THE TORN BOOK
The studies at the Compton Girls’ School were at the top of the house,
and consisted of three small rooms set apart for the use of the Sixth,
and one fair-sized chamber that was used as prep room by the Upper
Fifth. The private sitting-room of the Form-mistresses was also on this
floor, the rooms all opening on to one long passage, which had a
staircase at either end.
There were twelve girls in the Sixth, which gave four to a study. Hazel
and Margaret had with them Dorothy, and also Jessie Wayne, who was a
very quiet and studious girl, keeping to her own corner, and having very
little to do with the others. The head girl, Dora Selwyn, had the middle
study with three others, and the remaining four, of whom Rhoda Fleming
was one, had the third room, which was next to the prep room of the
Upper Fifth.
All the rooms on this floor were fitted with gas fires, and were very
comfortable. To Dorothy there was a wonderfully homey feeling in coming
up to this quiet retreat after the stress and strain of Form work. She
shared the centre table with Hazel, while Margaret had a corner opposite
to the one where Jessie worked.
One Friday evening at the end of October they were all in the study,
and, for a wonder, they were all talking. The week’s marks had been
posted on the board in the lecture hall an hour before, and they had
read the result as they came out from prayers.
It was Dorothy’s class position which had led to the talking; for the
first time since she had come to the school she was fourth from the top.
Dora Selwyn, Hazel, and Margaret were above her, and Rhoda Fleming was
fifth.
“Rhoda has been fourth so far this term,” said Jessie Wayne. “She will
not take it kindly that you have climbed above her, Dorothy. How did you
manage to do it?”
“I can’t think how I got above her,” answered Dorothy, who was flushed
and happy, strangely disinclined for work, too, and disposed to lean
back in her chair and discuss her victory. “Rhoda is a long way ahead of
me in most things, and she is so wonderfully good at maths, too, while I
am a duffer at figures in any shape or form.”
“You are pulling up though. I noticed you had fifty more marks for maths
than you had last week,” said Hazel, who had been deep in a new book on
chemistry, which she was annotating for next week’s class paper.
“Yes, I know I am fifty up.” Dorothy laughed happily. “To tell the
truth, I have been swotting to that end. Indeed, I have let other things
slide a bit in order to get level with the rest of you at maths. I have
to work harder at that than anything.”
“Well, you jumped in Latin too; you were before me there,” said
Margaret. “I should not be surprised if you have me down next week or
the week after. You will have your work cut out to do it, though, for I
mean to keep in front of you as long as I can.”
“I can’t see myself getting in front of you,” said Dorothy. “You seem to
know all there is to be known about most things.”
“In short, she is the beginning and end of wisdom,” laughed Hazel. “But
we must get to work, or by this time next week we shall find ourselves
at the bottom of the Form.”
“What a row there is in the next study,” said Dorothy. “Don’t you wonder
that Dora puts up with such a riot, and she the head girl?”
“The noise is not in the next study,” said Jessie, who had opened the
door and gone out into the passage to see where the noise came from. “It
is Rhoda and her lot who are carrying on. They do it most nights, only
they do not usually make as much noise as this. I suppose they are
taking advantage of the mistresses having gone to Ilkestone for that
lecture on Anthropology; Dora has gone too, so there is no one up here
to keep them in order to-night.”
“Well, shut the door, kid, and drag the curtain across it to deaden the
noise. We have to get our work done somehow.” There was a sound of
irritation in Hazel’s voice; she had badly wanted to go to the lecture
herself, but she knew that she dared not take the time. If she had been
free like Dora she would have gone, and not troubled about the fear of
dropping in her Form; but in view of her position as an aspirant for the
Mutton Bone, she dared not run the risk.
There was silence in the study for the next hour. Sometimes a girl would
get up to reach a book, or would rustle papers, or scrape her chair on
the floor; but there was no talking, until presently Jessie pushed her
chair back, and rising to her feet, declared that she was going to bed,
simply because she could not keep awake any longer.
