Dorothy at Oak Knowe. Raymond Evelyn

n

      Dorothy at Oak Knowe

      CHAPTER I

      ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE

      “This way for the Queen!”

      “Here you are for the Duke of Connaught! Right this way!”

      “Want the Metropole, Miss?”

      “Room there, stupid! She’s from the States – any fool could see that! I’m from your hotel, little lady, the American. Your luggage, Miss, allow me?”

      If Dorothy’s hands hadn’t been too full, she would have clapped them over her ears, to drown the cries of the hackmen who swarmed about her as she stepped from the train at the railway station in Toronto. As it was, she clung desperately to her bag and shawlstrap, which the man from the American hotel seemed bound to seize, whether or no.

      But her heart sank and it was a forlorn little girl, indeed, who looked anxiously around seeking some face on which might be a smile of welcome. But nobody paid any attention to her, except the obstreperous hackmen, and in a sudden fright she let fall the tears she had so bravely kept back until then. It had been a long and lonely journey, but she had been assured that she would be promptly met and cared for when it ended. Now, amid all the throng of travelers and those who awaited them, not one was looking for a “dark haired girl in navy blue” and the tears fell faster as she cried aloud:

      “Oh! what shall I do! What shall I do!”

      Even the hackmen had forsaken her in pursuit of other, more promising patrons. The short autumn day was at its close and in the growing darkness her fright increased and her usual common sense left her. But, as she spoke, a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a rather gruff voice demanded:

      “Why, little stranger, what’s a-troublin’ ye?”

      Dorothy winked her tears away and looked up into the face of an old man, whose gray beard swept his breast while his head was entirely bald. He wore a long blue smock, carried an ox-goad in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked as kind as he was homely and Dorothy answered quickly:

      “I’m lost, I guess. Or forgotten, and that’s just as bad! I – I – ”

      “Lost? Right here in this town? Well, that couldn’t hardly be. Though I own it’s a biggish place. But if you be, I’ll see to it that you get found again, immediate. First start – who be ye?”

      “I’m Dorothy Calvert, from Baltimore. I came to the Oak Knowe School for Girls. Somebody was to meet me. Nobody has and – and – I don’t know what to do.”

      John Gilpin whistled and exclaimed:

      “No! Never! I saw at a glance you was no Cannuck! The little maids we raise in our Province have redder cheeks ’an yours. An’ we don’t let ’em go traversin’ round the universe without their mothers or leastways nurses to look after ’em. But bless my soul, you’ve fell into safe hands. I know old Oak Knowe well. No better school in the whole Empire nor that. Moresomever, there’s been some miscarry betwixt your folks and the Lady Principal or she’d never let you come to this pass. But my road lies same as yours. I’ll just step-an’-fetch my oxen and head ’em straight for home. We’ll get to the School in next to no time. Leastways, betwixt now and bedding-bell – they ring it about half-past nine.”

      “Is it so far? Why, it must be hours till then!”

      At the cheerful sound of this old teamster’s voice Dorothy forgot her fear. She didn’t stop to reflect that she should have waited quietly in the station till somebody called for her, nor that she might have telephoned to her teachers to announce her arrival. All she realized was that here was a friend in need and that he was a quaintly interesting person.

      “’Tis a matter of some miles, lassie, and my old oxen are no electric tram. Slow and sure’s their motto and what’s an hour, more or less, in a little girl’s lifetime? You got a box?”

      Dorothy glanced at the rug and magazine, tightly strapped together, and at the handbag she had set down upon the platform and replied:

      “No, Mr. – I don’t know your name yet – I haven’t now. I had one, but I ate the lunch out of it and tossed it from the car window.”

      The old man stared as if she had spoken nonsense, but informed her:

      “Gilpin’s my name. John Gilpin; but my dame says I’m no descendant of him that took that famous ride as is in the story books. I’m too slow, Dame says. But is all your clothes in that satchel?”

      It was Dorothy’s turn to stare and to laugh.

      “Oh! no, indeed! They’re in my trunk. Here is my check. Number 70777. I put that down in my little notebook, though it’s easy to remember.”

      “Humph! I’ve heard that in the States they call a box a ‘trunk,’ same’s if it was an elephant. Well, give me the check. I’ll just step-an’-fetch it and we’ll be jogging.”

      Mr. Gilpin took the check and lumbered away, dragging one leg stiffly as if he could not bend the knee, while Dorothy’s spirits rose as she watched him. After all, this was a real adventure; and when it was over and she was safe at her fine school, she could write all about it to the friends at home. Thinking about them, she forgot how long John Gilpin tarried and roused from her reverie with a start when his hearty voice, guiding his oxen, came around the corner of the station.

      “Here we be, lassie! Ever ride in an ox-cart? Ever see a neater yoke o’ cattle? That’s an unco big box for a small maid to own and hefty, to boot. Step right in, for it’s gathering clouds, I see, and we can’t have that tidy dress of yours get spoiled while it’s new.”

      It was easy to “step in” to the low-hung vehicle and Dorothy nestled against her new friend on his spring-seat forward; all the back part of the wagon being filled with empty barrels and her own trunk.

      It had been some sort of holiday in the city and the streets were gay with flags and bunting, causing Dorothy to exclaim:

      “Why, it’s just like Halifax, that time Earl Grey was coming! It’s just as English as that was – even more so, for I don’t see Old Glory anywhere, and there I did.”

      Old John turned his bare, bald head toward her and demanded:

      “What do you know about Halifax? Or the Governor General? I thought you was United States.”

      “So I am, so I am! But people may travel once in a while, mayn’t they? I can tell you lots about Halifax, even though I was there but a little while. That was on a vacation journey and it was delight-ful!”

      Then, finding the farmer so interested, Dorothy eagerly recited the story of her “Travels” and their happy ending at her rightful home at Deerhurst and in the love of her Great-Aunt Betty.

      “Sounds like a story book, now don’t it! And to think after all that the old lady should be willin’ to despatch you up here to our Province, just to get a mite of education. Should ha’ thought there be institooshuns of learning nigher hand ’an Oak Knowe, where she could ha’ clapped eyes on ye, now and again. She – ”

      “Oh! don’t misjudge my darling aunt! She hated to have me come as badly as I hated to leave her; but, though I’ve never been really ill, she fancied that this climate would make me very, very strong. Besides, the minister who founded Oak Knowe – he was a bishop, I believe – was one of her girlhood friends, and so she chose it for that, too. Anyway, to her who has traveled so much, Canada and Maryland seem but a little way apart.”

      “That’s right, lassie. That’s right. Be loyal to your friends, whether they be right or wrong. An’ talk about travel, there beant many corners of this earth that I haven’t took a glance at. I’ve not always been a farmer, though you mightn’t think it now.”

      They had passed out of the city streets into the open country, the oxen swaying and pacing sedately along, as if it mattered nothing how late they might reach home. To pass the time, Dorothy asked the old man to talk about his own travels, and he promptly answered:

      “In course, and obleeged for anybody to care to listen. Dame has heard my yarns so often, she scoffs ’em; but I’ve seen a power o’ things in my day, a power o’ things. I was born in Lunnon, raised in Glasgo’, run away to Liverpool and shipped afore the mast. From