The Project Gutenberg EBook of Molly Brown's Senior Days, by Nell Speed This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Molly Brown's Senior Days Author: Nell Speed Illustrator: Charles L. Wrenn Release Date: March 23, 2008 [EBook #24903] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOLLY BROWN'S SENIOR DAYS *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jacqueline Jeremy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net M O L L I E B R O W N ' S S E N I O R D A Y S "You're right in the fashion, Miss Brown," observed Adele. —Page 25. M O L L Y B R O W N ' S S E N I O R D A Y S BY NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "MOLLY BROWN'S FRESHMAN DAYS," "MOLLY BROWN'S SOPHOMORE DAYS," "MOLLY BROWN'S JUNIOR DAYS," ETC., ETC. WITH FOUR HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES L. WRENN NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1913 by HURST & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Good News and Bad 5 II. A Troubled Sunday 20 III. Gossip Over the Teacups 38 IV. The Senior Ramble 51 V. All's Well That Ends Well 66 VI. The Retort Courteous 77 VII. A Stolen Visit 89 VIII. Barbed Arrows 104 IX. The Substitute 114 X. The Polite Freeze-out 126 XI. The Ways of Providence 138 XII. Friendly Rivals 152 XIII. The Drop of Poison 164 XIV. Judy Defiant 180 XV. The Campus Ghost 195 XVI. On the Grill 208 XVII. A Christmas Eve Misunderstanding 220 XVIII. Two Christmas Breakfasts 236 XIX. Facing the Enemy 251 XX. The Jubilee 267 XXI. Farewells 277 XXII. The Final Days 289 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "You're Right in the Fashion, Miss Brown," observed Adele Frontispiece Before She Had Time to Realize the Danger, Jimmy Lufton Had Torn Off His Coat 132 Good-bye to Wellington and the Old Happy Days 303 Molly Brown's Senior Days CHAPTER I. GOOD NEWS AND BAD. Summer still lingered in the land when Wellington College opened her gates one morning in September. Frequent heavy rains had freshened the thirsty fields and meadows, and autumn had not yet touched the foliage with scarlet and gold. The breeze that fluttered the curtains at the windows of No. 5 Quadrangle was as soft and humid as a breath of May. It was as if spring was in the air and the note of things awakening, pushing up through the damp earth to catch the warm rays of the sun. It was Nature's last effort before she entered into her long sleep. Molly Brown, standing by the open window, gazed thoughtfully across the campus. Snatches of song and laughter, fragments of conversation and the tinkle of the mandolin floated up to her from the darkness. It was like an oft-told but ever delightful story to her now. "Shall I ever be glad to leave it all?" she asked herself. "Wellington and the girls and the hard work and the play?" How were they to bear parting, the old crowd, after four years of intimate association? Did Judy love it as she did, or would she not rather feel like a bird loosed from a cage when at last the gates were opened and she could fly away. But Molly felt sure that Nance would feel the pangs of homesickness for Wellington when the good old days were over. All these half-melancholy thoughts crowded through Molly's mind while Judy thrummed the guitar and Nance, busy soul, arranged the books on the new white book shelves. Presently the other girls would come trailing in, the "old guard," to talk over the events of that busy first day: Margaret Wakefield, bursting with opinions about politics and woman's suffrage; pretty Jessie Lynch, and the Williams sisters whose dark lustrous eyes seemed to see beyond the outer crust of things. Last of all, after a discreet interval, would come a soft, deprecating tap at the door, and Otoyo Sen, most charming of little Japanese ladies, with a beaming, apologetic smile, would glide into the room on her marshmallow soled slippers. "Everybody's late," exclaimed Judy, unexpectedly breaking in on her friend's preoccupation. "I do wish my trunk were unpacked. I can't bear to be unsettled. It's the most disagreeable thing about the first day of college." "Why don't you go unpack it, then, lazybones?" asked Nance, a trifle sternly. As much as she loved her care-free Judy, she never quite approved of her. [5] [6] [7] "How little you understand my nature, Nance," answered Judy, reproachfully. "I know that people who pride themselves on having the artistic temperament never like to unpack trunks or do any kind of so-called menial work, for that matter. But there can be just as much art in unpacking a trunk as in a painting a picture——" "Ho, ho!" interrupted Judy, who loved these discussions with her serious-minded friend. "How would you like to engage for all your life in the immortal work of unpacking trunks?" "I never said anything about doing it always—" broke in Nance, when the argument was brought to a sudden end by the arrival of the other girls. There was a great noise of talk and laughter while they draped themselves about the room. College girls in kimonos never sit in straight-backed chairs. They usually curl themselves up on divans or in Morris chairs, or sit, Turkish fashion, on cushions on the floor. "Well, and what's the news?" they asked. Most of them had caught only flying glimpses of each other during the day. "Wait until I make my annual inspection," ordered Judy, carefully examining the fourth finger of the left hand of every girl. "No rings or marks of rings," she said at each inspection until she came to Jessie, who was endeavoring to sit on her left hand while she pushed Judy away with her right. "Now, Jessica, no concealments," cried Judy, "and from your seven bosom friends! It's not fair. Are you actually wearing a solitaire?" "I assure you it's my mother's engagement ring," Jessie protested, but Judy had extricated the pretty little hand on the