The Lass of the Silver Sword
9781465587787
418 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
All unnoticed, Jean stood behind Carol and lovingly squeezed the heavy plait in which the champion had braided her curly chestnut hair for the fray. Before she could have the satisfaction of winding around her finger the tempting ringlet in which the plait ended, its owner broke away. The twelve players in their pretty jumpers and bloomers of navy-blue rushed off to the dressing-rooms. The girls left behind in the gymnasium rah-rah-rah’d for their Alma Mater; and then—for that first Saturday in March was one of drizzle and sleet—they devoted the interval before luncheon to indoor exercise. Jean brandished Indian clubs until her muscles ached. Then she perched herself on the headless, tailless “gymnasium horse” to rest, and absent-mindedly cuddled a club in her arms. Jean was tall for her age, and pale, and in her own judgment she was homely, for she did not know what charm lay in her strong, yet delicate face, with its constantly changing play of expression. Her eyes were large, deep-set, and of a dark, clear blue; but the times came often when their pupils dilated and they flashed warningly. Her forceful mouth gave quick, responsive smiles; and when, as now, her hair-ribbons had slipped from their moorings, the heavy locks, almost black, which fell about her broad forehead, lent an attractively witch-like air to the bright, earnest face. At school, Jean was regarded in the light of an interesting curiosity; she had among other things the distinction of having lived for two years in Brazil. Her father’s business had called him to Rio Janeiro for a few years, but her parents had decided that when their only child came to fourteen she must be sent back to the United States to be educated. Poor Jean! Shy and homesick, she had come to Miss Carlton’s boarding-school, Hazelhurst Hall. She had stayed in her shell while the other newcomers were choosing their best friends; and so most of the intimacies had been formed while she was still left out in the cold. But if she had no bosom friend, at least she had the luxury of an ideal to adore, and that ideal was Carol Armstrong. Jean had fallen in love with her at first sight, when, just arrived at the Hall, she had seen Carol laughing and talking with her friends, her head against the window through which the sunlight poured, her chestnut curls gleaming with red and gold. Alas! the course of true love never did run smooth! Jean had not dared to confess her admiration to any one but Cecily Brook, whom she had pledged to keep her secret. Now and then she made offerings of candy and flowers anonymously, leaving them on Carol’s desk, and so far all Carol’s attempts to play detective had failed, and it looked as if her admirer would remain forever unknown. While Jean was still mounted on the horse, Carol came back to the gymnasium, this time in her school dress, and was captured by a devoted mob, who drew her to the piano and made her play for them to dance. Couples were soon waltzing to spirited music, but awkward Jean found dancing more work than play, and she sat still, no one claiming her for a partner. “Let’s go and poke up crazy Jane! It’s too silly for her to sit there when she ought to be dancing!” said Frances Browne to her room-mate, Adela Mears, when the girls had stopped to rest. Frances was a piquante little brunette, small for her age, slight and nimble. Her bright, black eyes, sparkling with mischief, and her elfin quickness had won her the nicknames of “Brown Mouse” and “Frisky Mouse”; and Adela, with her flaxen hair and small, pointed features, had been dubbed “White Mouse,” and the room which they shared together “The Mouse Hole.”
