CHAPTER VII
A MAN OF "PRINCIPLES"
"One dozen stockings—six woolen and six silk—imagine owning six pairs of silk stockings—-six nighties—don't they look luxurious, all beribboned and fluffy? One thick sweater, one pair of stout boots—I hope these boots are stout enough; they look as if they could kick a hole through the side of a battle-ship. One mackintosh—now where under the sun can I put this mackintosh?"
"Oh, just roll it up in a bundle and slam it in that corner near your shoes. It'll keep 'em from bumping around. My dear, you look as if you'd been in a tornado."
"In a tornado! I am a tornado." Nancy lifted a flushed face, and gazed at Alma through a haze of tumbled hair. Then she sat back on her heels in front of the open trunk, and seizing her locks near the temples, pulled them frenziedly. "Alma Prescott, if you sit there another moment looking calm, I'll throw this shoe-horn at you. Do anything, scream, run around in circles, pant, anything, but don't look calm. Every minute I'm forgetting something vital. Let me see, nail-brush, tooth-brush, cold-cream——"
"If you go over that formula again, I'll be a mopping, mowing idiot," observed Alma serenely, from the window-seat. "I wonder how one mops and mows—it sounds awfully idiotic, doesn't it? I saw you put the nail-brush and the tooth-brush and the cold-cream in the tray there—left-hand corner. Now, for goodness' sake, forget about them—it's just little things like that that unhinge the greatest minds. You're horribly bad company while you're packing a trunk."
"Well, anyhow, it's nearly done now—and yours is ready."
"You're a lamb for doing mine for me—I haven't been a bit of help, I know. Oh, you know it's going to be glorious fun—at boarding school. I've always longed to go to boarding school. And it isn't awfully strict at Miss Leland's, Elise Porterbridge says. They have midnight feasts, and all sorts of things—and then, you know, Frank Barrows is at Harvard, and he asked me up there for some dance near Christmas. Don't you think Frank is very nice, Nancy?" This was what Alma had been leading around to, and Nancy knew it. Personally she thought Frank rather an affected youth, but she had sense enough not to air this opinion before Alma just then.
"Why, yes, he seems very nice," she replied, with very mild interest.
"I think he has sort of more to him than most men of his age," pursued Alma, affecting a judicial air.
"Probably he has."
"He dances beautifully. Goodness, I had a wonderful time the other night. I know that you probably think it's wrong of me, but I'd like nothing more than to go to a party like that every night in the week."
"I don't think it's wrong at all—only I think you'd probably get awfully sick of it in a little while. And—and the chief trouble as far as we are concerned is that it's so dreadfully expensive. I know you think I'm always harping on the same string—but do you remember the motto of Mr. Micawber—'Income one pound—expenditure nineteen shillings and sixpence—product, happiness; income one pound, expenditure one pound and sixpence, product, misery——'"
"Well, I know that's very sensible, but there's lots of sense to 'eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die,'" returned Alma, with a gay laugh. "You're thinking about my dress and slippers—I could have killed that person who spilt their fruit punch all over my skirt, but there was nothing to do about it, and besides I'm sure I can hide the stain with a sash or something. I don't believe in worrying." With this, Madame Optimist turned and, pressing her short nose against the window pane, drummed with her little pink nails against the wet glass. The rain was falling again in a monotonous drenching downpour, stripping the trees of the few, brown, shivering leaves that clung to the dripping branches. The promise of Indian summer seemed to have been definitely broken for reasons of Dame Nature's own, and the weather was having a tantrum about it. But inside, the little bedroom was all the cosier in contrast to the woebegone gloom of the early dusk. The chintz window curtains of Nancy's making were faded by many washings, it is true, and the two white iron bedsteads might have looked sprucer for a coat of paint, but with a fire glowing in the grate, and sending out an almost affectionate glint upon all the familiar objects, the little room had an air of motherly cheerfulness and comfort. A shabby but inviting armchair stood in front of the hearth. In a corner, a white bookcase harbored a family of well-worn volumes, ranging from "Grimm's Fairy Tales," and "Stepping Stones to English Literature" to "The Three Musketeers" and "Jane Eyre," all tattered and thumbed, and seeming to wear the happy, weary expression of a rag doll that has been "loved to death."