fourth finger of which sparkled not one, but two, rings. "Caught! Caught, the first of all!" they cried in a chorus. "Honestly and truly I'm not." "It looks to me as if you had been caught twice, Jessie," said Molly laughing. "No, no, one of them is really Mama's and the other—well, it was lent to me. It's not mine. I simply promised to wear it for a few months." Jeers and incredulous laughter followed this statement. "We only hope you'll hold out to the end, Jessie," remarked Katherine in tones of reproach. "What, leave dear old Wellington and all of you for any ordinary, stupid man? I'd never think of it," cried Jessie. "I'm not afraid," here put in Edith. "Fickle Jessica may change her mind and her ring half a dozen times before June. Who can tell?" "I'm not fickle where all of you are concerned, anyhow," answered Jessie reproachfully. "You're a dear, Jessie," broke in Molly. She never did quite enjoy seeing other people teased. "Will some one kindlee make for me explanation of the word 'jubilee'?" asked Otoyo Sen, seated cross-legged on a cushion in the very center of the group, like an Oriental story-teller. "Jubilee?" said Edith. By an unspoken arrangement, it was always left to her to answer such questions. "Why jubilee means a rejoicing, a celebration." "There will be singing and dancing and feasting greatlee of many days enduring?" asked Otoyo. "It depends on who's doing the enduring," Edith said, smiling. "Wellington will be enduring of greatlee much rejoicing," went on the little Japanese. "For Wellington will give jubilee entertainment for fifty years of birthday, perhaps, maybe." Here was news indeed for seven seniors at the very head and front of college affairs. "And where did you get this interesting information, little one?" demanded Margaret. Otoyo blushed and hesitated; then cocked her head on one side exactly like a little song sparrow and glancing timidly at Nance, replied: "Mr. Andrew McLean, second, he told it to me." Nance smiled unconcernedly. She never dreamed of being jealous of the funny little Japanese. "And why, pray, didn't Miss Walker announce it this morning at chapel when she made her opening [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] address?" asked Margaret. "Ah, that is for another veree sadlee reason," answered Otoyo, her voice taking on a mournful note. "You have not heard?" "No, what?" they demanded, bursting with curiosity. "Professor Edwin Green, the noble, honorable gentleman of English Literature, he is veree ill. You have not heard such badlee news? Miss Walker, she will announce nothing of jubilee while this poor gentleman lies in his bed so veree, greatlee ill." "Why, Otoyo," cried Molly, her voice rising above the excited chorus, "is it really true? You mean dangerously ill? What is the matter with him?" "He has been two weeks in the infirmaree with a great fever." "You mean typhoid?" Otoyo nodded. It was a new name to her. She had not had much to do with illness during her two years in America, but she remembered the dread name of typhoid. It had a sad association to her, for she had been passing the infirmary at the very moment when a black, sinister looking ambulance had brought Professor Edwin Green from his rooms to the hospital. Molly relapsed into silence. Somehow, the joy of reunion had been spoiled and she tasted the bitterness of dark forebodings. It came to her with unexpected vividness that Wellington would not be the same without the Professor of English Literature, whose kind assistance and advice had meant so much to her. Only a little while ago she had made a secret resolution to seek him in his office on the morrow for counsel on a very vital question. In plain words: how to avoid being a school teacher. And now this brilliant and learned man, by far the brightest star in the Wellington faculty, was dangerously ill. Molly felt suddenly the cold clutch of disappointment. The other girls were sorry but not really shaken or unnerved by the news. "The jubilee must be to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of the new Wellington—" began Margaret, after an interval of silence. "Do you suppose—" she began again and then broke off. "Suppose what?" asked the inquisitive Judy. "Oh, nothing. It would seem rather unfeeling to put in words what I had in my mind. I think I'll leave it unsaid." There was a silence and again came that cold clutch at Molly's heart. She felt pretty certain that Margaret had started to say: "Do you suppose, if Professor Green dies, it will interfere with the jubilee?" "If there is a jubilee," suddenly burst out Judy, who had been lying quite still with her eyes closed, "if they do give it, we shall be at the head and front of it being seniors, and I already have a wonderful suggestion to make. Would it not be splendid to have an old English pageant? The whole college could take part in it. Think of the beautiful costumes; the lovely colors; the rustic dances and open air plays on the campus." Judy's eyes sparkled and her face was flushed with excitement. With her amazing faculty for visualizing, the spectacle of the pageant stretched before her imagination like a great colored print. She saw the capering jesters in cap and bells; ox carts filled with rustics; the pageant of knights and ladies and royal personages; the players; the dancers—— "It would be too glorious," she cried, beside herself from her inflamed imagination. The other girls, unable to follow Judy's brilliant vision, watched her with amused curiosity. "I should think you would remember that Professor Green was at his death's door before you began making plans for a jubilee," admonished Nance. But Judy, too intoxicated with her visions to notice Nance's reproof, continued: "They would have it in May, of course, when the weather is warm and everything is in bloom. First