Witch Winnie: The Story of a "King's Daughter" — Background and Themes

BOARDING-SCHOOL SCRAPES.

We never had any until Witch Winnie came to room in our corner.

We had the reputation of being the best behaved set at Madame's, a little bit self-conscious too, and proud of our propriety. Perhaps this was the reason that we were nicknamed the "Amen Corner," though the girls pretended it was because the initials of our names, spelled downward, like an acrostic--

_A_delaide Armstrong, _M_illy Roseveldt, _E_mma Jane Anton, _N_ellie Smith--

formed the word _amen_. But certainly the name would not have clung to us as it did if the other girls had not recognized its fitness in our forming a sanctimonious little clique who echoed Madame's sentiments, and were real Pharisees in minding the rules about study-hours, and whispering, and having our lights out in time, and the other lesser matters of the law which the girls in the "Hornets' Nest," Witch Winnie's set, disregarded with impunity.

And verily we had our reward, for Madame trusted us, and gave us the best set of rooms in the great stone corner tower, overlooking the park, quite away from the espial of the corridor teacher. They had been intended for an infirmary, but as no one was ever sick at Madame's, she grew tired of keeping them unoccupied, and assigned them to us.

Sometimes the other girls annoyed us by making calls in study-hours, and we virtuously displayed a placard on our door bearing the inscription, "Particularly Engaged." It caught Witch Winnie's eye, as she strolled along the hall, and she scribbled beneath it,

"The girls of the Amen Corner Would have us all to know That they're _engaged_, each one engaged-- Particularly so."[A]

[A] This incident is borrowed from an actual occurrence.

We hardly knew whether to be amused or vexed at this sally of Witch Winnie's. We acknowledged that it was bright, but we deplored her wildness, and had no idea how much we should love her in time to come. After all, our reputation as model pupils had a very slender foundation. It rested chiefly on Emma Jane's preternatural conscientiousness. The night that the cadet band serenaded our school, some of the pupils, presumably the girls in the "Hornets' Nest," threw out bouquets to the performers. Rumor said that when Madame heard of this she was greatly shocked.

"I don't see how she can punish them for it," said Adelaide; "there's nothing in the rules about not giving flowers to young men. Still, it was a dreadful thing to do, and Madame is ingenious enough to twist the rules some way, so as to 'make the punishment fit the crime.' I am glad the Amen Corner is guiltless."

Then we marched into chapel on tiptoe with excitement to see Madame wreak vengeance on the wrong-doers. Witch Winnie sat behind me, and turning, I saw that she looked pale, but resolute.

Madame rose in awful dignity, her wiry curls, which Milly said reminded her of spiral bed-springs, bristled ominously.

"Young ladies," she exclaimed, in a sharp tone of command, "you may all rise." We rose.

"If you turn to the printed rules of this institution," she continued, "you will find under Section VII. the following paragraph--'Pupils are not allowed to disfigure the lawn by _throwing from the windows_ any bits of paper, hair, apple-parings, peanut shells, or waste material _of any kind_. Scrap-baskets are provided for the reception of such matter, and any pupil throwing _anything from her window upon the school grounds_ will be regarded as having committed a misdemeanor.'"

An impressive silence followed, in which Witch Winnie gave a sigh of relief, and whispered to Cynthia Vaughn, "We're all right; we didn't disfigure her precious lawn. The bouquets never touched the ground. I lowered them, with a string, in my scrap-basket (just where she says we ought to have put them), and the drum-major took them out and distributed them to the other boys."

"Young ladies," Madame continued, in tones of triumph, "those of you who have not broken this rule within the past week may sit down."

We all sat down--all but Emma Jane Anton, who remained in conspicuous discomfort. Adelaide pulled her by the basque, "Sit down!" she whispered; "Madame doesn't mean you."

Emma Jane stood like a martyr while Madame regarded her through her lorgnette with astonishment depicted on every feature.

"If you committed this infringement of the rules at any time other than last evening you may sit down."

Emma Jane remained standing.

"Then," said Madame, drawing herself up frigidly, "Miss Anton, you may explain: what was it you threw out?"

"Madame," replied Emma Jane, "the window was open--we were listening to the music--and a bat flew in; and, Madame, he would not stay in the waste-paper basket, and so, Madame, I threw him out."

