A NEW FRIEND
In spite of the peculiarly sinister talk between Marian Seaton and
Maizie Gilbert, nothing unusual occurred during the next few weeks to
disturb the peace of either Judith or Jane.
Thanksgiving came and went with the usual round of college gaieties.
Four days being too short a holiday to permit the majority of the
Wellington girls going home, they remained at college and did much
celebrating.
On Thanksgiving Day the first in the series of three basket-ball games
was played between the sophomores and the freshmen. The sophomores won,
though the freshmen gave them a hard tussle, the score standing 22-18 in
favor of the sophs when the hotly contested game ended. Both teams made
a fine appearance on the floor. Neither team had adhered to class
colors that year in choosing their basket-ball suits. The freshmen wore
suits of navy blue, decorated with an old rose "F" on the front of the
blouse. A wide rolling sailor collar of the same color further added to
the effect. The sophomores had elected to be patriotic, and wore
khaki-colored suits, unrelieved by a contrasting color. It was a decided
innovation of its kind and they liked it.
Afterward the sophomore team privately agreed that the girls of the
freshman team were real thoroughbreds. They accepted their defeat in the
most good-humored fashion and heartily congratulated their opponents on
their playing.
As Right Guard, Jane proved herself worthy of the position. She played
with a dash and skill that was noticeable even above the good work of
the other players. Her mind was too fully centered on the contest to
realize this until at the end of the game she was mobbed by a crowd of
enthusiastic sophs. They marched her in triumph twice around the
gymnasium to the cheering, ringing accompaniment of "Who's Jane Allen?
Right, right, right Guard!"
Jane never forgot that stirring cry of "Right Guard!" It conveyed to her
a higher meaning than mere basket-ball glorification. It fell upon her
ears as an admonition to do well. To do right, to be right, and to stay
right. It was almost as if she had been elected by her own soul to be a
guardian of right.
That night the losing freshman team did something unprecedented in the
history of Wellington. They entertained their conquerors at dinner at
Rutherford Inn. More, Jane was amazed to find herself the guest of honor
and had to respond to the highly complimentary toast, "Right Guard
Jane," given by Florence Durham, the freshman captain.
So Jane's Thanksgiving holiday came and went in a blaze of well-earned
glory. Happy in this unexpected appreciation of herself, which appeared
to be steadily growing, she came to feel that things had at last begun
to take an upward turn.
With Christmas rapidly approaching and everything still serene, pleasant
immunity from the disagreeable was still hers. Neither had Judith met
with anything disturbing to her happiness, beyond an occasional spiteful
glance from Marian Seaton when she chanced to encounter the latter in
the Hall or on the campus.
"I guess Marian has given up the ghost," Judith suddenly remarked to
Jane one evening before dinner, as the two sat in their room going over
their long Christmas lists. "I believe I ought to send her a consolation
present. A wooden tiger on wheels would be nice. I saw some lovely ones
in the Ten-Cent Store at Chesterford. All painted with dashing yellow
and black stripes and fixed so that they waggle their heads when you
touch 'em."
"Don't mention her," grimaced Jane. "You'll break the spell. We've had
absolute peace and rest since her last uprising. I wonder if she ever
found her ring?"
"I don't believe so. A girl told me not long ago that she saw Marian
take the notice from the bulletin board and tear it up. She overheard
her say that she might just as well have not posted it, for all the good
it had done. That she had hoped that the reward she offered might count.
But evidently it hadn't. Now what did she mean by that?"
"Nothing or everything," shrugged Jane, and again turned her attention
to her list of names.
"More likely everything," Judith declared uncharitably. "She probably
meant something dark and insinuating. I guess that the only person who
could earn the reward would be herself. I can just imagine her
returning the ring to herself and paying herself twenty-five dollars
reward."
Judith chuckled as she mentally visioned Marian Seaton graciously
bestowing a reward upon herself.
Jane smiled a little, also, but made no comment. Engaged in the
delightful occupation of planning pleasure for her friends, she did not
wish the subject of Marian Seaton to intrude upon it.
"I don't have to worry about my present-buying this year," she presently
remarked. "Aunt Mary will buy everything for me that I need. All I have
to do is to send her a list of the presents I'm going to give and she
will shop for me."