would come the pageant; then the king and queen and court would gather as spectators in front of all the various side shows; morality plays and——" The picture had now become so real to Judy that her galloping imagination had leaped over every difficulty, as the hunter leaps the intervening fence rail. In a flash she had decided on her own costume, of violet velvet and silk—a gentleman of the court, perhaps—when Molly, sitting pale and quiet beside the window, suddenly remarked: [13] [14] [15] [16] "Miss Walker did look very serious this morning, I thought. Just before chapel I saw her in the court talking to Dr. McLean. She must have had bad news then." Judy's inflated enthusiasm collapsed like a pricked balloon. She flushed hotly and relapsed into silence. Presently, after the others had departed to their rooms, she crept over to Molly and sunk on her knees beside her at the open window. "I didn't mean to be such a brute, Molly, darling," she said. "I forgot about your being such friends with the Greens and I really am awfully sorry about the Professor. Will you forgive me?" "You foolish, fond old Judy," said Molly, slipping an arm around her friend's neck. "I only dimly heard your wanderings. I was so busy thinking of—of other things; sending out hope thoughts like Madeleine Petit. Poor Miss Green! I wonder if she knows. She has been in Europe all summer. I had post cards from her every now and then." Molly looked wistfully through the darkness in the direction of the infirmary. "I wish I knew how he was to-night," she added. "I'll go and inquire," cried Judy, leaping to her feet, eager to make amends for past offenses. She glanced at the clock. "The gate isn't locked until a quarter past to-night on account of the late train. There'll be time if I sprint there and back." "But, Judy," objected Molly. "Don't interfere, and don't try to come, too. You can't run and I can," and before either of the other girls could say a word, Judy was out of the room and gone. "I don't know what we are going to do about her, Molly," Nance observed, as soon as the door had slammed behind that impetuous young woman, "she's worse than ever." Molly shook her head silently. Suddenly she felt quite old and apathetic, like a person who has lost all ambitions and given up the fight. "I think I'll turn in, Nance. I'm tired to death." With silent sympathy, Nance turned down the cover of Molly's little white bed and laid out her night- gown. It seemed an incredibly short time when Judy burst into the room again, too breathless to speak, her face scarlet with running. "I just did make it," she gasped presently. "The night nurse said Professor Green was very ill, but that Dr. McLean was hopeful because of his strong constitution." "I feel hopeful, too. Thank you, Judy, dearest," said Molly, drawing the covers up over her shoulders while Nance turned out the light. Contents CHAPTER II. A TROUBLED SUNDAY. It was Sunday morning and Molly had been washing her head. She had spread a towel on the window-sill and now hung her hair out of the window that sun and wind might play upon her auburn locks. "I always heard it was better to dry the hair by the sun than by a fire; hot air dries up the natural oils," she observed to Nance in a muffled voice. Nance was engaged in the meditative occupation of manicuring her nails. As she rubbed them back and forth on a chamois buffer her thoughts were busy in far other fields. "Yes," she replied absently to Molly's observation. "I suppose you learned that from Judy's new friend," she added, coming back to her present beautifying occupation. "She'll be introducing rouge to us next," Nance went on in a disgusted tone. Molly smiled and gave her hair a vigorous shake in the breeze. In the bright sunlight it sparkled with [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] glints of gold as if a fairy wand had touched it. "No, I didn't, really," she answered. "I read it on the beauty page of a Sunday paper, but I knew it anyhow instinctively before I read it." "Do you think her hair is naturally red," asked Nance, punching the dull end of her orange stick into a sofa cushion with unusual force. "I suppose lots of people ask the same question about mine," Molly answered evasively. "Never," Nance asserted hotly. "I don't know much about the subject but I do know that no dyes have ever been invented that could imitate the color of your hair." "How do you know it, Nance, dear?" "Well, because so many people would dye their hair that color. There would be no more drab browns like mine, or rusty blacks or faded tans." "But, Nance, your hair is lovely. It's smooth and glossy and fine and thick. Has that girl been talking to you about your looks?" "They both have," admitted Nance. "They've got me to thinking I'm plain but would be greatly improved if I wore a rat and waved my bang and did my hair in a bunch of curls in the back like Jessie." "But Jessie's hair curls naturally," put in Molly. "Yes, of course, and mine doesn't. It would be a fearful nuisance, but one can't help listening to such talk when it concerns oneself. You know how Judy does run away to things, and there is something convincing about Adele's arguments." "She's very bright," admitted Molly. "What do you think she wants me to do, Nance? Something much worse than crimping." "There is no telling. Probably lather your face with that horrible white-wash stuff called 'Youthful Bloom,' Judy was telling us about." "No, worse still. She says my face is too thin and that I am getting lines from nose to mouth. She wants me to have it filled." Nance gave a wild whoop of derision. "Can't you see Judy Kean's head being stuffed with such nonsense until it bursts?" she cried, breaking off suddenly as the door opened and Judy herself appeared on the threshold. "May I bring in a visitor?" she