"Well," Nancy was saying, in reply to Alma's observation, "I don't believe in worrying, but I do believe in having an umbrella if you live in a rainy climate. Then you don't have to worry about the—rain. Comprenez-vous?"
"I comprenez—you are talking in symbols, aren't you? Where's Mother?"
"Here I am, darling," replied Mrs. Prescott from the doorway. "Dear me, the trunks are all packed, aren't they? Nancy, what a wonderful child you are. Oh, whatever am I going to do without my daughters!"
"This time to-morrow night we'll all be dying of the blues. Thank goodness, here's Hannah with some tea—I'm starving," said Nancy, springing up to take the tray from the hands of the fat old woman, who had just made her appearance, her full, solemn red face looming behind the teapot.
They all gathered around the fire, Nancy and Alma settling cross-legged on the floor, and immediately opening a disastrous attack on the plate of chocolate cake—Hannah's prize contribution to this farewell feast.
"This time to-morrow night we'll probably be regaling ourselves on baked beans and cold rice-pudding," added Alma, cramming chocolate cake into her mouth like a greedy child. "That's an awful thought."
"Now, miss, ye don't suppose they'll be feedin' ye bad," exclaimed Hannah in great concern. The old woman had taken her stand respectfully near the doorway, loath to lose the last few glimpses of her adored young mistresses. "If ye think that now, I can send ye a box of jellies and the like any time ye say."
"Well, they'll probably give us something more than bread and water—but not much," replied Nancy, seriously. "They don't believe in giving students much to eat, because it hampers their brains."
"Is that so, now?" marvelled Hannah.
"It is indeed—it's a scientific fact, Hannah. When we come back for the Christmas holidays, we'll probably be so pale and wan that we won't even cast a shadow. But goodness, how clever we'll be."
"I'm a great believer in good feedin'," commented Hannah dubiously. "And I don't cotton much to scientifics, if you'll pardon me, miss. Lord, what an empty house 'twill be without ye."
"I hope you aren't insinuating that we take up much room," laughed Nancy; she was teasing Hannah to cover up her own growing sensation of homesickness and uneasiness. "Take good care of Mother, Hannah, and don't let her go out without her rubbers on, and—and make her write to us every single day. It's ridiculous, I suppose, to talk as if we were going twelve hundred instead of twelve miles, but we've never been even twelve miles away from home before."
"Yes, and there's nothing like seeing something of the world to broaden a person," observed Alma, sagely. "When I'm grown up, I shall certainly travel. I intend to make a tour of the world. Egypt especially—goodness, I'd like to go to Egypt. That Edith Palliser was a lucky girl—her guardian took her to Paris and Rome and Cairo and even to Algiers, and she met all kinds of interesting people—a Spanish prince and a Russian count, and loads of artists and writers and things. I'm afraid that we must be terribly provincial."
"Ah, now, don't say that," remonstrated Hannah, who had no idea what "provincial" meant, and was consequently convinced that it must mean something very bad indeed. "Bless my soul! There's the bell—now who could be comin' here on a day like this?"
The door-bell had indeed been rung fiercely, and a second ring followed impatiently upon the first. Hannah vanished.
"Who in the world——" wondered Nancy.
"Sh! It's some man."
Alma sprang up, and running out into the hall leaned curiously over the bannister. In a moment she returned, looking as if she had seen a ghost, her mouth open, and her eyes popping.
"Nancy! Mother! I think it's Uncle Thomas!"
"Nonsense!" But Nancy too scrambled to her feet and stood listening with suspended breath. "Mother——!"
"No, my dear—it—it couldn't be!" Mrs. Prescott had turned quite pale. "It must be just some tradesman. See—there's Hannah now."
But Hannah's face confirmed the dazing suspicion. Without even announcing the stupifying news, she leaned weakly against the doorway, and pressed her hand to her ample bosom, signifying an overwhelming agitation.
