The Little Colonel’s Christmas Vacation – Annie F. Johnston

WARWİCK HALL looked more like an old English castle than a modern boarding-school for girls. Gazing at its high towers and massive portal, one almost expected to see some velvet-clad page or lady-in-waiting come down the many flights of marble steps leading between stately terraces to the river. Even a knight with a gerfalcon on his wrist would not have seemed out of place, and if a slowgoing barge had trailed by between the willow-fringed banks of the Potomac, it would have seemed more in keeping with the scene than the steamboats puffing past to Mount Vernon, with crowds of excursionists on deck. The gorgeous peacocks strutting along the terraces in the sun were partly responsible for this impression of mediæval grandeur. It was for that very purpose that Madam Chartley, the head of the school, kept the peacocks. That was one reason, also, that she proudly retained the coat of arms in the great stained glass window over the stairs, when circumstances obliged her to turn her ancestral home into a boarding-school. She thought a sense of mediæval grandeur was good for girls, especially young American girls, who are apt to be brought up without proper respect for age, either of individuals or institutions. In the dining-room, two long lines of portraits looked down from opposite walls. One was headed by a grim old earl, and the other by an equally grim old Pilgrim father of Mayflower fame. The two lines joined over the fireplace in the portraits of Madam Chartley’s great-grandparents. It was for this great-grandmother, a daughter of the Pilgrims and a beautiful Washington belle, that Warwick Hall had been built; for she refused to give up her native land entirely, even for the son of an earl. At his death, when the title and the English estates were inherited by a distant cousin, the only male heir, this place on the Potomac was all that was left to her and her daughter. It had been closed for two generations. Now it had come down at last to Madam Chartley. Although it found her too poor to keep up such an establishment, it also found her too proud to let her heritage go to strangers, and practical enough to find some way by which she might retain it comfortably.

That way was to turn it into a first-class boarding-school. She was a graduate of one of the best American colleges. The patrician standards inherited from her old world ancestors, combined with the energy and common sense of the new, made her an ideal woman to undertake the education of young girls, and Warwick Hall was an ideal place in which to carry out her wise theories. The Potomac was red with the glow of the sunset one September evening, when four girls, on their way back to Washington after a day’s sightseeing, hurried to the upper deck of the steamboat. Some one had called out that Warwick Hall was in sight. In their haste to reach the railing, they scarcely noticed a tall girl in blue, already standing there, who obligingly moved along to make room for them. She scrutinized them closely, however, for she had seen them in the cabin a little while before, and their conversation had been so amusing that she longed to make their acquaintance. Her face brightened expectantly at their approach, and, as they leaned over the railing, she studied them with growing interest. The oldest one was near her own age, she decided after a careful survey, about seventeen; and they were all particular about the little things that count so much with fastidious schoolgirls. She approved of each one of them from their broad silk shoe-laces to the pink tips of their carefully manicured finger-nails.

As the boat swung around a bend in the river, bringing the castle-like building into full view, a chorus of delighted exclamations broke out all along the deck. The four girls hung over the railing with eager faces. “Look, Lloyd, look!” cried one of them, excitedly. “Peacocks on the terraces! It’s the finishing touch to the picture. We’ll feel like Lady Clare walking down those marble steps. There surely must be a milk-white doe somewhere in the background.” “Oh, Betty, Betty!” was the laughing answer. “You’ll do nothing now but quote Tennyson and write poetry from mawning till night.” “They’re from Kentucky,” thought the girl in blue. “I’m sure of it from the way they talk.

” As the boat glided slowly along, Lloyd threw her arm around the girl beside her, with an impulsive squeeze. “Kitty Walton,” she exclaimed, “aren’t you glad that the old Lloydsboro Seminary burned down? If it hadn’t, we wouldn’t be on ouah way now to that heavenly-looking boahding-school!” The sudden hug loosened Kitty’s hat, held insecurely by one pin, and in another instant the strong breeze would have carried it over into the river had not the girl in blue caught it as it swept past her. She handed it back with a friendly smile, glad of an opportunity to speak. “You are new pupils for Warwick Hall, aren’t you?” she asked, when Kitty had laughingly thanked her. “I hope so, for I’m one of the old girls. This will be my third year.” “How perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Kitty. “We’ve been fairly crazy to meet some one from there. Do tell us if it is as fine as it looks, and as the catalogue says.” “It is the very nicest place in the world,” was the enthusiastic reply.

“There are hardly any rules, and none of them are the kind that rub you up the wrong way. We don’t have to wear uniforms, and we’re not marched out to walk in wholesale lots like prisoners in a chain-gang.” “That’s what I used to despise at the Seminary,” interrupted Lloyd. “I always felt like pah’t of a circus parade, or an inmate of some asylum, out for an airing. Keeping in step and keeping in line with a lot of othahs made a punishment out of the walk, when it would have been such a pleasuah if we could have skipped along as we pleased. I felt resentful from the moment the gong rang for us to stah’t. It had such a bossy, tyrannical sawt of sound.” “You’ll not find it that way at Warwick Hall,” was the emphatic answer. “There are bells for rising and chapel and meals, but the signal for exercise is a hunter’s horn, blown on the upper terrace. There’s something so breezy and out-of-doors in the sound that it is almost as irresistible a call as the Pied Piper of Hamelin’s.