asked stiffly, feeling from the sudden stillness that her own name had been under discussion. "Nobody likes to have her name bandied back and forth even between intimate friends," she thought with some indignation. But Judy's little fly-ups never lasted long and when Molly called out hospitably: "Yes, indeed, delighted," and Nance said: "Certainly, Judy," her sensitive feelings immediately withdrew into the dark caverns of her mind. "I've brought a friend up to see our rooms," Judy went on, putting special emphasis on friend. Judy had introduced a new member to the Old Queen's circle and while that body was only exclusive in the matter of intelligence and good breeding, and the new member seemed to meet both requirements, still the circle as a whole was not entirely agreeable to Judy's latest find. The new girl had a very grand sounding name, "Adele Windsor," and Judy was hurt when Edith Williams demanded if Adele was related to "The Widow of Windsor." Adele was certainly very handsome,—tall, with a beautiful figure, dark eyes and hair more red than brown. "She dresses with artful simplicity," Margaret had remarked, but hardly a girl in college had handsomer clothes than Adele Windsor. Nobody could cast aspersions against her intelligence, either. She had entered the junior class of Wellington as a special; which was pretty good work, in the opinions of our girls. If any name could be given to the objections they all secretly felt for Judy's new friend, it was that she was so excessively modern. She was a product of New York City; and so thoroughly up to date was this bewildering young person regarding topics of the day, from fashions and beauty remedies to international politics, that she fairly took the breath away even of such advanced persons as Margaret Wakefield. Adele now followed Judy into the room, and Molly, shaking back the hair from her face, bowed and smiled politely. Nance was not so cordial in her greeting. She had already prophesied what the history of Judy's friendship with this girl would be. [22] [23] [24] [25] "Judy will get terribly intimate and then awfully bored. I know her of old." "You're right in the fashion, Miss Brown," observed Adele, taking a seat near Molly and regarding her hair with admiration. "That's the first time anybody ever said such a thing about me," exclaimed Molly with a laugh. "I'm usually three years behind. Now, you couldn't mean this gray kimono, could you? Or maybe it's my pumps," she added. "I know low heels are coming back again." Thrusting out one of her long, narrow feet, she looked at it quizzically. "No, no, it's your hair," replied Adele. "Red hair is the fashion now. You see it everywhere; at the theaters, in society, at the opera——" "You mean everywhere in New York," corrected Nance. Adele smiled, showing a row of even white teeth. She was really very handsome. "Well, isn't New York the hub of the world?" put in Judy. "No," answered Nance firmly. "Boston and San Francisco and Chicago and St. Louis are just as much hubs as New York—to say nothing of the smaller cities. Any place with telegraph wires and competent people at both ends can keep up with the times nowadays——" "Yes, but what about the theaters and operas," Judy began hotly. "And clothes," added Adele softly, with a quick glance at Molly's old blue suit which had been well brushed and cleaned that morning and hung on the back of a chair to dry. Molly had not even noticed the glance. She was looking across the campus in the direction of the infirmary and at the same time forming a resolution to go over and inquire for Professor Green as soon as she could arrange her tumbled hair. But Nance had caught the slightly contemptuous expression in Adele's eyes and resented it with warm loyalty. "I don't see what clothes have to do with it," she asserted. "Because in New York people look at one's clothes before they look at one's face, it doesn't follow that they are more advanced than people in other places." "New York only shows one how to improve one's clothes and one's face," put in Adele calmly. Nance felt somehow reproved by this elegant cold-blooded creature whom Judy had thrust upon them. And now Judy must needs take a flying leap into the discussion. "Nance, you are behind the times," she cried. "There is no excuse now for women to be badly dressed or plain. Even poor people can dress in taste and there are ways for improving looks so that the most ordinary face can be beautified." "Can you make little eyes big?" demanded Nance. "Don't be silly," said Judy. And it looked for a moment as if a quarrel were about to be precipitated between the friends, when Molly, glancing at Adele Windsor, began to laugh. "And all this because somebody said red hair was the fashion," she said, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that Adele was fond of starting a fight in order to look on and see the fun, and she wished in her heart that her beloved Judy had not taken up with such a dangerous young woman. She now tactfully changed the subject to the theater. Adele had signed photographs of almost all the actors and actresses in the country and could give interesting bits of personal history about many of them. Having launched the company on this safe topic, Molly seized the old blue suit and departed into her bedroom. Judy and presently Nance also were soon absorbed in an account of Miss Windsor's visit at the home of a famous actress. Molly, indeed, was careful to leave her door open a crack in order not to miss a word. After all, it was fun to live at "the hub," as Judy called it, and know great people and see the best plays and hear all the best music. But this stunning metropolitan person did make one feel dreadfully provincial and shabby. She wondered if Adele had noticed the shabby dress. Molly sighed. "I don't think clothes