She looked steadily at her classmate for a moment. Constance and Dolly
had paused in the doorway. Margaret did not need their assistance.
Something in Margaret's tone made Abby recoil with a sudden,
inexplicable apprehension. Yet, after all, what could that girl say
to hurt her--Abby Dunbar?
"I believe that by this time you are all rather well posted on my
family history. Consequently you know that my father was a West Point
cadet, and but for a useless accident, caused by a drunken acquaintance,
he would, in all probability, be alive today, and be an officer in
the regular army. His health was ruined, his hopes in life destroyed,
and himself and my mother forced into menial positions, because an
acquaintance to whose home he had been invited, was too drunk to manage a
yacht, and too drunk, also, to let anyone else take the management in his
place. The boat capsized, as you know. The only person injured was my
father. I had rather today," and Margaret's voice rang out clear and
strong, "be his daughter--the daughter of an honest servant--than be
what you are--the daughter of a man whose drunken folly wrecked the life
of as good and noble a father as ever lived."
There was a silence that made itself felt. "How dare you? It is not
true! you know it is not true!"
"I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods or of making statements
about which I am not sure. Suppose you ask your father about the matter?
He will, perhaps, enjoy telling you of it. Until a week ago, neither
my mother nor I knew who your father was. You may be sure that, if I
had known, there would have been no inducement strong enough to take
me inside your home."
Margaret turned to leave the library, and all her auditors became
aware then, that Constance and Dolly had been standing in the doorway.
Constance spoke a few low words to Margaret, took her arm, and, with
Dolly following, walked down the hall.
Abby watched them a moment, and then burst into a flood of tears. In her
heart she had a terrible conviction that Margaret's story was true. She
must write and ask, not her father, of course, but her older brother.
She remembered what a dread her father had of yachts, and how fearful
he had been lest her brother should come to use liquor as freely and as
carelessly as many college boys do. He was a charitable man--very
charitable, and what was it that she had once heard him say, when
her mother had mildly remonstrated against a piece of benevolence
that seemed actually prodigal in its lavishness? Surely he had said
something to the effect that there was one debt which he could never
hope to pay, now, in this life, and that he must atone, if possible,
in other directions. Her mother had seemed to understand, and had
said no more.
She must write to her brother that night, and tell him the whole story;
no, not quite all. She need not say anything about her recent treatment
of Margaret, for she had an instinctive feeling that Raymond would
disapprove her conduct in emphatic terms.
She hurried to her room with a few petulant words to her friends, and
scribbled off a lengthy and not over-coherent letter to her brother.
She waited for the reply anxiously. It came in an unexpected form.
There was a note from her brother, to be sure, but her own letter he had
handed directly to their father, and the answer was from Mr. Dunbar.
Margaret's story was true. Hamilton was not an uncommon name by any
means, and he had never surmised, when he talked with his daughter's
friend during the past summer, that she was in any way related to the
man whose life he had practically ruined.
Hamilton had disappeared from West Point; he had tried to trace him
in vain, for he had been told by the congressman to whom Hamilton owed
his appointment, that the lad was friendless and penniless. He had left
no stone unturned in his search, but the result had been fruitless. It
was his fault, alone, that Margaret's father had been forced into
such a humble position in life. Hamilton had possessed the brains and
power to make himself a name in the army; but all of his tastes ran in
that one direction, and when he found himself forced to leave West
Point, there was practically nothing to which he could turn. He was
glad to learn that Mr. Worthington had been generous to the Hamiltons in
his will, and he was also glad that his own daughter had acted the
part of a friend toward Margaret. It was something for which he felt
peculiarly grateful. He wanted Abby to be sure and bring both Margaret
and her mother home for the coming holidays. He was writing to them by
the same post, and Abby must add her persuasions to his.
The letter made Abby most uncomfortable. Why had she written home
anything about Margaret? During the last days of school, she watched
anxiously to see if either Margaret or Constance would broach the
subject. Nothing was said, and Abby was compelled to wait until she
reached home to learn that her father's invitation had been briefly
declined, Margaret stating that she had already accepted an invitation
for the holiday season, and that her mother did not feel equal to going
among strangers alone. No word of comment was offered further, though
Abby knew that her father had written a long letter full of remorse and
grief.