"Who is it, Hannah?"
"The saints protect us, miss—ma'am! Sure, it's the old gentleman himself—as large as life, indeed. 'Is the missis home?' says he, and before I can draw breath—'Tell her Mr. Prescott is waitin' on her, and would like to see the young ladies,' says he. And he sticks his soakin' umbrella in the corner, and without takin' off his overshoes, stalks into the livin'-room. 'Humph!' says he, seein' the hole in the carpet, 'that's dangerous. I like to have broken me neck. Be good enough to hurry, ma'am,' says he, 'an' don't stand gawpin' at me like a simpleton.' 'Will ye have a seat, sir?' says I. 'I will, when I want one,' says he, short-like, and there he stands standin' and starin' around him, and suckin' at his lips, and kinda talkin' to hisself. What shall I be tellin' him, ma'am?"
This bomb seemed to have paralyzed the little family.
"I—I—tell him——" stammered Mrs. Prescott, looking piteously at Nancy for help.
"You'd better go right down, Mother. Why, you look frightened to death, dear."
"I am. He frightens me dreadfully. I can't bear sarcastic people. Do go down alone, Nancy,—tell him I have a headache."
"No, no! That wouldn't be wise. What can he say? He may want to be very nice," said Nancy, reassuringly. "Come along—don't keep him waiting. Here, just tuck up your hair a bit. Come on, Alma."
Inwardly quaking, but outwardly preserving a dignified composure, the three descended the staircase, with the calmness of people going to some inevitable fate.
"He can't bite you, dear," whispered Nancy to her mother, with a nervous little giggle.
Mr. Prescott was standing perfectly still, with his back toward the door, staring with an evidently absorbed interest at the wall in front of him. He turned slowly, as Mrs. Prescott entered the room, and for a moment surveyed her and the two girls without speaking. Then he said, casually:
"Good-afternoon, Lallie."
Alma shot a glance at Nancy.
"Good-afternoon, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott, in a rather faint voice, and flushing crimson with nervousness. "It—it is very kind of you——"
"Not at all," he interrupted, brusquely, "not at all. May we have a light—it is rather dark."
Nancy quickly lit the gas, and as the light from the jet shone down on her upturned face the old man scrutinized her keenly. A queer, half-tender, but repressed expression changed the lines in his stern old face for a moment, then he looked at Alma, who was regarding him with perfectly unconcealed terror and awe.
"How do you do?" he said to her, holding out his hand. "How do you do? You're my niece Alma, eh? Anne is the one who looks like—like my nephew, and Alma is the one who resembles her mother." He said this as if he were repeating some directions to himself. "I haven't seen you since you were children." He shook Alma's hand formally, and sat down at Mrs. Prescott's timid invitation, The short silence which ensued, while it seemed like an age of discomfort to the Prescotts, apparently was unobserved by him.
"It has been a very long time since—since I have seen you, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott in desperation, quite aware that this remark, like any one she should make just then, was a very awkward one.
"Yes. I never go out, madam. So this is Anne—Nancy, eh?" He turned abruptly to the girl and met her clear, steady eyes sharply. "You were a child—a very little girl when I saw you last. You resemble my nephew very much,—my—my dear.
"No doubt, madam, you are wondering at the reason of this visit," he said, all at once plunging into the heart of matters with an air of impatience at any "beating about the bush." "I've no doubt it was the last thing in the world you expected, eh?"
"It was indeed a surprise," murmured Mrs. Prescott.
"I realized that my grandnieces are growing up, and I had a curiosity to see them. There is the kernel of the matter. They are handsome girls. I suppose everyone knows that they have a rich uncle—and prospects, eh?"
"Neither my daughters nor anyone else has been deluded in that respect," answered Mrs. Prescott, with a touch of spirit.
"Hum. Well, that's good, I should say. Nothing puts anyone in such a false position as to be generally regarded as having—prospects. It's ruinous, especially for girls."