would interfere so much with my good times," she thought, "if only I didn't love them so." Then she resolutely pinned on the soft blue felt, which at least was new if not expensive, slipped on her jacket and returned to the next room. [26] [27] [28] [29] [30] "I'll see you at dinner, girls," she said. "Good-bye, Miss Windsor." "I'm going to dinner with Adele at Beta Phi," announced Judy. Adele occupied what the girls now called the "hoodoo suite" at Beta Phi. This was none other than Judith Blount's old apartment, afterwards sub-let to the unfortunate Millicent Porter. "Shall Nance and I call by for you on the way to vespers, then?" asked Molly. "I'm not going to vespers. You don't mind, do you, Molly?" Ever since they had been at college the three girls had kept their engagement for vespers on Sunday afternoons. They had actually been known to refuse other invitations in order to keep this friendly compact. And Judy was breaking away from what had come to be an established custom. Of course, it was just this once and absurd to feel disappointed, only Molly, glancing over Judy's head at Adele standing by the window, had caught a glint of triumph in her eyes. What was she after, anyway? Did she wish to wean the tempestuous Judy from her old friends? The two girls exchanged a quick, meaningful look. "We'll miss you, Judy," said Molly, and went into the corridor, closing the door softly behind her. Hardly had she reached the head of the staircase, when Judy came tearing after her. "You aren't angry with me, Molly, dearest?" she cried. "Adele and I have a wonderful scheme on hand. I'll tell you what it is some day. Don't you think she's perfectly fine? So handsome—so clever ——" "Yes, indeed," answered Molly, trying to be truthful. "I hope you'll have a beautiful time, Judy, but we'll miss you just the same, especially on the walk afterwards. Had you forgotten about the walk?" "Oh dear, Molly, you are hurt," ejaculated Judy, who couldn't bear to be in anybody's black books, yet, nevertheless, desired to have her own way. "I'm not, indeed, Judy. We can't tie ourselves to Sunday afternoon engagements. Nance and I wouldn't have you feel that way for anything." The stormy Judy, calmed by these assuring words, returned to her rooms, while Molly hurried downstairs and across the campus toward the infirmary. A number of people had gathered at the door of the hospital. Dr. McLean's buggy and a doctor's motor car waited outside. There was an ominous look about the picture that filled Molly with dark forebodings. Most of the people in the group at the door were members of the faculty, Miss Pomeroy, Miss Bowles and the Professor of French literature. They were talking in low voices. Dodo Green and Andy McLean leaned against the wall of the house, their hands thrust deep in their pockets, their faces the very picture of dejection. Molly began to run. "He's dead!" a voice cried in her heart. "Oh, Dodo," she exclaimed to the Professor's young brother, who had run out to meet her, "please tell me quickly what has happened." "The old boy's had a tough time, Miss Molly," said Dodo, struggling hard to keep his voice from breaking. "He had one of those infernal sinking spells about ten this morning. It was his heart, they say. It's been something awful, just a fight to keep him alive. But he's come through it. The doctor from Exmoor came over to help Andy's father." Dodo paused and gulped back his tears and Molly did not dare trust herself to speak. "Let's walk a little way down the avenue," he said presently. "I feel all bowled over from anxiety and waiting around so long." "I know, I know, poor Dodo," said Molly sympathetically. "But he'll get well, now. I'm sure of it. The doctor said his fine constitution would carry him along." "The doctor was thinking of what Edwin used to be, say a year ago. The old boy has been overworking. The truth is," he added in a burst of confidence, "he got into debt somehow; borrowed money on prospects that didn't materialize, or something." Instantly the thought of the comic opera came into Molly's head. "And he worked all summer without taking any vacation, night and day. Grace was abroad or she never would have allowed it. He just weakened his constitution until he was ready to take any disease that happened to be floating around." It was a great relief to Dodo's pent-up feelings to talk and he now poured out his troubles to listening, sympathetic Molly. [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] "Grace and I don't know what he wanted to use the money for——" "Maybe it was for the opera." "No, I know for a fact it wasn't that infernal old opera, though writing it was one of the things, that pulled him down. But the debt's all paid now and the good old boy is lying at death's door as a result. By the way," he added, drawing a key from his pocket, "Sister wants me to get something out of Edwin's office on the cloisters. Will you come with me, Miss Molly? There are such a lot of girls always in the court on Sunday." "I only wish I could do more for you, Dodo," answered Molly, as the two young people hastened across the campus. "I guess you know as much about the old boy's office as I do, Miss Molly," said Dodo opening the study door. "I'm glad you came along to help me find what I am looking for." "What are you looking for?" "Did you ever see a blue paper weight on his desk?" "Oh, yes. Lots of times." "Well, that's just what he wants. He's got a sort of delirious notion in his poor old head that he'd like that blue paper weight. It's enough to make a strong man shed tears, and he's so weak he couldn't pick up a straw. Alice Fern brought it to him from Italy." "Oh," said Molly. They found the blue paper weight in one of the drawers of the desk and Dodo thrust it into his pocket. There was a strong smell of over-ripe