RUMOR BLOWS ABOUT
Bess Harley was not at all a heartless girl; and she really loved Nan
devotedly. But she could not understand just why her chum was so
particular in her honorable observance of the sentence of silence. Nor
did she know anything about the very upsetting letter Nan had received
from Scotland. Finding Nan far from gay on this particular evening, and
being fond of bustle and excitement herself, Bess deserted Number Seven,
Corridor Four, and found amusement in the companionship of other girls
who could talk.
Nan was unhappy; yet she was glad to be left to herself. She faithfully
prepared her tasks for the next day, and then put out the light and sat
by the window, looking out into the starlit night.
From her window she had an unobstructed view of the top of the flight of
steps leading to the shore, as well as the blinking light on the point
and the many windows of a lake steamer going past.
Of late the water had grown too cold for swimming, and boating was not
so popular as it had been. The keen winds sometimes blew over the lake
and into the school cove, foretelling the winter which was steadily
approaching from the Canadian side.
Besides, as the term progressed, the school tasks for the girls became
more arduous. Dr. Prescott began the year cautiously; but when she once
had her girls "into their stride," as she called it, she pushed them
hard. There was less and less time for sport and recreation for those
girls who desired to stand well in the monthly reports sent home to
parents or guardians.
Girls like Linda Riggs and most of her friends, did not seem to care
what their reports were. But Nan felt differently; and even careless
Bess had ambition to please the folks at home.
As Nan sat at the window on this evening, however, she wondered if it
greatly mattered, after all, what she did--whether she studied, or not.
For the letter from Scotland had made the girl very hopeless, indeed.
She could not, for this once, at least, feel the uplift of "Momsey's"
hopeful nature. She feared that the fortune which, like a
will-o'-the-wisp, had danced before their eyes for so many months, was
now about to disappear in a Morass of Despair. The little "dwelling in
amity" mortgaged! That seemed to Nan a most terrible thing.
And "Papa Sherwood" and "Momsey" would have to come home, and "Papa
Sherwood" would have to take up the search for work again which had so
clouded their lives during the first weeks of this very year.
With the outlook on life of a much older person, Nan saw all these
approaching difficulties, and they loomed up mountain high in her
imagination. After the joy of believing poverty was banished forever
from their lives, it seemed to be marching upon them with a more horrid
mien than ever.
All the money that could possibly be raised upon the cottage on Amity
Street would barely bring her parents home and pay the remainder of her
year's tuition at Lakeview Hall. Nan knew how much the latter would be,
and there rose in her heart a determination. It would be impossible to
get any of the half year's tuition money back--that which had been
already paid; but her father would not have to pay the remainder of the
fee if she left school at the mid-winter holidays.
And this would she do. "Papa Sherwood" should not be troubled by that
expense! If she only had not recklessly expended that whole five-pound
note for the spread in the haunted boathouse!
Over spilled milk, however, there was little use to cry. Extravagances
must stop right here and now.
By and by Nan slipped out of her clothes, braided her hair in the dark,
and got into bed long before the retiring bell rang. When Bess came in,
her chum made a pretense of being asleep, and in her heart thought:
"More deceit!"
But Nan felt she could not listen to Bess' chatter on this night.
She arose early in the morning, after an uneasy night, and while the
steam was knocking its usual morning tattoo in the radiators (the girls
said Mrs. Cupp never reported that annoyance to the engineer, for it
served to make even the "lazybones" of the school rise promptly) Nan sat
by the window, through which the cold light stole, and began a reply to
her mother's letter. She had written a page and a half when the gong
sounded and Bess sleepily crept out of bed.
"Hul-lo!" Bess yawned.
Nan could merely nod to her.
"Oh, gracious goodness me!" cried Bess. "This is the last day you've got
to keep your mouth closed, I should hope! I never did see such a
stubborn girl in my life before! If I had been as dumb as you have been
this week, I know I should never be able to speak again."
Nan smiled at this; though to tell the truth, even that was hard work.