"My daughters have been taught that they must rely entirely on themselves. You need not have come to repeat the lesson to them, Uncle Thomas," returned Mrs. Prescott, trying to conceal her temper. Mr. Prescott affected not to notice her rising annoyance, which was a natural enough reaction from her earlier nervousness. Instead he next addressed himself directly to Alma.
"So you think I'm a regular old ogre, don't you, my dear?" His eyes suddenly twinkled at her palpable terror and distress, but only Nancy caught the twinkle. "You think I'm a queer, crotchety old fellow, eh? Well, don't let's talk about me. I want to know what you are planning to do with yourselves—an old man's curiosity. Your face is your fortune, my dear—though a pretty face is not infrequently a misfortune, so the wiseacres say. I understand that you two young ladies are going now to a fashionable school,—to learn how to be fashionable, no doubt. That's a folly—it would be better if you stayed at home and learned how to cook and darn."
"We can cook and darn," said Nancy, demurely.
"So? Good. Now tell me why are you going to this school? It's no place for poor girls. I suppose it's some woman's notion of yours, ma'am?" pursued the old gentleman, turning to Mrs. Prescott.
"My plans for my daughters can concern you so little, Uncle Thomas——" began Mrs. Prescott, throwing her usual diplomacy to the winds.
"That it behooves me to mind my own business, eh?" Mr. Prescott finished for her with perfect good-humor. "You are quite right, madam." He seemed really pleased at Mrs. Prescott's spirit, and went on, "You do right to tell me so. I have acted in a most unkinsmanly way toward my nieces, and consequently it's none of my business what they do or what they don't do. Well, if you had allowed me to interfere in this matter, I should have imagined that you were doing so simply because you wanted to get into my good graces, and so forth, which would have been quite useless in as far as it would have changed my plans in regard to them. It's a very silly thing you are doing with them, in my opinion, but I'm glad you have spirit enough to stick to your own mind. Now, my dear, don't be angry with me. Understand that I have come to interfere in your plans in no way at all. It's not my purpose to use your poverty and your need for my money as a force by which to tyrannize over you. I had these thoughts in mind when I came here to-day—on an old man's whimsical impulse: I wished, first of all, to put a period to the unfriendliness that has existed between us all these years; I wished to see my nieces, and I wished, at the same time—and in order to avoid any false attitude on your part or on my own—to have it clearly understood that you must not expect any financial assistance from me. Live out your own lives—think out your own problems—make your mistakes, fearlessly—do not, I beg you, humiliate yourselves by trying to conciliate an old man, who chooses to do what he will with the money he made with his own wits and labor. There, that is particularly what I wanted to say to you. Don't try to 'work' me. Don't expect anything from me. Thus, if we are friends, it will be a disinterested friendship. Otherwise, if I felt that we were on good terms, I should be thinking to myself—'It is only because I am the rich uncle.' If you were amiable with me, I'd think, 'That's because they are afraid of angering me.' Now—let us be friends. I think I can be very fond of my nieces—but don't expect anything from me. Is that clear? Will you make friends with an old man on those terms?" He looked first into Mrs. Prescott's eyes, and saw that she was still hostile; at Alma, and read her bewilderment in her face, and then at Nancy. Again his eyes softened, almost touchingly, and with quick instinct she understood the appeal that lay beneath his brusque language. She remembered her father's stories of his tenderness, and somehow she understood that what the old man longed for was the simple affection of which for so long his life had been empty. And she understood, too, his dread of gaining that affection by holding out hopes of payment for it. His reiterated "Don't expect anything of me," was more of a plea than a curt warning. He wanted their good-will for himself, and not for his money—that was what he was trying to say in his brusque, almost crude, way. Her eyes were bright with this understanding of his heart, and she held out her hand with a smile; for he seemed to have turned directly to her for his answer. He grasped her hand eagerly.
"There!" he exclaimed, with an almost child-like pleasure. "There is George's daughter, every inch. We understand each other, eh? Good girl. We shall be friends, eh? I'm a friend—not a rich old uncle, who'll give you what you want, if you manage him right. That's it, you understand? Now, this is pleasant—this is honest. Be independent, my dear. Don't expect anything of me. I tell you—if I thought that it was only thoughts of my money that bought your good-will, I'd give the last cent of it away to-morrow."
