THE UNKNOWN MISCHIEF MAKER
"This is too dreadful!"
Springing to her feet, Jane dashed the offending letter to the floor,
her cheeks scarlet with outraged innocence.
"That was precisely my opinion when I read it," Mrs. Weatherbee
sarcastically agreed.
"But I never wrote it," stormed Jane. "That's not my signature. Besides
the letter is typed. I would never have sent you a typed letter. Have
you the envelope? What postmark was stamped upon it?"
"It was postmarked 'New York.' No, I did not keep the envelope."
"New York? Why, I came straight from Montana!" cried Jane. "I haven't
been in New York since last Christmas."
"I could not possibly know that. A letter could be forwarded even from
Montana to New York for mailing," reminded the matron with satirical
significance.
"Then you still believe that I wrote _this_?"
Jane's voice was freighted with hurt pride. Something in the girl's
scornful, fearless, gray eyes, looking her through and through, brought
a faint flush to the matron's set face. The possibility that Jane's
protest was honest had reluctantly forced itself upon her. She was not
specially anxious to admit Jane's innocence, though she was now half
convinced of it.
"I hardly know what to believe," she said curtly. "Your denial of the
authorship of this letter seems sincere. I should naturally prefer to
believe that you did not write it."
"I give you my word of honor as a Wellington girl that I did _not_,"
Jane answered impressively. "I cannot blame you for resenting it. It is
most discourteous. I should be sorry to believe myself capable of such
rudeness."
"I will accept your statement," Mrs. Weatherbee stiffly conceded.
"However, the fact remains that _someone_ wrote and mailed this letter
to me. There is but one inference to be drawn from it."
She paused and stared hard at Jane.
Without replying, Jane again perused the fateful letter. As she
finished a second reading of it, a bitter smile dawned upon her mobile
lips.
"Yes," she said heavily. "There is just one inference to be drawn from
it--spite work. I had no idea that it would be carried to this length,
though."
"Then you suspect a particular person as having written it?" sharply
inquired the matron.
"I do," came the steady response. "I know of but one, perhaps two
persons, who might have done so. I am fairly sure that it lies between
the two."
"It naturally follows then that the person or persons you suspect are
students at Wellington," commented the matron. "This is a matter that
would scarcely concern outsiders. More, we may go further and narrow the
circle down to Madison Hall."
Jane received this pointed surmise in absolute silence.
"There is this much about it, Miss Allen," the older woman continued
after a brief pause, "I will not have under my charge a girl who would
stoop to such a contemptible act against a sister student. I must ask
you to tell me frankly if your suspicions point to anyone under this
roof."
"I can't answer that question, Mrs. Weatherbee. I mean I don't wish to
answer it. Even if I knew positively who had done this, I'd be silent
about it. It's my way of looking at it and I can't change. I'd rather
drop the whole matter. It's hard, of course, to give up my room here and
go somewhere else. I love Madison Hall and----"
Jane came to an abrupt stop. She was determined not to break down, yet
she was very near to it.
"My dear child, you need not leave Madison Hall unless you wish to do
so." Mrs. Weatherbee's frigidity had miraculously vanished. A gleam of
kindly purpose had appeared in her eyes.
For the first time since her acquaintance with Jane Allen she found
something to admire. For the sake of a principle, this complex,
self-willed girl, of whom she had ever disapproved, was willing to
suffer injury in silence. The fact that Jane had refused to answer her
question lost significance when compared with the motive which had
prompted refusal.
"You might easily accuse me of unfairness if I allowed matters to remain
as they are," pursued the matron energetically. "As the injured party
you have first right to your old room. Miss Noble, the young woman now
occupying it with Miss Stearns, applied for a room here by letter on the
very next day after I received this letter, supposedly from you.
"I wrote her that I had a vacancy here and asked for references. These
she forwarded immediately. As it happens I have another unexpected
vacancy here due to the failure of a new girl to pass her entrance
examinations. Miss Noble will no doubt be quite willing to take the
other room. At all events, you shall have your own again."
"I can't begin to tell you how much I thank you, Mrs. Weatherbee."
Jane's somber face had lightened into radiant gratitude. "But I _can_
tell you that I'm sorry for my part in any misunderstandings we've had
in the past. I don't feel about college now as I did last year."
Carried away by her warm appreciation of the matron's unlooked-for stand
in her behalf, Jane found herself telling Mrs. Weatherbee of her
pre-conceived hatred of college and of her gradual awakening to a
genuine love for Wellington.
Of the personal injuries done her by others she said nothing. Her little
outpouring had to do only with her own struggle for spiritual growth.
"It was Dorothy Martin who first showed me the way," she explained. "She
made me see myself as a pioneer, and college as a new country. She told
me that it depended entirely on me whether or not my freshman claim
turned out well. It took me a long time to see that. This year I want to
be a better pioneer than I was last. That's why I'd rather not start out
by getting someone else into trouble, no matter how much that person is
at fault."
During the earnest recital, the matron's stern features had perceptibly
softened. She was reflecting that, after all, one person was never free
to judge another. That human nature was in itself far too complex to be
lightly judged by outward appearances.
"You know the old saying, 'Out of evil some good is sure to come,'" she
said, when Jane ceased speaking. "This affair of the letter has already
produced one good result. I feel that I am beginning to know the real
Jane Allen. You were right in saying that I never understood you.
Perhaps I did not try. I don't know. You were rather different from any
other girl whom I ever had before under my charge here."
"I kept up the bars," confessed Jane ruefully. "I didn't wish to see
things from any standpoint except my own. I'm trying to break myself of
that. I can't honestly say that I have, as yet. I shall probably have a
good many fights with myself about it this year. It's not easy to make
one's self over in a day or a month or a year. It takes time. That's why
I like college so much now. It's helping me to find myself.
"But that's enough about myself." Jane made a little conclusive gesture.
"I hope there won't be any--well--any unpleasantness about my room, Mrs.
Weatherbee. I'd almost rather take that other vacancy than make trouble
for you."
"There will be no trouble," was the decisive assurance. "If Miss Noble
objects to the change there are other campus houses open to her. I see
no reason why she should. She only arrived this morning. She will not be
kept waiting for the room. The girl who failed in her examinations left
here at noon. I will see about it now."
Mrs. Weatherbee rose to put her promise into immediate effect.
"If you don't mind, I'll join Judith and Adrienne on the veranda. I am
anxious to tell them the good news," eagerly declared Jane, now on her
feet.
Glancing at the disturbing letter which she held she handed it to Mrs.
Weatherbee with: "What shall you do about this letter?"
"Since the star witness in the case refuses to give testimony, it is
hard to decide what to do," smiled the matron. "I might hand the letter
to Miss Rutledge, yet I prefer not to do so. It is purely a personal
matter. Suppose I were to prosecute an inquiry here at the Hall
regarding it. It would yield nothing but indignant protests of
innocence. If the writer were one of my girls she would perhaps be
loudest in her protests."
Though Jane did not say so, she was of the private opinion that the
person she suspected would undoubtedly do that very thing.
"A girl who would write such a letter would be the last to own to
writing it," she said dryly.
"Very true. Still things sometimes work out unexpectedly. If we have a
mischief maker here, we may eventually discover her. Girls of this type
often overreach themselves and thus establish their guilt. I shall not
forget this affair." The matron's voice grew stern. "If ever I do
discover the writer, she will not be allowed to remain at Madison
Hall."