apples in the office and Molly presently discovered two disintegrated wine saps in the Japanese basket on the table. "We'd better take these," she said, seizing one in each hand and following Dodo into the corridor. The young people parted in the arcade and Molly went into the library and hid herself in one of the deep window embrasures with a book she only pretended to be reading. That afternoon the Reverend Gustavus Larsen repeated the prayers for the sick, and Molly in a far back pew hoped that Nance could not see the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Contents CHAPTER III. GOSSIP OVER THE TEACUPS. The gloom that had been hanging over Wellington since Professor Green's illness gradually lifted as the young man steadily improved. Each morning Molly received the latest news from one of the nurses. Miss Grace was never visible. She was sitting up at night with her brother and slept during the day. One morning Molly encountered not the day nurse but Miss Alice Fern in the hall of the infirmary. She was dressed in white linen and might have been taken for a post-graduate nurse except that she wore no cap. Miss Fern had a cold greeting for Molly, and for Judith Blount, also, who presently joined them. "Edwin is much better," she informed them. "He is seeing people now, isn't he?" asked Judith eagerly. Miss Fern stiffened. "No," she answered, "only me—and his brother and sister, of course." She added this as an afterthought. "It will be many weeks before he is allowed to see any of the Wellington people. The doctor is particularly anxious for him not to be reminded of his work. Excitement would be very dangerous for him." "Is that what the doctor says or is it your verdict, Alice?" put in Judith, who had small liking for the Professor's cousin on the other side of the family. "I'm in entire authority here," answered Miss Fern in such a hostile tone that Molly felt as if they had been accused of forcing their way into the sick room. "I am nursing during the day in conjunction with the [36] [37] [38] [39] infirmary nurse." "Why don't you wear a cap, Alice?" asked Judith tauntingly. "It would make you look more like the real thing." With a hurried excuse, Molly hastened out of the hall. It went against her grain to be involved in the quarrels of Alice Fern and Judith Blount. She was walking rapidly toward the village when she heard Judith's voice behind her calling. "Wait, and I'll walk with you. I see you're going my way. I had to stay and give a last dig to that catty Alice Fern," she added breathlessly, catching up with Molly. Molly smiled. She didn't know but that she agreed with Judith, but it was not her way to call people "cats." "I'm so glad you arranged to take the post-grad., Judith," she began as they started down the avenue. "Isn't it great?" answered Judith exultantly. "It's all Madeleine's doing, you know. We've had a wonderful summer, Molly. Almost the first summer I can remember when I wasn't bored." "What have you two been up to?" Molly asked with some curiosity. The cloak of enthusiasm was a new one for Judith to wear and it was very becoming to her, Molly thought. "We've been making money," Judith announced with sparkling eyes. "I've made almost enough to carry me through another year here." "Goodness," Molly thought, "how the world does change. Think of the proud Judith working and then telling me about it, me whom she used to detest!" "It's been jolly fun, too, and I didn't mind the work a bit." "I hope you made a great deal," remarked Molly, not liking to ask too many questions but burning to know how money had been made by a girl who had once stamped her foot and declared she would never work for a living. "A friend of brother Richard's, an actor, lent him his bungalow on the coast for the summer, and Mama and Madeleine and I spent four months in it, with Richard down for the week-ends. It was a pretty bungalow with a big living-room and a broad piazza at the back looking right out to sea, and Madeleine conceived the notion of opening a tea-room there. Richard was willing and so was Mama and we started in right away. Madeleine had all sorts of schemes for advertising in the post office and at the general store, and at last we had a sign painted and hung out in front on a post. The coast road goes by the house and streams of automobiles are passing all day long, so that we began to have lots of customers immediately. I don't know how it happened, but it was a sort of fashionable meeting place for all the people in the neighborhood. Pretty soon we had to buy dozens of little blue teapots and crates of cup and saucers and plates. Even Mama helped with the sandwiches and Richard, too, when he could come down. But you should have seen Madeleine. Every afternoon she put on a cap and apron and turned waitress. She served everybody. She was the neatest, quickest, prettiest little waiting maid you ever saw. Mama and I worked in the kitchen filling orders. Sometimes the sandwiches would give out and then Mama and I and Bridget, our Irish maid who has stayed with us through everything, would slice bread like mad. Madeleine knew dozens of different ways of making sandwiches. We used to make up dishes of fillings ahead of time and keep them on ice. Sometimes at night we were so tired we'd simply fall into bed, but we succeeded beyond our wildest dreams and we had a splendid time in spite of the hard work." "I think you are wonderful," cried Molly. "I should never even have hoped to make anything like that go." "It's Madeleine who is the wonder," broke in Judith loyally. "She has the brains and energy of a real genius." "Are you down at O'Reilly's this winter? I haven't seen either one of you to speak to before." "Oh, yes, we have the same old rooms. I'm working up in two or three different subjects and taking a course