“I am coming too,” said Hazel. “I am doing no good at all, just because
I keep dropping asleep; I suppose it is because it has been so windy
to-day. Are you others coming now?”
Margaret said that she would go—and indeed she was so pale and
heavy-eyed that she did not look fit to stay up any longer; but Dorothy
said that she wanted to finish the Latin she was doing for next day, and
would stay until she had done it.
When the others had gone she rose and turned out the gas fire, fearful
lest she might forget it when she went to bed, and there was a
considerable penalty waiting for the girl who left a gas fire burning
when she left the room.
The upper floor had grown strangely still. The Upper Fifth had gone
downstairs to bed some time ago. There were no mistresses in their
private room, which to-night was not even lighted. The noise in the
third study had died away, and there was a deep hush over the place.
Dorothy worked on steadily for a time, then suddenly she felt herself
growing nervous; there was a sensation upon her that some one was
coming, was creeping along the passage, and pausing outside the door.
She stopped work, she held herself rigid, and stared fixedly at the
door. The handle moved gently—some one was coming in. The horror of
this creeping, silent thing was on her; she wanted to scream, but she
had no power—she could only pant.
The door creaked open for perhaps half an inch. Dorothy sprang up, and
in her haste knocked over a pile of books, which fell with a clattering
bang on the floor. For a moment she paused, appalled by the noise she
had made in that quiet place; and then, wrenching open the door, she
faced the passage, which stretched, lighted and empty, to her gaze.
With a jerk she clicked off the electric light of the study, and with a
series of bounds reached the top of the stairs, fleeing down and along
the corridor to the dormitory. All the girls were in bed except Hazel,
who looked out from her cubicle to know what was wrong.
“Nerves, I expect. Yah, I turned into a horrible coward, and when the
door creaked gently open I just got up and fled,” said Dorothy, who was
hanging on to the side of her cubicle, looking thoroughly scared and
done up from her experience upstairs.
“I guess you have been doing too much; you would have been wiser to have
come down when we did,” said Hazel calmly; and then, as her own toilet
was all but complete, she came and helped Dorothy to get to bed.
It was good to be helped. Dorothy was shaking in every limb, and she was
feeling so thoroughly demoralized that it was all she could do to keep
from bursting into noisy crying. She thanked Hazel with lips that
trembled, and creeping into her bed, hid her head beneath the clothes
because her teeth chattered so badly.
Sleep came to her after a time, for she was healthily tired with the
long day of work and play. But with sleep came dreams, and these were
for the most part weird and frightening. Some evil was always coming
upon her from behind, and yet she could never get her head round to see
what it was that was menacing her. Oh, it was fearful! She struggled to
wake, but was not able; and presently she slid into deeper slumber,
getting more restful as the hours went by. Then the old trouble broke
out again: something was certainly coming upon her, the curtains of her
cubicle were shaking, her bed was shaking, and next minute she herself
would be shaken out of bed. Making a great effort she opened her eyes,
and saw Margaret standing over her.
“What is the matter?” gasped Dorothy, wondering why her head was feeling
so queer and her mouth so parched and dry.
“That is what I have come to ask you,” said Margaret with a laugh. “You
have nearly waked us all up by crying out and groaning in a really
tragic fashion. Are you feeling ill?”
“Why, no, I am all right,” said Dorothy, who began to feel herself all
over to see if she was really awake and undamaged. “I have been having
ghastly dreams, and I thought something was coming after me, only I was
not able to get awake to see what it was.”
“Ah! a fit of nightmare, I suppose.” Margaret’s tone was sympathetic,
but she yawned with sleepiness, and shivered from the cold. “I found you
lying across the bed with your head hanging down, as if you were going
to pitch out on to the floor, so I guess you were feeling bad.”
“What is the time?” Dorothy had struggled to a sitting posture, and was
wondering if she dared ask Margaret to creep into bed with her, for
there was a sense of panic on her still, and she feared—actually
feared—to be left alone.
