swim and shoot a rifle
when necessary. Moreover, she was so beautiful and aristocratic that
Madge always called her the "Lady of Quality." It was true she could
not cook nor wash dishes, nor do anything practical, and she was only
twenty-two. Still, Madge thought she would be a perfectly delightful
chaperon and was sure the girls would love her. Madge's red lips
unconsciously formed the letter O, and before she knew what she was
doing she was whistling from sheer pleasure.
"Miss Morton," the cold voice that was unpleasantly familiar to the
girl's ears came from behind a chair, "do you not know that whistling
is against the rules of the school? You are one of the older girls.
Miss Tolliver depends on you to set the younger pupils a good example.
I fear she is sadly disappointed."
"You mean you are sadly disappointed, Miss Jones," replied Madge
angrily. "Miss Tolliver has not said she was disappointed in me. When
she is she will probably tell me herself."
Madge knew she should not speak in this rude fashion to her teacher,
but she was an impetuous, high-spirited girl who could not bear
censure. Besides, she had a special prejudice against Miss Jones. She
was particularly homely and there was something awkward and repellant
in her manner. Worshipping beauty and graciousness, Madge could not
forgive her teacher her lack of both. Besides, Madge did not entirely
trust Miss Jones. Still, the girl was sorry she had made her impolite
speech, so she stood quietly waiting for her teacher's reproof, with
her curly head bent low, her eyes mutinous.
She waited an instant. When she looked up, to her dismay she saw that
the eyes of her despised teacher were full of tears.
"I wonder why you dislike me so, Miss Morton?" Miss Jones inquired
sadly.
Madge could have given her a dozen reasons for her dislike, but she did
not wish to be disagreeable. "I am dreadfully sorry I was so rude to
you," she murmured.
"Oh, it does not matter. Nothing matters, I am so unhappy," Miss Jones
replied unexpectedly. Just why Miss Jones should have chosen Madge
Morton for her confidante at this moment neither ever knew. Miss Jones
had a number of friends among the other girls in the school; but she
and this clever southern girl had been enemies since Miss Jones had
first taken charge of the English History class and had reproved Madge
for helping one of the younger girls with her lesson. Miss Jones's
confession had slipped out involuntarily. Now she put her head down on
the library table and sobbed.
With any other teacher, or with any of the girls, Madge might have
cried in sympathy. Somehow, she could not cry with Miss Jones. She
felt nothing save embarrassment.
"What is the matter?" she asked slowly.
Miss Jones shook her head. "It's nothing. I am sorry to have given
way to my feelings. I have had bad news. My doctor has just written
me that if I don't spend the summer out-of-doors, I am in danger of
consumption." Miss Jones uttered the dreadful word quite calmly.
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