in physical culture with a view to teaching it. You know, we are going to open a school, Madeleine and I?" "Where?" demanded Molly, filled with interest in her old-time enemy's schemes. "We don't know yet. It may be in the South. Madeleine has two more years here. I shall go to Paris next year for a course at the Sorbonne, so that I shall be up in French by the time we are ready to start." Molly was almost too amazed over the change Madeleine had wrought in Judith to comment politely on the glowing future Judith mapped out for herself. She recalled how Judith had once insulted the little [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] Southern girl at a Sophomore ball, and she remembered how Madeleine had said: "I shall make a friend of her, yet. You'll see." "I wish I could make plans and stick to them," Molly thought. "How can I ever get anywhere when I don't even know where I want to get? If I am not to teach school, then what am I to do?" Many times a day Molly asked herself this question. There were times during the summer when she heard the call still infinitely far away to write, and on hot afternoons when the others were napping she would steal down to the big cool parlor with a pencil and pad. Here in the quiet of the darkened room, with strained mind and thoughts on tiptoe for inspiration, she would try to write, but the stories were crude and childish. Sometimes she would read over Professor Green's letter of advice about writing. "Be as simple and natural as if you were writing a letter," he had said, and her efforts to be natural and simple were invariably elaborately studied and self-conscious. "I don't see why I want to do what I can't do," she would cry with despair in her heart, and then the next day perhaps she would try it again. So it was that Molly had a feeling of unrest that was quite new to her. It was like entertaining a stranger within the gates to admit this unfamiliar spirit into her mind. And now, as she parted with Judith with a friendly handclasp, she felt the dissatisfaction more keenly than ever before. Her errand in the village that afternoon was really to call on Mrs. Murphy, who, you will recall, was once housekeeper for Queen's. For many months the good soul had been laid up with rheumatism and for the sake of old times the Queen's girls plied her with attentions. The Murphys now lived in a small cottage near the depot and they were exceedingly poor, since the office of baggage-master brought in only a small pay. But Mrs. Murphy, crippled as she was, her fingers knotted at the joints like the limbs of old apple trees, managed to keep her rooms shining with neatness. "And it's glad I am to see you, Miss," exclaimed the good woman, much aged since the days at Queen's. She led Molly through a little hallway into the kitchen opening upon a small garden now bright with rows of cosmos, graceful and delicate in color, and brilliant masses of vari-colored, ragged chrysanthemums. "It's the little Japanese lady that's tended my garden for me all summer, Miss. She may be a haythen, but she's as good as gold. Our Blessed Mother herself could not have been kinder." Molly's heart was filled with admiration for Otoyo, who instead of moping about by herself all summer had been making herself useful. "I'm ashamed," she thought. "Madeleine and Judith and Otoyo all make me feel awfully ashamed." In the meantime, Mrs. Murphy had spread a cloth on the little kitchen table and laid out her best cups and saucers. It was her heart's delight to drink tea with the young ladies. "And how is the poor gintleman, Mr. Edwin, I mean?" "He's getting better every day, Mrs. Murphy." "And I'm that glad to hear the news. It would have been a sad day for the poor young lady if she had lost him—though, may the Howly Mother forgive me for saying it, she's not good enough for the loikes of him, I'm thinkin'." "Let me pour the tea for you, Mrs. Murphy," Molly interposed, taking the blue teapot out of Mrs. Murphy's crippled hands after it had been filled with boiling water. "What young lady did you say it was?" she asked presently, her eyes on a tea leaf swirling round and round in her cup. "'Tis Miss Fern, the gintleman's cousin, and they do say they're to be married before spring. I'm not for sayin' she ain't pretty, Miss. She's prettier than most and she's kind to the gintleman. Oh, you may be sure but she's got a different set of manners for him! And the day she had tea here with little Miss Sen and the Professor, she was all graces, to be sure. But another day she was here to meet him and little Miss Sen brought the message he could not come. It was a regular spitfire she was that day, Miss, and no mistake." So that was why the Professor had wanted the blue paper weight. Perhaps there was some reason in his delirium after all. "Have you seen her, Miss?" asked Mrs. Murphy. "Oh, yes," answered Molly. "I think she is very pretty. May I look at your garden, Mrs. Murphy? Dear little Otoyo, I can see her working out here in the flowers. Don't you just love her, Mrs. Murphy?" [45] [46] [47] [48] [49] But the Irish woman had gone into the next room to get an old pair of shears. "I'll take it as a favor, Miss Molly, if you'll cut two bunches, one for yourself and one for the Professor, God bless him and the Saints preserve him for strength and happiness; though I ain't sayin' I wish him to be preserved for Miss Alice Fern, pretty though she be." When Molly appeared at the hospital some half an hour later she made a picture the infirmary nurse would not soon forget. "These are for Professor Green from Mrs. Murphy," Molly said, giving the nurse the largest half of the bunch. The nurse gave her a long quizzical look. She was new at Wellington and not familiar with the girls. "Are you Miss Molly Brown?" she asked suddenly. "Why, yes," answered