"It was splendid in your father and your aunt to come to New York for
the holidays," approved Judith warmly.
"They both knew how disappointed I was last year because I couldn't go
home for Christmas," Jane answered. "They are doing this for my special
benefit. I surely appreciate it, for Dad loathes the East, and Aunt Mary
hates railway traveling. I'm awfully sorry that neither you nor Dorothy
can be with us. We'd love to have you, but I know that you want to be
with your father, and Dorothy, of course, wants to be at home with her
folks."
"Yes, Father wants me at home this year. I'm glad we are to have the
full three weeks' vacation. I don't imagine that twelve days business
last year worked very well. The girls made such a fuss about it, and a
lot of them came back late. I'm going to ask my aunt to give a house
party for me at Easter. Then I'll invite all our crowd and we'll have a
great old celebration. Christmas is a bad time for a college girl house
party. Everyone's anxious to be at home with her own people. Easter's
different."
"Yes, that's true," nodded Jane. "What are you going to give our four
freshmen, Judy?"
"Long white gloves; a pair apiece," was the prompt reply. "They have
none, I know, or they would have worn them at the freshman frolic."
"That will be nice. I know what I'd like to give them. I believe they'd
be pleased, too."
"What?" Judith eyed Jane interestedly.
"Furs. Not the most expensive, of course. I wouldn't care to overwhelm
them. I thought of black fox muffs and scarfs for Kathie and Freda, and
gray squirrel for Ida and Marie. None of them have furs. I have four or
five sets and a fur coat, too. I feel selfish to have so much, when
they have nothing."
"That's perfectly sweet in you, Jane," lauded Judith. "You're always a
generous old dear, though."
"Why shouldn't I be generous?" demanded Jane. "Dad wants me to be. He
never cares how much money I spend, but he likes to have me think about
others. He's a great old giver himself. He says that the only way to
take the curse off of having a lot of money is to use it in helping to
make the other fellow happy. I wish I could take time to tell you all
the kind things he's done with his money. It seems as though the more he
gives the more he has."
"If everyone who had money were like him we'd have an ideal world, I
guess," declared Judith. "I have quite a lot of money coming to me when
I'm twenty-one. I was named for my grandmother and she left it to me.
When I get it I shall try to do as much good with it as I can. I don't
want to be selfish. I'm afraid I think too much about my own pleasure,
though."
Jane smiled at this rueful confession. Judith was generous to a fault.
She was always far happier in giving than in receiving.
"You're not selfish, Judy," she assured. "We all think a good deal more
about our own fun than we should, perhaps. We spend lots of money on
spreads and dinners and treats. I've been thinking seriously about it
lately. After Christmas, I'm going to invite our crowd to our room some
evening and propose something that I believe we might agree to do. You
needn't ask me what it is, for I sha'n't tell you."
"All right, don't," grinned Judith. "I've enough on my mind now to keep
me busy until after the holidays. I was never curious, even in my
infancy. If I was, I don't recall it. In fact, I don't remember much
about that particular period of my young life. I was born absent-minded,
you know, and have never outgrown it."
"You've done pretty well this year," smiled Jane. "You haven't committed
a single crime, so far, along that line."
"Shh!" Judith warned. "Praise is fatal. I'll surely do something now to
offset it. I'm on the verge. Only yesterday noon I laid my little
leather purse on my wash stand. After classes I met Mary Ashton on the
campus and invited her to go to the drugstore with me to have hot
chocolate. When I went to pay for it, I took my little silver soap dish
out of my coat pocket. I'd grabbed it up and stuffed it in there instead
of my purse. You can imagine how silly I felt! Mary had to pay for our
chocolate. So I know that I'm on the verge. This Christmas rush has gone
to my head. I'm going to make you censor every last package I send. I'm
not to be trusted," Judith ended with a deep sigh.
"I'll keep my eye on you," promised Jane, much amused at the affair of
the soap dish.
"Thank you; thank you!" Judith responded with exaggerated gratitude.
"Now I must leave you. I promised Mrs. Weatherbee to go to her room
before dinner. She just finished a perfectly darling white silk sweater
she's been knitting for her niece. It has a pale blue collar and it's a
dream. She wants to try it on me. I am about the same build as her
niece."