He got up, evidently well satisfied, and still retaining Nancy's hand in his. The other he held out to Mrs. Prescott, who took it, with a constrained smile; and then, in high good-humor he pinched Alma's dimpled chin playfully.
"Good-day! Good-day! I'm glad I came. We'll know each other better after a while. We understand each other, eh? The hatchet is buried, eh? Good. It's a piece of business I've been putting off for a long while. Tut-tut! Where's my umbrella?"
The three Prescotts stood at the window, staring with varying feelings at the stooped, but surprisingly agile old figure that walked off through the rain and fog, head down, the worn velvet collar of his old coat hunched around his neck—and with never a look behind. Then, all at once, both Alma and Nancy broke out laughing.
"You seemed to get along with him beautifully," chuckled Alma. "Goodness, he scared me out of my five wits—so that I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I couldn't tell you for the life of me what he was talking about. I think he must be crazy. But he doesn't seem so bad at all. At times he even looked rather nice."
"Why, I believe he is nice," said Nancy. "He's a funny, eccentric old man, but I'm sure that he'd be rather a dear, if he doesn't think that we are trying to 'manage' him as he says."
Mrs. Prescott was silent, her pretty face frowning a little. Nancy looked at her a moment, and then putting her arms around her, rubbed her own ruddy cheek against her mother's pink one.
"Put yourself in his place, Mother," she said gently. "He's very lonely—he wants to be friendly—he was thinking of Father all the time, you know. But he has a horror of our being affectionate with him just for the sake of his money. Imagine what it would be to be a lonely old man, always troubled by the thought that the only reason people would be nice to him was because they were hoping to profit by it."
"He made it very clear that he has no intention of—of helping us in that way," said Mrs. Prescott.
"And I'm glad of it. I'm glad of it!" cried Nancy. "I don't want to act and think and live to conciliate a rich relative. I think that must be the most hateful position in the world. I want to forget that Uncle Thomas is very rich and very old—just as he wants us to forget it. I want to make my own life, and have no one to thank or to blame for whatever I accomplish but myself."
"What an independent lassie! You are right, dear," said Mrs. Prescott, touching the little curls around Nancy's flushed face affectionately. "You are right. You are like a boy, aren't you? I was never that way myself—and that was the trouble. You have such good sense, my dear. Whatever am I going to do without you?"
CHAPTER VIII
THE FIRST NIGHT AT SCHOOL
Miss Leland's school wore that sober title with a somewhat frivolous air. It seemed to be saying, "Oh, call me a school if you want to—but don't take me seriously." It was like a pretty girl, who puts on a pair of bone-rimmed spectacles in fun and assumes a studious expression, while the dimples lurk in her cheeks.
It was a low, rambling, white building, with a stately colonial portico, and broad porches at each wing. In front, an immaculate lawn swept to the trim hedges that bordered the road; in the back, this lawn sloped downward to a grove of trees, which were now almost bare. Under them stood several picturesque stone benches, while just beyond lay a wide, terrace-garden with a sun-dial in the centre. Altogether, it resembled a pleasant country place, dedicated to merriment and good cheer.
Through the dusk of a rather bleak autumn night, its friendly lights shone out comfortably as the two Prescotts jogged up to the door in the station wagon.
The trip up from the Broadmore Station had not, however, been a lively one, despite the fact that two other girls besides the Prescotts had taken the hack with them; the first spasm of homesickness having evidently seized them all simultaneously. One of the girls, a little, sallow-faced creature, sat like a mouse in her corner, and by occasional dismal sniffles, gave notice that she was weeping and did not want to be disturbed. The other, a plump miss with scarlet cheeks and perfectly round eyes, had bravely essayed a conversation.
"Are you going to Miss Leland's?"
"Yes."
"Is this your first year?"
"Yes."
"What's your names?"