They discussed it the evening after Abby's return. "I am going to see
Miss Hamilton in New York next week," Ray announced decidedly. "That
letter does not sound like her one bit. You can't go, Pater, because
of that unlucky fall you got on Wednesday, but you may trust me not to
make a botch of the affair. I was charmed with Miss Hamilton last summer,
but that letter is evidently written under some sort of constraint. It is
no reply to yours."
"I cannot blame her in the least, Ray, for feeling bitter toward me."
"Perhaps not," Raymond said regretfully. "Still I intend to see her.
You have no objections, Father?"
"No. The matter cannot drop here, and for the present I am unfortunately
tied to the house."
"I would not go if I were you, Raymond," Abby interposed. "It will
give her a chance to snub us."
"I don't understand you, Abby; I thought that you and Miss Hamilton
were warm friends. You haven't gushed about her as much this term as
formerly, but I did not know that you had quarreled."
"We are not as good friends as we were. I am dreadfully disappointed in
her. She is not the girl I had supposed her."
"It is rather odd that you didn't tell us something about this in your
letters. Miss Hamilton seems to be good enough for Miss Van Gerder, even
if she is not for you. I intend to see her, Abby, and that is all there
is to the matter."
It was with no comfortable feelings that Abby saw him depart for New York
on the next Tuesday. Thursday brought her a short note from him.
I don't wonder in the least that you objected to my coming
here. Miss Van Gerder has given me the history of the past
term. I do not feel proud of the part my sister played.
Father and I will have hard work undoing the mischief you
have wrought. R. D.
That was all that Abby heard directly, but she knew that her father
and Ray had vainly tried to get Margaret's promise to spend the Easter
recess with them. No allusion was made to the matter when the girls were
back at school once more. Abby heard Constance's friends talking of
the gay time they had had, and she more than half envied them. Dolly
seemed brimming over with fun and spirits. She had had a thoroughly
enjoyable time at home and afterward in New York. Dick Martin had run
down for several days, and Fred had called on New Year's. Constance was
an ideal hostess. Mary had spent the time at Dolly's home, and had
joined Dolly on her return to college. Mrs. Alden had vainly tried to
accomplish some good by ridiculing Mary's feeling toward Constance Van
Gerder. She owned to Dolly that she had effected nothing. "I think that
one or two caustic remarks Fred made did more good than all my lengthy
talks."
But, to all appearances, Fred had not accomplished much, either, for
Mary refused to go walking with the girls when Constance was to be of
the party, and she would not visit in their rooms save at times when she
knew that Constance had a recitation. She was not going to be patronized,
she declared, and Dolly vowed in disgust that she would never mention
the subject again.
Nothing of any special interest happened through the next two terms.
The four girls were growing to be extremely popular. Beth made a capital
president, and the little quartette composed of herself, Dolly, Margaret
and Constance were coming to be generally known as the "diggers."
There were students more bright than they, perhaps, in some particular
branches, but there were no harder workers, and none who were more
reliable.
Beth, to her extreme disappointment, had not been allowed to go home at
Easter time, for Nell was suffering from an attack of scarlet fever. She
had implored her mother to let her go anyway, but Mrs. Newby had written
a most decided and positive negative. "I am anxious and troubled about
one daughter now, dear, I cannot stand the thought that another one
is exposed to danger, too. We are strictly quarantined, and if you
came, you could not return to college for several weeks. We have a
good trained nurse, and Nell's case is not severe. Be patient, Beth,
and do not ask to come. It is such a relief to know that you are safe."
Beth had resolved to stay at the college during the short Easter
recess--she was not good company for anyone, she declared--but Dolly
carried her off despite her protests. Mary stayed with her aunt, and
Constance took both Margaret and her mother home this time. Mr. Dunbar
had come, himself, to see Margaret, but she would make no promises.
Raymond had told his father something of Abby's treatment of her
room-mate, after she had become aware of Margaret's lack of social
position.