With this Judith departed, leaving Jane in rapt contemplation of her
Christmas list. She was well satisfied with the selection of gifts she
purposed to lay on the altar of friendship. She hoped she had forgotten
no one. She decided to write at once to her Aunt Mary, who was already
in New York, and enclose a list of the articles she wished her aunt to
purchase for her.
Judith presently returned to dwell animatedly on the beauties of the
silk sweater.
"It's the sweetest thing ever," she glowed. "It's awfully becoming to
me. It's all finished and after dinner I'm going to take it out to mail
for Mrs. Weatherbee. I told her I didn't know whether I could be trusted
with it or not. I might run away with it."
"Are you going to take it to the postoffice?" asked Jane. "If you are I
have a letter I wish you'd mail there for me. I'd go with you but I have
a frightfully long translation in French prose for to-morrow. I can't
spare the time."
"Oh, I'm only going as far as the package box at the east end of the
campus. Mrs. Weatherbee's going to weigh and stamp the package here and
send it special delivery instead of registering it."
"Then you can drop my letter in the post box. That is, if I finish it
before the dinner gong rings."
Glancing up at the clock, which showed a quarter to six, Jane hastily
resumed her writing. The gong sounding before the letter was completed,
Judith obligingly volunteered to "hang around" after dinner until it was
ready for mailing.
"Now don't put this letter in your coat pocket, Judy," cautioned Jane,
when half an hour after dinner she delivered it into Judith's keeping.
"If you do, you'll forget it, mail the package and come marching back
to the Hall with my letter still in your pocket. I'm anxious for it to
be collected to-night; then Aunt Mary will get it some time to-morrow."
"I'll mail it. Don't you worry," Judith assured. "I'll carry it in my
hand every step of the way. It's raining. Did you know it? I hope it
will turn to snow by to-morrow. I like the weather good and cold around
Christmas time."
"Oh, well, it's over a week until Christmas. We'll probably have plenty
of snow by then," Jane commented. "Better take your umbrella."
"Never!" refused Judith. "One package and a letter are about as much as
I can safely carry at a time. I might jam the umbrella into the package
box and come home with Mrs. Weatherbee's package held over my head. Let
well enough alone, Jane. I'll wear my raincoat and run for it."
Slipping on her raincoat and pulling a fur cap over her head, Judith
took the letter and started off, stopping in the matron's room for the
package she had offered to mail.
"Whew!" was her salutation on reappearing in her room perhaps twenty
minutes later. "Maybe it isn't raining, though, and it's as dark as can
be. I put your letter and the package under my coat and made a mad dash
for the mail box. Got rid of them both in a hurry, and made a still
madder dash back home. Another time, I'll consult the weather before I
offer my noble services as runner. Any way, your letter is on its way.
So is the sweater, and the girl who gets it is lucky."
"I'm ever so much obliged to you, Judy. I hope Aunt Mary sends my stuff
right away, so that I'll have it on hand to give before I go to New
York. It won't take more than two days to buy it. Allowing three for it
to arrive, I'll have it in good season, I guess."
The next few days were fraught with considerable anxiety for Jane, until
the arrival of numerous huge express packages, set her doubts at rest.
Then a busy season of wrapping and beribboning gifts ensued. The blessed
fever of giving was abroad at Wellington and the cheerful bustle and
stir of Christmas pervaded every nook and corner of college.
Two evenings before Christmas, Jane and Judith invited their particular
chums to their room for a good-bye spread. The party spent a jubilant
evening, feasting and exchanging gifts and good wishes. On the next day,
Jane and Judith bade each other an affectionate farewell and departed
for their respective destinations.
Adrienne and Norma accompanied Jane to New York, there to spend the
holidays with the Duprees. Adrienne's distinguished mother was filling a
long engagement at a theater there, and the Duprees had opened their
home in New York for the time being. Norma expected to fill a two-weeks'
engagement in a stock company, obtained for her by Mr. Dupree, and was
to be the guest of the kindly Frenchman and his little family.
The three girls were delighted at this state of affairs, as Jane looked
forward to meeting the Duprees and Adrienne was equally eager to know
Jane's father and aunt. In consequence, the trio had made countless
holiday plans which they purposed to carry out.