The Prescotts gave her the information, and she told them in exchange that her name was Maizie Forrest, that she was from Pittsburgh, that she had a brother at Yale, and another at Pomfret, and that she thought it no end of fun that they, the Prescotts, were going to Miss Leland's. After this flow of confidence, conversation languished and expired in the silence of dismal thoughts.
The hack drove up to the door, and deposited the four girls on the steps. Then they entered the hall, from which was issuing a perfect babel of feminine squeaks and chattering.
As Nancy and Alma stood together, frankly clinging hand to hand, a husky damsel rushed past them and precipitated herself on the neck and shoulders of the conversational Maizie.
"Maizie, darling!"
"Jane, dearest! When did you get here?"
"Been here hours. My dear, we're going to room together! Isn't that scrumptious?"
"Perfectly divine. Where's Alice?"
"Hasn't come yet. Come on, let's go see M'amzelle."
The small, weepy girl stood still gazing mournfully at the rapturous meetings about her.
Nancy looked at her sympathetically, but she felt much too blue and strange herself to try to urge anyone else to be cheerful.
"I don't know where we go, or what we're supposed to do, do you?" she whispered to Alma.
"No. I hope to goodness it's near supper time. There, I think that's Miss Leland."
A tall, very thin, very erect lady, wearing nose-glasses attached to a long gold chain, and with sparkling, fluffy white hair that made her face look quite brown in contrast, was descending the stairs. Several of the girls rushed to her, and she kissed them peckishly. Evidently they were old pupils. Nancy and Alma heard her asking them about their dear mothers and their charming fathers, and where they had been during the summer, and if (playfully) they were going to work very, very hard. And the girls were saying:
"Dear Miss Leland, it's so nice to be back again!"
Nancy and Alma approached her a little uncertainly. The other girls drew back and frankly stared at them. "New girls," they heard whispered, and for some reason the appellation made them both feel terribly "out of it."
"Miss Leland," began Nancy, coloring, "I—I'm Anne Prescott—I—this is my sister Alma—I—er——"
"Why, yes. I'm so glad you got here safely," said Miss Leland, quite cordially, taking Nancy's hand and Alma's at the same time. "Of course you want to know where your room is. You two are going to room together to-night, anyway. Later you will probably have different roommates. Now, let me see—Mildred, this is Anne Prescott, and this is Alma. They are new girls, so I'm going to count on you to help them find themselves a little. They are going to be next door to you to-night, so will you take them up-stairs?"
A very handsome, very haughty-looking girl, with gray eyes and a Roman nose, shook hands with them briefly. The sisters followed her in a subdued silence. She was the sort of girl plainly destined to become one of the most frigid and formidable of dowagers; it was impossible to look at her profile, her fur coat, or to meet her cold, critical glance without immediately picturing her with a lorgnon, crisply marcelled gray hair, and the wintry smile with which the typical, unapproachable matron can freeze out the slightest attempt at an unwelcome friendliness on the part of an inconsequential person. Her last name was weighty with importance, since she was the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, the well-known railroad magnate.
"I shan't like her," Nancy remarked to Alma, when this young lady had indicated their room to them, and left them with a curt announcement that they should go down-stairs in fifteen minutes.
"She is sort of snob-looking," agreed Alma, throwing her hat on her narrow white bed. "But there's no sense in being prejudiced against a person right away. Goodness, this room is chilly. I wish we knew somebody here. I hate being a new girl. Everyone else sounds as if they are having such a good time. I feel dreadfully out of it, don't you? And all the girls look at you as if they were wondering who in the world you are."
"Well, it's only natural that we feel that way now," said Nancy, trying to sound cheerful. "Come on, we've got to hurry."
From the line of rooms along the corridor issued the unceasing chatter of gay voices; there was a continual scampering back and forth, bursts of tumultuous greetings, giggles, shrieks. Alma, comb in hand, stood at the doorway, listening with a wistful droop to her lips. Two doors down, four girls were perched up on a trunk, kicking it with their patent-leather heels, and gabbling like magpies. In the room opposite, five girls, curled up on the two beds, were gossiping blithely, while a sixth, a pretty, red-haired girl, was gaily unpacking her trunk, flinging her lingerie with great skill across the room into the open drawers of the bureau, which caught stockings and petticoats very much as a dog will catch a bone in his mouth. They were all having such a good time—and they all seemed to have a lengthy history of gay summer's doings to relate. Each one jabbered away, apparently perfectly regardless of what the others were saying.