You ought to see the doors fly open along the corridors, and the girls pour out when that horn blows. We can go in twos or threes or squads, any way we please, and in any direction, so long as we keep inside the grounds. There’s an orchard to stroll through, and a wooded hillside, and a big meadow. On bad days there is over half a mile of gravel road that runs through the grounds to the trolley station, or we can take our exercise going round and round the garden walks. The garden is over there at the left of the Hall,” she explained, waving her hand toward it. “Do you see that pergola stretching along the highest terrace? That is where the garden begins, and the ivy running over it was started from a slip that Madam Chartley brought from Sir Walter Scott’s home at Abbotsford. “It is the stateliest old garden you ever saw, and the pride of the school. There’s a sun-dial in it, and hollyhocks from Ann Hathaway’s cottage, and rhododendrons from Killarney. There’s all the flowers mentioned in the old songs. Madam has brought slips and roots and seeds from all sorts of places, so that nearly every plant is connected with some noted place or person.

I simply love it. In warm weather I get up early in the morning, and study my Latin out in the honeysuckle arbour. Latin is my hardest study, but it doesn’t seem half so hard out there among the bees and hummingbirds, where it’s all so sweet and still.” “Oh, will they let you do things like that?” came the same amazed question from all four at once. “You wait and see,” was the encouraging reply. “That isn’t the beginning.” The four exchanged ecstatic glances. “Oh, we haven’t introduced ourselves,” exclaimed Kitty, bethinking herself of formalities. “I am Katherine Walton, and this is my big sister, Allison. That is Lloyd Sherman and Elizabeth Lewis.

They’re almost as good as sisters, for they live together, and Lloyd’s mother is Betty’s godmother. And we’re all from the same place, Lloydsboro Valley, Kentucky.” “And I am Juliet Lynn from Wisconsin. That is, I lived there till papa had to come to Washington. He’s a Congressman now. I was sure that you were from Kentucky, and I’ve been hoping that you were new girls for the Hall ever since I heard you talking about some house-party where you all did such funny things.” “Oh, yes, that was one we had this summer at The Beeches,” began Kitty, glibly, “when we all took turns—” But, with a big-sister frown of warning, Allison said, in a low aside: “For pity’s sake, don’t stop to tell all that long rigmarole over now. We want to hear some more about the school.” “What is Madam Chartley herself like?” she asked, turning to Juliet. “She must be something of an old dragon if she can keep forty girls straight with so few rules.

We’ve pictured her as a big British matron, dignified and imposing,—a sort of lioness rampant, you know, with a stern air, as if she was about to say in a deep voice, ‘England—expects—every—man—to—do—his—duty,—sir!'” “But she isn’t that way at all!” cried Juliet, almost indignantly. “She’s just as American as you are, for she was born and educated in this country. She has the gentlest voice and sweetest manner. Her hair is snow-white, and there’s something awfully aristocratic about her, for she is—sort of—well, I hardly know how to express it, but just what you’d expect the ‘daughter of a hundred earls’ to be, you know. But you won’t feel one bit in awe of her. The girls simply adore her.” “But isn’t she something to be afraid of when you break the rules?” queried Kitty, anxiously. “When you have midnight feasts and pillow-case prowls and all that?” Juliet shook her head. “We don’t do those things. I tell you it isn’t like any other boarding-school you ever heard of.

” “Then I know I sha’n’t like it,” declared Kitty. “All my life I’ve looked forward to going off to school just for the jolly good times I’d have. You see we were only day-pupils at Lloydsboro Seminary, and there wasn’t a chance for that kind of fun, except the one term when Lloyd and Betty boarded in the school while their family was away from home. We managed to stir up a little excitement then, and I’d hoped for all sorts of thrilling adventures here. I’m horribly disappointed that it’s so tame and goody-goody.” Juliet’s face coloured resentfully. “It isn’t tame at all!” she declared. “It’s only that we are always so busy doing pleasant things and going to interesting places that nobody cares for stolen spreads. Some girls don’t like the place just at first, because it’s so different from what they’ve been used to. But by the end of the term they’re so in love with Warwick Hall and everything about it that nothing could induce them to change schools.

There’s only one girl I ever heard of who didn’t like it.” “And why didn’t she?” asked Lloyd and Allison, in the same breath. “Well, she came from some ranch away out West, Wyoming or Nevada or some of those places, where she’d been as free and easy as a squaw, and she couldn’t stand so much civilization. You see, from the minute you enter Warwick Hall you feel somehow that you’re a guest of Madam Chartley’s instead of a pupil. She uses the old family silver and the china has her great-grandfather’s crest on it, and she brought over a London butler who grew up in the family service. She keeps him for the same reason that she keeps the peacocks, I suppose. They give such a grand air to the place. “Lida Wilsy—that’s the girl from the ranch—couldn’t live up to so much stateliness, especially of the stony-eyed butler. Hawkins was too much for her. She told her roommate that she thought it was foolish to have so many forks and spoons at each place.

One was enough for anybody to get through a dinner with. Life was too short for so much fuss and feathers. She never could learn which to use first, and she would get her silverware so hopelessly mixed up that by the time dessert was brought on maybe she would have nothing to eat it with but an oyster fork. I’ve seen her ready to go under the table from embarrassment. Not that she cared so much what the girls thought. She joked about it to them. Her father owned the biggest part of a silver mine, and they could have had Tiffany’s whole stock of forks if they’d wanted them. It was Hawkins she was afraid of. Of course he was too well trained to show what he thought of her mistakes, but you couldn’t help feeling his high and mighty inward scorn of such ignorance. It fairly oozed from his finger-tips.

” Kitty’s black eyes sparkled, anticipating times ahead when she would certainly make it lively for Hawkins.

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