Every one laughed; discipline was forgotten for the moment, until Madame rapped smartly on the desk and called for order. She complimented Emma Jane highly on her conscientiousness, but she looked provoked with her all the same, while Witch Winnie, who was stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, nearly went into convulsions.

After the sketch which I have endeavored to give of Witch Winnie, and the position which she occupied at Madame's, I trust that we, as self-respecting pupils, will not be too severely blamed when I confess that we received, with great disfavor, Madame's announcement that Winnie was henceforth to room in the Amen Corner.

The bedrooms at Madame's boarding-school were clustered in little groups around study-parlors, five girls forming a family. For a long time there had been only four in our set. Emma Jane Anton, who preferred to room alone, had the little single bedroom; Adelaide and Milly were chums; while I, Nellie Smith, familiarly nicknamed Tib, had luxuriated so long in the large corner chamber that I had almost forgotten that Madame told me, at the outset, that I must hold myself in readiness to receive a room-mate at any time.

Adelaide Armstrong was the daughter of a railroad magnate. She had been brought up in the West, but, though she had traveled much, and had seen a great deal of society, her education had not been entirely neglected. She had studied a great deal in a desultory way, and contested the head of the class with Emma Jane Anton, who was a "regular dig," and had prepared for college in the Boston public schools.

It was really surprising how Adelaide had picked up so much. She had studied Latin with a priest in New Mexico, and had profited by two years at a lonely post on the confines of Canada, where her father had been interested in the fur trade, to become proficient in French. Strikingly handsome, a brunette with brilliant complexion and Andalusian eyes, energetic and spirited, she was popular both with her instructors and her classmates.

Milly Roseveldt was her exact contrast--a milky-complexioned little blonde, shy and sweet; she was also a trifle dull. Adelaide translated her Latin, and worked out her problems, and I wrote her compositions, while Milly rewarded us with largesses of love and confectionery, for she was the most generous as well as the most affectionate of girls. Her father, a wealthy New York banker, placed large sums of money at her disposal, and Milly deluged her friends with gifts of flowers and bonbons. It seemed very natural to me that Adelaide and Milly should be sworn friends; but my admittance into the sacred circle was a mystery to me, and to a number of aspiring girls who asserted that I was nobody in particular, and who envied me my place in my friends' affection. My presence in the school itself was almost as great a wonder. My father was a Long Island farmer. We opened our house to city boarders during the summer, and one season Miss Sartoris, the teacher in Art at Madame's, boarded with us. I had taken drawing lessons at the Academy, and Miss Sartoris took me out sketching with her. I worked like a beaver, and was never so happy in my life. I delighted Miss Sartoris, who wakened mother's ambition by telling her that I was the most talented pupil she had ever had. More than this: we three induced good, easy-going, generous father to let me go back to the city with Miss Sartoris as a pupil at Madame's. My wardrobe was meagre, but not countrified, for I possessed a natural sense of color and a quick faculty for imitation. I had seen plenty of city people at Scup Haven, and my few dresses, I fancied, would pass muster anywhere. I was a fair scholar, and took the lead in the studio. I was not brilliant and stylish like Adelaide, or rich and pretty like Milly, but they liked me, and I liked myself the better for the consciousness that there must be something nice about me which attracted them. I believe now that it was an absence of self-consciousness and selfishness on my part, and my hearty admiration and devotion to them. Adelaide called me, playfully, "the great American Appreciator."

It was just before the theatricals given by our literary society that an incident occurred which showed me how much they really thought of me. We three were arranging the stage; I was touching up the scenery, and Milly holding the tacks for Adelaide, who was looping the drapery, when we overheard the conversation of a group of girls on the other side of the curtain.

Cynthia Vaughn was the first to speak.

"I think Adelaide Armstrong is perfectly splendid!"

"So do I," said another; and there was a chorus of confused voices exclaiming, "So stylish!" "Perfectly elegant!" "The handsomest girl in school!"

Adelaide left her work and placed her hand on the curtain, but Milly threw her arms impulsively around her. "Let us hear what they will say," she whispered; "when they are through we can pull the cord, and all bow thanks."

By this time other voices were chanting Milly's praises, and Adelaide turned reluctantly away, remarking, "Well, if you enjoy that sort of thing, you are welcome to it. I should not be surprised, by the way they are loading it on, if they knew we were here."