"Oh, my dear, I did have the most marvellous time——"
"Dick told me——"
"Are you going to come out next winter——"
"Margie's wedding was perfectly gorgeous—and I caught the bouquet——"
"Tom is coming down for the midwinter dance——"
"Who is that frump who's rooming with Sara——"
"Dozens of new girls. Hope some of 'em are human, anyway——"
"Come on, Alma. Hurry! You haven't even washed yet," said Nancy, impatiently. "We've got to go down-stairs——"
"Yes, and stand around gaping like ninnies," added Alma, morosely, coming back to the mirror, and beginning to brush out her thick, yellow hair.
"It'll be ever so much nicer when we come back here after the Christmas holidays," said Nancy, busily polishing her nails, to hide the mist that would creep over her eyes. "To-morrow we can fix up this room a bit—if we can put up some chintz curtains, and get a few books and cushions around, it'll be as good as home, almost."
"But—but Mother won't be here, and neither will Hannah—boo-hoo!" And here Alma quite suddenly burst out crying, wrinkling up her pretty face like a child of two. With the tears dripping off her chin, she continued to brush her hair vigorously, sobbing and sniffling pathetically. Nancy looked up, and, unable any longer to control her own tears, while at the same time she was almost hysterically amused by Alma's ridiculously droll expression of grief, began to sob and giggle alternately. Alma, still clutching the brush, promptly threw herself into Nancy's arms, and there they sat, clinging together, and frankly wailing like a pair of lost children, in full view of the corridor.
"I—I want to—g-go h-home——" sniffled Alma.
"I—I don't like that girl with th-the n-nose——" wailed Nancy. "D-Do f-fix your hair, Alma. I-If you're l-late for d-dinner w-we'll be expelled. Here——" she tried to twist up Alma's unruly mane, hardly realizing what she was trying to do, while Alma tenderly mopped Nancy's wet cheeks with her own little, soaking handkerchief.
"I—I say! You two aren't howling, are you?" inquired a drawling, utterly amazed voice from the doorway. The two girls looked up, their hostile expressions plainly asking whose business it was if they were howling—but promptly their hostility vanished.
A very tall, astonishingly lank girl was standing in the doorway, feet apart, and hands clasped behind her back, regarding them amiably through a pair of enormous, bone-rimmed goggles. Every now and again, she would blink her eyes, and screw up her face comically, while she continued to smile, showing a set of teeth as large and white as pebbles.
"You were saying something about being expelled. Are you expelled already? Ex plus pello, pellere pulsi pulsum—meaning to push out, or, as we say in the vernacular, to kick out, fire, bounce. Miss Drinkwater likes us to note the Latin derivations of all our English words, and I've got the habit. You two seem to be lachrymosus, or blue—by which I take it that you are new girls. I sympathize with you, although I am an ancient. Two years ago this very night, I wept so hard that I nearly gave my roommate pneumonia from the dampness. How-do-you-do?" With this unconventional preliminary, accompanied by one of the friendliest and most disarming grins imaginable, the newcomer marched over to the bed and shook hands vigorously.
"My name is Charlotte Lucretia Adela Spencer. Really it is. You must take my word for it. But I only use the 'Charlotte.' The others I keep in case of emergency. I room next door, with Mildred Lloyd—who, incidentally, is a perfect lady, while I am not. I was born in the year 1903, in the city of Denver, Colorado—but of that, more anon. It's tremendously interesting, but if you—is your name Alma?—if you don't get your coiffure coifed, you'll miss out on our evening repast. Wiggle, my dear, wiggle!"