To leave beautiful Lakeview Hall, and all the girls whom she loved, and
the teachers, including Dr. Beulah and Professor Krenner!
Tears blinded her eyes. She could no longer see to write. She did not
want to stain the pages with tears, for then "Momsey" would know just
how bad she really felt. She jumped up, bathed her eyes with cold water,
and finished her own toilet.
"You look just as though you had hay-fever, Nan," Bess grumbled. "But as
you can't have that at this time of year, I believe you have been
crying."
Her chum did not admit this by either word or look. She put on her cap
and coat and ran out for some exercise before breakfast. Bess never
indulged in such a thing. She always dressed so slowly that she did not
have time for a walk or a run before the breakfast bell sounded.
She did, on this morning, however, think to open the window before she
left Room Seven, and left the corridor door open, too. Immediately a
draft of air sucked through the room and blew Nan's uncompleted letter
to her mother out of doors. The result of this mischance was more
important than one would have thought.
In the first place, Cora Courtney chanced to be walking briskly in the
snowy garden. The thin white coverlet that had shrouded the walks and
lawn overnight, crisped under her footsteps as she tramped along. Down
fluttered Nan's unfinished letter right in Cora's path. Of course, Cora
picked it up and it was only natural that she should look at it to see
what it was.
"Goodness! Can this be _so_?" murmured Cora, after a glance down the
written lines on the first page. "Oh! Dear me!"
She was not a hard-hearted girl at all. And Nan Sherwood had never done
any wrong to Cora, or said anything to her that was not kindly. Cora had
no reason whatsoever for wishing the girl from Tillbury ill. So,
naturally, she was sorry to learn that such serious trouble had come
upon her schoolmate.
Under other influences than those that had shaped her course ever since
she had come to Lakeview Hall, Cora would have been a very different
girl. Her people were really very poor. Her father was addicted to drink
and his family suffered thereby. Her mother had come of a well-to-do
family; but her relatives had almost all turned against her when she
married Mr. Courtney.
One aunt, however, remembered the oldest of the Courtney children, and
offered to educate Cora. Instead of sending the girl to a school where
she would have been quickly and efficiently trained to earn her own
living, the foolish aunt sent her to this exclusive finishing school for
young ladies.
Every one about her had more money than poor Cora Courtney. Her clothing
was barely sufficient. Dr. Prescott, out of her own pocket, delicately
supplied the poor girl with some absolute necessities.
Thus feeling the nip of poverty all the time, Cora was easily tempted to
join the clique of parasites who gathered around the free-handed, but
unpleasant, Linda Riggs. They all toadied to Linda, ran errands for her,
and as Laura Polk tartly said, "performed all the duties of the Roman
populace as Linda, as a female Caesar, demanded."
Now Cora was immediately moved to pity by what she had discovered in Nan
Sherwood's unfinished letter. She could appreciate the sting of poverty,
and knew how she should feel herself if her great aunt abruptly cut off
the tuition fees. And in this case Nan seemed to be giving up all from a
sense of duty.
Her heart told Cora to run to Nan with the letter and tell her how sorry
she was; but her head advised her to take an entirely different course.
And Cora had learned to let her head guide her, and not her heart.
There was still time before breakfast, and Cora hurried up to the room
which she shared with Linda. It was in an entirely different part of the
building from that where Nan and Bess lodged, and was a larger and much
better-furnished apartment, with a private bath attached, put in at Mr.
Riggs' cost for his daughter. Cora Courtney was considered very lucky by
their special clique to be Linda's roommate, and she did not mind
playing maid to the haughty Linda for the privilege of sharing in the
luxuries of the apartment.
"Oh, Linda! Look what I've found!"
"I don't care what it is!" snarled the purse-proud girl, as she stood
before the mirror. "I can't make my hair come right. It's all in a
tangle."
She was sleepy and cross, and her scanty brown hair was in a snarl.
"You'll have to help me, Cora," she added.