“Oh, the wee sma’ hours are getting bigger. It is just five
o’clock—plenty of time for a good sleep yet before the rising bell. Lie
down, and I will tuck you in snugly, then you will feel better.”
Dorothy sank back on her pillow, submitting to be vigorously tucked in
by Margaret. She was suddenly ashamed of being afraid to stay alone. Now
that she was wider awake the creeping horror was further behind her,
while the fact that it was already five o’clock seemed to bring the
daylight so much nearer.
She was soon asleep again, and she did not wake until roused by the
bell. So heavy had been her sleep that her movements were slower than
usual, and she was the last girl to leave the dormitory.
To her immense surprise both Hazel and Margaret gave her the cold
shoulder at breakfast. They only spoke to her when she spoke to them.
They both sat with gloom on their faces, as if the fog in which the
outside world was wrapped that morning had somehow got into them.
Dorothy was at first disposed to be resentful. She supposed their
grumpiness must be the result of her having disturbed the dormitory with
her nightmare. It seemed a trifle rotten that they should treat her in
such a fashion for what she could not help. She relapsed into silence
herself for the remainder of breakfast, concentrating her thoughts and
energies on the day’s work, and trying to get all the satisfaction she
could out of the fact that she had pulled up one again this week in her
school position.
“Dorothy, the Head wishes to see you in her study as soon as breakfast
is over.” There was a constraint in Miss Groome’s voice which Dorothy
was quick to feel, and she looked from her to the averted faces of Hazel
and Margaret, wondering what could be the matter with them all.
“Yes, Miss Groome, I will go,” she said cheerfully; and she held her
head up, feeling all the comfort of a quiet conscience, although
privately she told herself that they were all being very horrid to her,
seeing that she was so absolutely unconscious of having given offence in
any way.
The Head’s study was a small room on the first floor, having a window
which gave a delightful view over the Sowerbrook valley, with a distant
glimpse of the blue waters of the English Channel. There was no view to
be had this morning, however—nothing but a grey wall of fog, dense and
smothering.
Miss Arden was sitting at her writing table, and lying before her was a
torn book—this was very shabby, as if from much use. There was
something so sinister about the disreputable volume lying there that
Dorothy felt her eyes turn to it, as if drawn by a magnet.
“Good morning, Dorothy; come and sit down.” The tone of the Head was so
kind that all at once Dorothy sensed disaster, and the colour rushed in
a flood over her face and right up to her hair, then receded, leaving
her pale and cold, while a sensation seized upon her of being caught in
a trap.
She sat down on the chair pointed out by the Head, trying to gather up
her forces to meet what was in front of her, yet feeling absolutely
bewildered.
There followed a little pause of silence. It was almost as if the Head
was not feeling quite sure about how to tackle the situation in front of
her; then she said in a crisp, businesslike manner, pointing to the torn
book in front of her, “This book, is it yours?”
“No,” said Dorothy with decision. “I am sure it is not. I have no book
so ragged and worn.”
“Perhaps you have borrowed it, then?” persisted the Head, fixing her
with a keen glance which seemed to look right through her.
“I beg your pardon?” murmured Dorothy, looking blank.
“I asked, have you borrowed it?” repeated Miss Arden patiently. It was
never her way to harry or confuse a girl.
“I have never seen it before that I can remember. What book is it?”
Dorothy fairly hurled her question at the Head, and rose from her seat
as if to take it.
The Head waved her back. “Sit still, and think a minute. This book was
found with yours on the table of your study this morning. I have learned
that you were the last girl to leave the study last night; your books
were left in a confused heap on the table, and this one was open at the
place where you had been working before you went to bed.”
“I was doing Latin before I went to bed,” said Dorothy, her senses still
in a whirling confusion.
“Just so. This book is a key, a translation of the book we are doing in
the Sixth this time,” said the Head slowly, “Now, do you understand the
significance of it being found among your books?”
“Do you mean that you think I was using a key last night in preparing my
Form Latin?” asked Dorothy, her eyes wide with amazement.