They did not know it, for at that instant Cynthia Vaughn spoke up again, "I don't see what they find to admire in that pokey Lib Smith."

"I should think Milly would be ashamed to be seen with her," said another; "her dresses always remind me of a chicken with its head through a hole in a salt-bag."

Adelaide sprang forward with flashing eyes to confront the speaker, but this time it was I who held her back. "Let them say their say," I whispered, hoarsely, while Milly cowered, trembling. "I believe her mother makes her dresses at home," said Witch Winnie; "and, as she can't have Tib to try them on, she fits them on her grandfather."

There was a hearty laugh at this sally, and another added: "I don't see how Adelaide can endure her, she is so stingy. Have you noticed that the girls place a fresh bouquet at her plate every morning? and I never could find out that she ever gave either of them so much as a single flower."

Adelaide nearly writhed herself from my grasp, but I held her tightly. "Milly," she gasped, "are you a coward, to stand there and hear our friend reviled so? Can't you stop them?"

The blood surged into Milly's pale cheeks, and she sprang before the curtain. "Girls," she cried, "how can you talk so? Nellie Smith is our dearest friend. She is not one bit stingy; she gives us more than we have ever given her. Because she does not parade her presents on the breakfast-table is no reason that she has not given me lots and lots of things, and no girl can consider herself my friend who talks so about our darling Tib."

Here Milly broke down in tears, and Witch Winnie exclaimed, "Good for you, Milly Roseveldt; I didn't know you had so much spunk!" But at this point we all fled to the Amen Corner, and bolted the door, refusing to admit Witch Winnie, who impulsively shouted her apologies through the keyhole.

"Oh, Milly!" I cried, "what made you tell a lie for me? I never gave you a thing." And I might have added, "How could I, when my allowance for spending-money is hardly sufficient to keep me in slate-pencils?"

But Milly stopped my mouth with kisses, and pointed to sundry original works of art with which I had decorated her apartment, and declared, besides, that helping her on that last horrid composition was a greater gift than all the roses in Le Moult's greenhouse.

So we of the Amen Corner disliked Witch Winnie and loved each other, all but Emma Jane Anton. We could not be said to exactly love her; we tolerated her in our midst, in spite of her uncongenial nature, because we took pride in her eminent respectability, and in the higher average of reputation for creditable scholarship and exemplary behavior which she gave to our corner. But love her! We might as well have tried to love an iceberg.

Witch Winnie arrived on Adelaide's birthday, and was a most unwelcome birthday present. Emma Jane Anton had obtained permission for us to celebrate the occasion by sitting up an hour later that evening. Milly had ordered a form of ice-cream and a birthday-cake from Mazetti's, and we had invited in a half-dozen friends to share the treat. As a damper on this beautiful fete, Madame had called us into her private study that afternoon, and had told us that she had decided to assign Witch Winnie as my room-mate. She did not scruple to tell us her reasons for doing so. Winnie (according to Madame) was the head-centre of a wild set of "ne'er-do-weels" who roomed in the top of the house, "a perfect hornets' nest under the eaves," Madame said. Madame felt that if the queen hornet was taken away, the rest would be more amenable to discipline, and that Winnie, placed among such proper and well-behaved girls as we were, would herself feel our beneficial influence.

"I think," said Madame, "that if you knew Winnie's history you would understand her better. Her parents were both very talented and highly imaginative people. Her father is a playwright of reputation, who married a very lovely young actress who had sustained the leading part in several of his plays. They were tenderly attached to each other. Mrs. De Witt had great dramatic talent; she made it the study of her life to realize his conceptions, and succeeded to his perfect satisfaction. She said that she so lived in her part that frequently she forgot her own personality, while Mr. De Witt was always cudgeling his brains to invent new plots, situations, and characters for his wife. Mrs. De Witt died when Winnie was but three years of age. The child has lived with different relatives, and has been spoiled and neglected by turns, but never quite understood. I have studied her carefully, and think I see in her a combination of both parents. She has her father's highly organized imaginative nature, but instead of constructing plots for plays, it develops itself in plots for scrapes. She delights in dramatic situations, and is a natural and unconscious actress. Her father hopes that she may never adopt the stage as her profession, for it was that life of mental and physical strain which killed Winnie's mother. Something remarkable in organization or in action the girl will certainly be, and as she takes her color, like a chameleon, from her surroundings, or, rather, her cue from the other actors, I have great hopes for your influence over her."