"You ought to get up when the gong strikes; then you wouldn't have to be
helped," said Cora, who wanted to shirk an unpleasant service if she
could.
"If I got up at five o'clock it wouldn't be any better," whined Linda.
"It's always in a snarl!"
"Then why don't you braid it nicely when you go to bed? You fall right
into bed with your hair in a regular rat's nest!"
"I'm so-o tired then," yawned Linda. "Come! be a friend and help me. I
should think you would."
"Goodness! I don't like to fix hair any better than you do," snapped
Cora, coming unwillingly to the task.
"Go on and be a good child," said Linda, more cajoling than usual. "I'm
going to give you that coral necklace of mine to wear to the Grand Guard
Ball tomorrow night."
"Oh, Linda! are you truly?" gasped Cora, seizing the hairbrush with
avidity at this promise.
"Yes. I know you like it."
"But you won't have any necklace to wear yourself!"
"Oh, yes, I will. Don't fear," said Linda, looking very shrewd and
nodding emphatically.
Cora stood aside and looked at her closely.
"You don't mean----?" she gasped.
"Never mind what I mean, Miss," replied Linda, shortly. "You go on with
your work."
"You never mean to wear that beautiful necklace of your grandmother's?"
Cora amazedly inquired.
"Don't I just?" returned Linda, tossing her head. "Ouch!"
"Don't pull, then," said Cora calmly.
"Oh! you're awfully mean!" cried Linda, tears in her eyes.
"You're just fooling. You couldn't get the necklace without Mrs. Cupp's
knowing it, and you know very well she declared last term that no girl
should wear such an expensive thing at Lakeview Hall."
"Don't you bother, Miss. Mrs. Cupp isn't omnipotent," said Linda, more
placidly. "And the Grand Guard Ball is not held at the Hall, thank
goodness! You shall wear the coral necklace. It looks pretty next to the
black lace in the neck of your gown. And it shall be yours to keep if
you're a good girl. Now! what's all this you tried to tell me when you
came in? I'm awake now," said Linda, luxuriating under Cora's deft
hands.
Cora thrust the unfinished letter which she had found before Linda's
eyes.
"Nan Sherwood's writing!" gasped Linda, pouncing on it at once. She read
aloud:
"Dearest Momsey:--
"I love you! love you! And I wish I were where you are, or you were
where I am. I'd love to let down your beautiful hair and brush it and
make it all pretty again, as I used. I am so, _so_ lonely for you and
Papa Sherwood that I don't so much mind if you don't ever get any of
that money and have to come home, and we are poor again in 'the little
dwelling in amity.' I so very much want to see you both that I hope you
will come back from Scotland right away and we shall meet in dear old
Tillbury and not have to be separated any more.
"I am thankful to you and Papa Sherwood for sending me to this nice
school; and I enjoy it, and if everything were all right, I'd dearly
love to stay. But I am so _hungry_ for a sight of you that I'll gladly
give up school.
"And that is just what I must do, dear Momsey, and you must make Papa
Sherwood agree. I won't let him spend any of that money he will have to
raise on mortgage to pay the other half year's fees here. No, indeed!"
The letter ended there. Had Cora not been so much under Linda's
influence she would have cried a bit over the tender lines Nan had
written.
But Linda fairly exulted over the information which the letter gave.
"Isn't that great," she demanded excitedly. "Now we'll fix that Nan
Sherwood! Got to leave, and her folks aren't going to be rich, after
all! I don't suppose there was ever any chance of it, anyway. It was
just talk. Ha! the nasty little thing. This will just fix her!"
And Nan, all that last day of silence, went about wondering why many of
the girls looked so oddly at her, and especially Linda Riggs' group.
They laughed, and made supposedly funny speeches which were evidently
aimed at Nan, but which she did not understand.
Rumor was blowing about, and before Bess Harley had any of the
particulars from her chum of the calamity that had befallen, the whole
school practically knew that Nan Sherwood's folks "were poor as church
mice."