Molly, surprised. "I thought so," said the nurse, and departed before the astonished Molly could say another word. Contents CHAPTER IV THE SENIOR RAMBLE. "Ramblers, ramblers, Ramblers all are we: Life is gay, Life is free, Rambling all the day. "When the sun sinks to his rest, Our rambling days are gone, Seniors, Seniors, Sound the call! Back to Wellington!" "Did you put in the olives?" some one cried over the confusion of singing and talking. "Do be careful of the stuffed eggs. It would be a shame to ruin an hour and a half of hard work." "Tell the man to wait. I forgot my tea basket." "Haste thee, nymph," called Edith Williams, after the fleeing Judy. "And bring your volume of Shelley along, there's a dear. I forgot mine." "Bring my sweater," Nance called. Already the van load of girls in front was moving down the avenue, while the crowd in the second van waited impatiently for Judy's return. The two big vehicles were decorated with lavender and primrose, the class colors, for this was the day of the Senior Ramble, and the whole class was off for the woods. At last Judy appeared, laden with many things—a tea basket, a book, her camera and two sweaters; also a brass trumpet. "Who says I'm not good-natured?" she exclaimed, handing up the articles and clambering into the vehicle. "I'm the kindest soul that ever lived." "I'm glad you feel that way about it, Juliana. It must be a sweet personal satisfaction," remarked Edith, seizing the book and thrusting it into the pocket of her ulster. The seniors were to ramble in Fern Woods that year, so-called not because of the superabundance of ferns, but because they were a part of the estate of Major Fern, father of Alice Fern. The Major had no objections to the students of Wellington and Exmoor using his woods for picnics, but the Exmoor boys were not given to such excursions and it was a long drive from Wellington, six miles over a rough road. However, Fern Woods it was to be this time, and away went the two vans, Judy blowing her trumpet [50] [51] [52] [53] with a grand flourish as they passed out of the Wellington grounds. The Ramble was always the occasion for the most childish behavior among the seniors; a last frenzied outburst, as it were, before putting away childish things for all time and settling down to the serious work of life. And now the seniors in the first wagon stood up and began singing back to the girls in the second wagon: "Seniors, do you hear the call? Great Pan has blest the day. Heed the summons, one and all, Voulez vous danser?" The seniors behind answered: "We will make the welkin ring, Voulez vous danser? Sound the trumpet, shout and sing, Voulez vous danser?" "I think this should be called the 'Senior Rumble,' and not ramble," some one said, as the wagon groaned and creaked on the hilly road. "What's the matter with 'Grumble'?" asked Mabel Hinton. But there was no real grumbling, although the six miles that lay between Fern Woods and Wellington included some rough roads. They were jolted and shaken and tumbled about and there were shrieks of laughter and cries of "Wait, wait! I'd rather walk!" But the stolid driver went calmly on without taking the slightest notice. "One would think we were a lot of inmates in a crazy wagon," cried Molly, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. A box of salted nuts had come open and the contents were scattered all over the bed of the wagon, and some apples had tumbled out of a hamper and were rolling about under people's feet. "If I had known—if I had only known that this was going to be the rocky road to Dublin, wild horses couldn't have dragged me," cried Jessie. At last after a time of infinite confusion the wagons drew up at the edge of a forest and there was sudden quiet in the noisy company. It was as if they stood at the threshold of a great cathedral, so still and majestic were the woods. Through the dense greenness of the pines there was an occasional flash of a silver birch. The scarlets and yellows of oak and maple trees gleamed here and there, making a rich background for the somber company of pines. "It was worth it! It was worth it," exclaimed the seniors, now that the worst was over. The class had divided itself into three "messes" for lunch. After lunch it was to assemble in a body, sing the class songs to be bequeathed to the juniors, and do the class stunts which were familiar enough to all of them now. And first of all, by the unwritten law of custom, the seniors were to spend an hour communing with nature. This constituted the "Ramble." Judy had been delegated by the Ramble Committee to blow a blast on her trumpet when the time came to eat. In the meantime the drivers had taken themselves and their wagons down the road two miles to a small village where they were to rest and refresh themselves with food until half past four o'clock, when they were to return for the rambling seniors. So it was that the three hampers of food were deposited in a safe and secluded spot under some bushes and left unguarded while everybody went off for the ramble. Of course all this had been planned weeks ahead of time by the committee and the destination kept a profound secret, according to the traditions of the school. Scarcely had the last unsuspecting senior disappeared in the pine woods, when a motor car rounded the curve in the road and stopped at the signal of an individual in a long dark ulster and a slouch hat well down over the face, who had leaped out from behind a clump of bushes on the other side of the road. Two other persons similarly disguised now jumped out of the car, leaving the chauffeur quietly examining the speedometer and seeing nothing. "Do you know where they put them?" whispered one. The other did not reply, but led the way at a run to the clump of bushes where the hampers had been [54] [55] [56] [57]