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BRIARWOOD GIRLS
[Illustration]
BY
JULIA LESTARJETTE GLOVER
"_I follow, follow, sure to meet the sun,
And confident that what the future yields
Will be the right, unless myself be wrong._"
THE BOOK CONCERN
COLUMBUS, OHIO
MADE IN
Columbus
U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Alison's Wonderful Lamp 5
II. Briarwood College 19
III. Some of the Girls 25
IV. Essays and Essays 31
V. The Tangled Skein 38
VI. Mysteries 47
VII. Without Leave 54
VIII. In Miss Harland's Office 64
IX. Adventure of the Lamp 70
X. Discoveries 79
XI. Class Prophecy 89
CHAPTER I
ALISON'S WONDERFUL LAMP
"Mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?"
It was the first of June, and Alison Fair, just returned home for
vacation at the end of her Freshman year, found herself confronted with
the staggering knowledge that she could not return to Briarwood to
finish her college course, so well and happily begun.
It was her mother who told her, breaking the hard news as gently as she
could, that the pressure of hard times and financial stress made it
impossible for her father to think of sending her back in the fall. She
told it very tenderly and lovingly, making it clear that only stern
necessity compelled them to deny her the opportunity; but the tenderness
could not alter the hard fact.
"You are not more disappointed than we are, darling," she said. "I would
not have told you so soon, but it would be worse if I would leave you
under the impression that you can return to Briarwood College. You will
be brave, and try not to distress your father by showing your
disappointment too much. I know how hard it is, dear. But be patient,
and perhaps some way will open. You are only sixteen, you can afford to
wait a little."
Alison swallowed the lump in her throat and said nothing. Wait--yes--but
then she could not go on with her class--with Polly and Evelyn and Joan
and the rest. And next year they would be Sophomores--and the fun and
study would go on, and she would not be there; she would be out of it
all. No other girls would be just the same as those girls, her chums of
the Freshman year. And then she asked her one despairing question:
"Mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?"
But even as she asked it, she knew the answer, and gave it herself. "No,
I know there isn't. Father would send me if he could. I'll try to be
patient, mother. Don't worry. Don't mind, mother--" seeing that her
mother's tears were flowing. "I'll try not to think of it or talk of it
any more. I've had one year, anyway. And maybe I can take a
correspondence course, or something--"
She tried to speak bravely, but it was more than she could manage just
now, and she hastily kissed her mother, and ran away to have it out by
herself.
The children thought it strange that "Sister," suddenly stopped talking
of her college experiences and the pranks and frolics of the girls. To
their questions and demands to hear more, she would reply quietly,
"There isn't anything more to tell you, Floss. I guess I talked myself
out those first few days. Now I want to hear all you have been doing
during all the months I've been away."
Which effectually diverted the attention of Floss and Billy and Mat and
opened a flood of reminiscences of their own school life, to which she
tried to listen patiently.
The summer dragged on. Alison had looked forward to it--and beyond
it--with such eager pleasure; but the thought that she was not to go
back seemed to take all the zest from life. Letters came from the
girls--from Evelyn in the mountains, from Polly at the seaside, from
Joan and Katherine in Europe--all telling of the good times they were
having, and looking forward to their reunion at Briarwood in September.
And she would not be there. Trying not to show her disappointment too
much, not to distress her father and mother, was as far as Alison could
get. She could not look forward; there seemed nothing to look forward
to. And to look back to the happy days of last winter was more than she
could bear.
So the days passed, and grew into weeks. August came, with glowing sun
and deep blue skies. Summer was at its glorious height. One bright
morning Billy came whistling in with the mail; a letter for Alison from
Joan, her roommate of last winter, and a long, legal-looking envelope
for Mr. Fair. Both became absorbed, and Alison, deep in Joan's news,
scarcely heard when her father said gravely,
"Aunt Justina is dead."
"Who is Aunt Justina?" asked Floss with some curiosity, wondering why
father looked so "funny."
"An old great-aunt of mine, who lived far away, in New England. You
children have scarcely heard of her, perhaps, but I used often to be at
her house, as a boy, in my holidays. Now she is dead, and her lawyer has
sent me a copy of her will. Wait, I will read it."
He unfolded a stiff typewritten document. All the family were listening
now. Alison folded up Joan's sheet and looked up, interested.
"Did she leave you anything, father?" Floss inquired. "Was she very
rich?"
"No, not very. She was eccentric, and I never expected anything from
her. No, she has left me nothing. Most of her money was left to
charities; but she has left you, Alison, a bequest. Whether it is of any
value or not we cannot tell until we see it. Here it is in the will: 'To
my great niece, Alison Fair, my brass lamp which stands on my dresser,
with a letter, which I direct shall be sent to her along with it.'
"The lawyer says: 'The lamp has been forwarded by express, the letter
being enclosed with it.' It will probably arrive today, and you can see
for yourself what Aunt Justina's legacy is like. It may be valuable; she
had a fancy for collecting antiques, and she traveled a good deal in her
younger days. On the other hand, it may be merely an old lamp on which
she set some fictitious value. So don't raise your expectations too
high."
The thought crossed Alison's mind: "I wish she had left me its value in
money instead;" but she did not say it aloud. It seemed unsuitable to
think of money when Aunt Justina was just dead, though she could not be
expected to grieve over-much for an aged relative whom she had never
seen.
Later in the day the expressman brought a box for Alison. The family
crowded around, all eager to help in unpacking the legacy. It was
beautifully packed, and as layer after layer of wrappings was lifted
off, curiosity rose to an almost irrepressible height. Finally the lamp
itself came into view, a beautiful thing of shining brass; ancient
Venetian work, hammered and beaten into a shape of exquisite loveliness
by artist fingers, long since dust.