All in all, it was a red-letter three weeks for the three Wellington
girls. Jane found New York a vastly different city when peopled by those
dear to her. During her brief shopping trip there the previous winter
she had not liked New York. Now she discovered that it was a most
wonderful place in which to spend a holiday.
In spite of the constant round of theaters, dinners, luncheons and
sight-seeing into which she was whirled, she took time to look sharply
about her for those to whom Christmas meant only a name. Accompanied by
Mrs. Dupree, she and Adrienne made several visits to poverty-stricken
sections of the great city, leaving substantial good cheer behind them.
She also discovered a special protégé in a meek-faced young girl who
occupied the position of public stenographer in the hotel where the
Allens were staying. Dressed in deep mourning, the girl at once enlisted
Jane's sympathy. She promptly made her acquaintance and the two girls
became instantly friendly. It needed but the information that Eleanor
Lane had recently, lost her mother to strengthen the bond of
acquaintance to actual friendship.
Democratic Henry Allen and his sister quite approved of Jane's interest
in the lonely little stranger, and Eleanor was invited frequently to
dine or lunch with them.
"It seems odd," she said to Jane one afternoon near the end of the
blissful holiday as Jane lingered beside her desk, "but your name has
sounded familiar to me from the first. I've heard it before but I can't
think when or where. I only know it's familiar. It bothers me not to be
able to place it."
"It's awfully aggravating to have a dim recollection of something and
not be able to make it come clear," Jane agreed. "My name isn't an
uncommon one. There may be dozens of Jane Allens in the world, for all I
know."
"Yes, there may be. I hear and see so many names, I wonder that I can
ever keep any of them straight in my mind," smiled Eleanor. "Perhaps it
will come to me all of a sudden some day. If it does, I'll write you
about it."
"Yes, do. You know we are going to correspond. When I come to New York
again I shall surely look you up," declared Jane. "And you must come and
spend a week-end with me at Wellington."
Girl-fashion, the two had advanced to the "visiting" stage of
friendship. Sad little Eleanor regarded Jane as a bright and wonderful
star that had suddenly dawned upon her gray horizon.
Jane liked Eleanor for her sweet amiability and pleasant, unassuming
manner. She also admired her intensely, because Eleanor was actually
engaged in successfully earning her own living. This, in itself, seemed
quite marvelous to Jane, who had never earned a penny in her life.
"Girls are really wonderful, after all, Dad," she confided to her
father, as the two sat side by side on a big leather davenport in the
sitting room of the Allens' private suite, indulging in a confidential
talk.
It was the last night of Jane's stay in New York. The next day would
find her saying fond farewells to her father and aunt. They intended to
remain in New York for a few days after Jane's departure for Wellington
College, then make a brief tour of the larger eastern cities before
returning to the West.
"It seems queer to me now that I used to dislike them so much," Jane
continued, shaking a deprecating head at her former adverse opinion of
girls in general. "I wouldn't know what to do now without my girl
friends. I seem to be making new ones all the time, too. There's
Eleanor, for instance. I've grown ever so fond of her. I think it would
be fine to have her make me a visit next summer. She never goes anywhere
in particular. She just works hard all the time. Dorothy thinks she
can't come to Capitan until August, so I could have Eleanor there in
July."
"Invite whom you please, Janie. The more the merrier. All I want is to
see my girl happy," was the affectionate response.
"And I _am_ happy, Dad," Jane ardently assured. "You and Aunt Mary have
given me the finest Christmas I could possibly have. I'll go back to
Wellington feeling as if I owned the earth. After such a glorious
vacation as this has been, I'll have every reason in the world to be a
good pioneer. I'll re-tackle my bit of college land for all I'm worth,
and improve it as much as I can through the rest of my sophomore year.
It looks a lot better already than it did last year."
Jane spoke with the glowing enthusiasm of perfect happiness. The joy of
Christmas had temporarily driven from her mind even the vexatious memory
of Marian Seaton and her petty spite.
Quite the contrary, Christmas had not reduced Marian to any such
beatific state. She accepted it as a mere matter of course, and spent it
in Buffalo, as the guest of Maizie Gilbert. Privately, she wished it
over and done with. For once, she was impatient to return to Wellington,
there to further a certain enterprise of her own from which she expected
to gain decided results.