Mr. Dunbar rarely exercised any parental authority; Abby had always
found him indulgent and kind. On this occasion he had been more stern
than Abby had believed it possible for him to be. He had insisted
upon an apology being made to Margaret, and Abby dared not refuse. It
had been a farce, however, for she had offered her apologies under
compulsion. At present the relations between her and the "diggers"
were coldly civil. Abby would not return to college the next year. She
was a poor student, and had cared more for the fun of college life than
for the knowledge that she might acquire. It was already arranged
that she should travel abroad with a maiden aunt of her mother's.
Nell had recovered from her attack of scarlet fever, but Hugh and Roy
had both come down with it. They were all convalescent by Commencement
time, but the family physician was anxious for a change of air for them
all. So, it had been decided that they should again spend the hot weather
among the Thousand Isles, as all three of the children were eager to go
there.
Mr. Alden had talked of going to the seashore, but he found both Fred and
Dolly so energetically opposed to the project, that they, too, went
back to their cottage at the Thousand Isles. Dick Martin spent a couple
of weeks with Fred, and Rob Steele was occasionally sent there on some
important errand by Mr. Newby, in whose office he was now reading law.
Mr. Newby vibrated between his office and the Islands, and Rob Steele
was sent back and forth with papers that needed signing or personal
revision.
"Father could really get the papers by mail quite as well, I think,
Mother," Beth said one evening when the two were having a comfortable
talk.
"I think so myself, but he probably wants to give the boy a little
breathing space. 'Tis rather hot in the city, and a few days here will
do him good."
"Father is very kind," Beth said demurely, and her stepmother, well as
she had come to know Beth, could not tell whether she was particularly
pleased or not at Rob's coming.
The children gained strength slowly during the summer, but when September
came at last, they were brown as nuts and as healthy as country children.
Fred and his friends were seniors at Harvard now. Their plans for
the future were well formulated. To his father's disappointment,
Fred evinced no liking for the law. His tastes ran toward electrical
engineering, and with a sigh Mr. Alden resigned all hopes of having his
son succeed him in business.
[Illustration: "Father could really get the papers by mail quite as
well, I think, Mother."]
Dick Martin had determined to be a doctor; there was no special need
for him to work at all, but despite his surface indolence, there was
no actual laziness about him, and he wanted to do a man's work in
the world. He told Dolly of his plans that summer. He was rich enough not
to need any income from his profession, and while he would not turn
away rich patients, he intended to practice among the poor almost
exclusively. He would charge as little as possible; less even than the
medicines would cost; but, except in cases of really abject poverty, he
thought it best to charge a mite, so as not to pauperize his patients
and make them lose their self-respect.
"I've thought about this matter considerably. It seems to me that the
physicians who do the most among the poor, are the ones who are not well
off themselves, and who cannot afford either the time or the means for
such a practice. The rich fellows generally have a practice among their
own class, and they do not need the fees at all. I do not like to
give money outright, except in rare cases, but I can give my services
when I become qualified; if I do not charge them the same fees that I
shall my richer patients, they will never know the difference. I mean
to provide the medicines myself, and to fill my own prescriptions. I
can do it more cheaply, and then I shall be sure that they get the
stuff. Half of the time the poor have no money with which to have
prescriptions filled. What do you think of the plan?"
Dolly considered it a noble plan and was not backward in saying so. Beth
thought that Dick seemed much more gratified by Dolly's approbation than
by her own, which was quite as frankly expressed. But she was careful not
to say so to Dolly.
The girls were juniors now, a fact that they found it hard to realize.
College seemed like a second home to them when they returned, and they
went over every nook and corner of it with real affection. Several girls
had dropped out of the class, as was only to be expected, but they had
gained some new members also, so that they were still the largest junior
class ever enrolled at Westover. They numbered 291, but Abby Dunbar and
three of her most intimate friends had dropped out.
Mary kept her old room. Constance and Margaret were room-mates again,
so were Dolly and Beth. Even Mary was inveigled into the little reunion
which they held in Dolly's room on the night after they all returned.