A cry of admiration arose as Alison lifted it from the last swathings
and held it up to view. The letter from Aunt Justina was tied to one
side, and she unfastened it with fingers that shook a little. It was a
message from the dead. It was so strange that that old lady, so far
away, should have thought of her and sent her this beautiful thing, and
written her a letter with her own trembling hand. With an odd feeling of
unreality she unfolded the letter and read it aloud to her excited
family.
"My dear great-niece, Alison," it began, "You have never
seen me, perhaps you have never heard of me, until you will
read this, after my death; and you will think it strange,
perhaps, that I should take enough interest in you to send
you my favorite lamp. Your father was my favorite nephew,
and I had intended to make him my heir; but he displeased me
by taking his own way in life, instead of the one I had
planned for him. He had a right, I suppose, to do as he
thought best, and I was wrong to try to force him to do as I
wished. Whether he was wise or not, time will show. I am a
lonely old woman with none of my own near me in my last
years.
"I declared I would leave his name out of my will, and I
must keep my word; but I have followed his career closely
enough to know something of his family and circumstances.
And so, though I am leaving him nothing, I want to leave to
his eldest daughter a small token of my interest and
affection. Take it, my dear, as an old woman's freak. I
bought it long ago in a quaint old shop in Venice. It is not
an heirloom, and if you should some day wish to sell it, you
may do so. On one condition, however: That is, that you keep
it, _as it is_, until you are in some strait when no other
help is available. Then, if you have exhausted all other
resources, fill the lamp and light it. It may cast a light
on your perplexities.
"Until then, keep it bright in remembrance of
"Your affectionate aunt,
"Justina Laurence."
A chorus of exclamations broke forth as Alison ceased reading. "What a
strange old lady! Father, was she really angry with you for not doing as
she wanted? And what was it?"
"She wanted me to go into politics, backed by her money; but I had no
fancy for a politician's career, and I refused. Poor Aunt Justina! She
was a very ambitious woman, and would have liked to see me President.
Well, I am glad she felt more kindly at the last. I never wanted her
money; but I am glad she has remembered you, daughter," said Mr. Fair,
examining Alison's legacy with interest.
"Keep it bright! Why, you can see your face in it now," cried Floss,
peering into its shining sides. "Sister, I don't see how you can wait to
'fill and light it.' I would like to see it lighted right away."
"But she says, 'Keep it as it is until you are in some strait,'" said
Alison thoughtfully. "I would rather do just as she wished."
"So it will be just an ornament to stand on your table," said Billy
disgustedly. "What a cranky old lady! What good will it do you?"
But Alison was not listening to him. A thought had flashed into her
mind, and glancing at her mother she read the same thought in her eyes.
Quietly she lifted her "wonderful lamp" and placed it in the center of
the table for all to admire.
Then she went away to her own room to think it over. Was she ever likely
to be in a much greater strait than she was now? And would not Aunt
Justina want her to go to college? If the lamp was to shed light on her
perplexities, surely now was the time it was needed.
A tap at the door heralded her mother. "What is my daughter thinking
of?" she asked, smiling.
"Of the same thing you are, mother. I see it in your face. Would it be
against Aunt Justina's wishes, to light the lamp now? She must have
meant _something_. And--if there is nothing more, after all--if it does
not 'shed light on my perplexities,' at any rate, it is valuable in
itself. But--I could hardly need its help more than I do now."
"I thought of that, too, Alison, and I think it could not be wrong to
investigate. Shall we fill it now, and wait until dark to light it?"
The question settled, they all gathered round while Alison unscrewed the
old-fashioned burner of the lamp. "Maybe there is some magic about it,"
she said, laughing nervously. "I feel like Aladdin. Shall I try rubbing
it first? But it doesn't need any rubbing to brighten it."
The screw was a little stiff, but presently it turned. She removed it
and peered curiously in the top.
"It is stuffed full of paper," she said. "More packing, I suppose. Wait
till I pull it out."
"Careful," her father said, as she drew out a folded paper. He took it
from her, and waited while she drew out another and another of the thin
folded slips, until he had a handful. The bowl was large, and held a
good many of those folded papers. When Alison had drawn out the last
one, and turned to him, quite pale with excitement, he placed the packet
in her hand.
"Alison, child, it is two thousand dollars!"
"Two thousand! Oh, father! Oh, mother!"
The children wondered why "Sister" should cry because her wonderful lamp
was full of money; but her mother understood.
"Only I don't feel that it ought to be mine," she said presently. "It
ought to be yours, father. Please take it. I am sure Aunt Justina meant
it for you. It is too much money for me to spend."
"No, little daughter. I think Aunt Justina knew very well what she was
about. She wanted me to know that she had forgiven my obstinacy, and so
she left it to my daughter. You may use it with a clear conscience. You
have borne the disappointment bravely, and we are glad you should have
this bequest."
He kissed her, and Alison hid her face on his shoulder for a moment,
quite overcome with joy and surprise and gratitude, and then ran away to
her own room without another word.
"Mother," she said later, when it had been talked over and decided that
she was to go back to Briarwood in September, "I wish Aunt Justina
could know how happy she has made me."
"Perhaps she does; and if so, I am sure it would please her to know that
you are making a wise and good use of her legacy; all the more because
these weeks of trial and disappointment have taught you the value of the
school years; and the discipline of patience will have made you stronger
and better able to use them wisely."
"Oh, I will; and I hope Aunt Justina knows," breathed Alison, dimming
the shining surface of her wonderful lamp with a few happy tears.