“No; I only mean that appearances point to this, and I have sent for you
so that you may be able to explain—to clear yourself, if that is
possible; if not, to own up as to how far you have been depending on
this kind of thing to help you in your work and advance your position in
your form.”
Dorothy sat quite silent. Her face was white and pinched, and there was
a feeling of despair in her heart that she had never known before. It
was her bare word against this clear evidence of that torn, disreputable
old book, and how could she expect that any one was going to believe
her?
“Come, I want to hear what you have to say about it all.” The voice of
the Head had a ring of calm authority, and Dorothy found her tongue with
an effort.
“I have never used a key to help me with my Latin, or with any of my
work, and I have never seen that book before,” she said in a low tone.
“It was found among the books you had been using before you went to
bed.” There was so much suggestion in the voice of the Head that Dorothy
gave a start of painful recollection.
“Oh! I left my books lying anyhow, and I shall have to take a
bad-conduct mark. I am so sorry, but I was frightened, and ran away. I
ought to have gone to bed when Hazel and Margaret went down, but I
wanted to finish my Latin; it takes me longer than they to do it.”
“What frightened you?” demanded the Head.
“While I was sitting at work, and the place was very still, I had
suddenly the sensation of some one, or something, creeping along outside
the door; I saw the handle turn, and the door creaked open for half an
inch; I cried out, but there was no answer, and I just got up and
bolted.”
“There was not much to frighten you in the fact of some one coming along
the passage and softly opening the door?”
The voice of the Head was questioning, and under the compelling quality
of her gaze Dorothy had to own up to the real cause of her fear.
“The girls have said that the rooms up there are haunted—that a certain
something comes along at night opening the doors, sighing heavily, and
moaning as if in pain.”
“Did you hear sighs and moans?” asked the Head, her lips giving an
involuntary twitch.
“I did not stay to listen; I bolted as fast as I could go,” admitted
Dorothy. “That was why my books were not put away, or any of my things
cleared up.”
“Do you know why the girls say the rooms are haunted?” asked the Head,
and this time she smiled so kindly that Dorothy found the courage to
reply.
“I was told that a girl, Amelia Herschstein, was killed on that
landing.” Her voice was very low, and her gaze dropped to the carpet.
Standing there in the daylight it seemed so perfectly absurd to admit
that she had been nearly scared out of her senses on the previous
evening by her remembrance of a ghost story.
“You don’t seem to have got the details quite right,” said the Head in a
matter-of-fact tone. “About twenty years ago, I have been told, the
landing where the studies are was given up to the Sixth for bedrooms;
girls were not supposed to need studies then—at least they did not have
them here. There was no second staircase then; the place where the
stairs go down by the prep room of the Upper Fifth was a small box-room
which had a window with a balcony. Amelia Herschstein was leaning over
this balcony one night to talk to a soldier from Beckworth Camp who had
contrived to scrape an acquaintance with her, when she fell, and was so
injured that she died a week later. I suppose that the idea of the
haunting comes from the fact of the Governors making such drastic
alterations in that part of the house immediately afterwards. I am sorry
you were frightened by the story, and I can understand how you would
rush away, forgetting all about your books. But your fright is a small
matter compared with this business of the torn book.” As she spoke the
Head pointed in distaste at the ragged, dirty book in front of her, and
paused, looking at Dorothy as if expecting her to speak.
Dorothy had nothing to say. Having told the Head that she had never seen
the book before, it seemed useless to repeat her assertion.
After a little pause Miss Arden went on: “Your Form-mistress says that
she has always found you truthful and straightforward in your work. It
is possible that you have an enemy who put the book among your things.
For the present I suspend judgment. As the matter is something of a
mystery, and others of the Form may be involved, I must also suspend the
Latin marks of the entire Form to-day. Will you please tell Miss Groome
that I will come to her room, and talk about this question of the day’s
Latin, at eleven o’clock. You may go now.”
Dorothy bowed and went out, with her head held very high and her heart
feeling very heavy.