Madame's confidences made little impression upon our prejudice. We listened in silence, and, returning to our rooms, held an indignation meeting, in which Emma Jane led. Adelaide, who ought to have sympathized with the neglected orphan, for she had lost her own mother when a little girl, and who did find in this fact a bond of fellow-feeling later on, now ignored all her claim for pity, and chose to feel that we were all grossly insulted. Milly pitied me the enforced companionship, several of us were in tears, and in the midst of it all Witch Winnie appeared. The clatter of voices sank to sudden silence, and the new-comer, looking from face to face, instantly understood the situation.

"If you feel half as badly as I do, girls," she said, with a merry laugh, "I'm sorry for you; I wouldn't intrude on you in this way if I could help it. Madame tells me you are to have a spread to-night, and have invited your particular friends. It's too bad she wouldn't let me put off moving till to-morrow morning. I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll sit in the recitation-room and cram for examination until the party is over. Of course you don't want me, a perfect stranger to your friends; it isn't to be supposed you would."

Emma Jane Anton looked relieved. "We provided for a limited number," she explained; "if we had known that we were to have the honor of your company--"

But Adelaide interrupted her instantly. "Sit in that dismal recitation-room while I am having my birthday party! Indeed you shall do nothing of the sort!" while Milly came gallantly to the rescue, assuring her that she had ordered more ice-cream than they could possibly consume, and I did the best I could to make Winnie believe that she was welcome.

The girls appeared _en masse_ as soon as the bell struck for the close of evening study-hour--congratulations were offered to Adelaide, and Winnie was introduced. All made extravagant efforts to be gay and sociable, but there was a certain constraint, a forced quality, in it all, which had for its reason something beyond the fact of an unwelcome addition to the Corner: the refreshments had not arrived. Mazetti had forgotten to send them. There stood the study-table neatly spread with a table-cloth borrowed from the steward's department, and set with saucers, spoons, and plates, all disappointingly empty.

Adelaide tried to carry off the situation as an immense joke. Milly alternated between hope and despair, fancying each noise of wheels the confectioner's cart. The guests showed their disappointment plainly, some confessing that they had slighted the evening prunes and rice in anticipation of this treat. And I heard Cynthia Vaughn whisper that it was a very cheap way to give a party--to pretend that there had been a mistake. At this juncture I suddenly noticed that Witch Winnie had disappeared.

A few moments later a loud knocking, or kicking, for it was evidently bestowed with feet instead of hands, was heard at the door. "Let me in, girls!" cried Witch Winnie's voice--"let me in, quick! before Madame catches me." We opened the door, and Witch Winnie burst in, and sat laughing on the floor; from her dress, which had been gathered up in her hands, and had served as a market-basket, rolled a quantity of paper bags and parcels--lemons, bottles of olives, sugar, mixed pickles, crackers, sardines, macaroons, nuts, raisins, candy, etc., etc.

"Help yourselves, girls," she chuckled. "We'll have the spread, after all. I have been around the corner and bought out Mr. Beeny's little grocery." Then broke in a chorus of voices--

"How did you ever get out of the house?"

"Was Cerberus asleep?" (Cerberus was our nickname for the janitor.)

"How very sweet of you!"

"But how extravagant!"

"O girls! these pickled limes are too lovely for anything."

Adelaide appeared with her ewer. "I'll make the lemonade," she said, and began rolling the lemons with Milly's curling-stick, while Emma Jane Anton manipulated the can-opener with energy and success. Each girl flew to her room for her tooth-mug, and we drank Witch Winnie's health in brimming bumpers of lemonade.

"How did you ever manage it?" Milly asked again.

"I climbed down the fire-escape." Witch Winnie giggled.

"But you had to drop twelve feet onto the sidewalk!"

"What of that? I've done it in the gymnasium from the trapeze many a time."

"But you never came back that way?"

"Hardly. I rang the basement bell, and when Cerberus said he'd tell Madame, I made him a present of three packages of cigarettes and some Limburger cheese, and I am quite certain that he will never say a word."

Witch Winnie's generosity and good-fellowship had won the day. From that moment we took her into our hearts.