Thus urged, Alma "wiggled" accordingly; and while she carefully washed her tear-stained face, and put up her hair, their visitor, sprawling across the bed, kept up a running fire of ridiculous remarks, all uttered in her peculiar, dry, drawling voice, and punctuated with the oddest facial contortions. Yet, in spite of her nonsense, there was very evidently a good deal of real sense, and the kindest feeling behind it, and her singular face, too unusual to be called either plain or pretty, beamed with satisfaction when she had won a genuine peal of laughter from the two dejected Prescotts.
"We'd better go down now. To-night of course everything is more or less topsy-turvy. My trunk, I think, must be still out in Kokomo, Indiana, or some such place. I don't even expect to see it for another month or so. But I don't mind. I'm a regular child of nature anyway—it's just Amelia who's pernickety about our appearing in full regalia every night for dinner. Amelia is Leland, of course. She's tremendously keen on preserving a refining influence about the school, and I think she looks on me as a rather demoralizing factor. There goes the gong."
The three went down-stairs together, Charlotte linking herself between Nancy and Alma.
As if by magic, the din of a few moments before had been lulled. The fifty or sixty girls had gathered in the large reception room, where a wood-fire was blazing up a huge stone chimney, and where Miss Leland, wearing a dignified black evening dress, was seated in a pontifical chair, chatting with eight or ten of her charges, with the air of a gracious hostess. All the voices had sunk to a lower key.
"Is everyone here?" She looked about her, and closing the book she had been toying with led the way into the dining-room beyond, where the ten or twelve small tables, with their snowy covers, and softly shaded candles gave the room more the appearance of a quiet restaurant than the ordinary school refectory.
Charlotte Spencer sat with Nancy at a table near Miss Leland's; while Alma found herself separated from her sister, and relegated to another table where she was completely marooned among five strange girls.
Charlotte introduced Nancy to a sallow maiden with prominent front teeth, named Allison Maitland, to a statuesque brunette named Katherine Leonard——
"The school beauty," was her brief comment. "And this is Denise Lloyd, sister of Mildred, my roommate. Hope we have soup."
"Are you any relation to Lawrence Prescott, who goes to Williams?" asked the beautiful Katherine, turning to Nancy with a slightly patronizing air. Nancy vaguely disclaimed a kinship that might have won her Miss Leonard's interest, and thereby quickly lost some of it.
"No, she's not, she says," said Charlotte. "Is he a beau of yours? 'Yes,' replied the girl, a soft blush mantling her damask cheek. 'Naturally he's a beau of mine. Who isn't?' and with this keen retort, she again lost herself in her maiden meditations. But I'll tell you who she is a relation of—she's the thirty-second cousin once removed of 'Prescott's Conquest of Peru'—aren't you, Nancy?"
"Charlotte, you're a scream," said Katherine, with an affected laugh, and turning to Nancy, she went on, speaking in a mincing voice, and always placing her lips as if she were continually guarding against spoiling the symmetry of their perfect cupid's bow. "You know, we always expect Charlotte to say funny things."
"I'm the school buffoon, in other words," commented Charlotte, dryly—evidently not much liking to be marked as a professional humorist. "I'm supposed to be 'so amusin', doncherknow'—and consequently, everyone is expected to haw-haw whenever I open my mouth. But if you listen carefully, you'll be surprised to hear that at times I talk sense. Now, Allison here is the school genius. You'd never suspect it, but she is. I wish to goodness that new waitress would bring me some more bread. It isn't considered stylish around here to have the bread on the table, but I do wish they'd consider my appetite."
"Is that perfectly sweet-looking girl over there your sister?" asked Katherine, indicating Alma, her slightly patronizing air still more pronounced.
"Your new rival for the golden apple, Kate," remarked Charlotte, with a grin. "And a blonde, too."
Katherine flushed, and tried to laugh off her annoyance at Charlotte's impish teasing.
"I think she's perfectly lovely."
"Oh, handsome is as handsome does, so they say. The question is has she a beautiful soul. Now, my soul is something wonderful—if it would only show through a bit," murmured Charlotte. "I'm plain, but good, as they say of calico. There's a rumor to the effect that Cleopatra was very ugly; hope it's so. There are two alternatives for an ugly woman—either to be tremendously good and noble, or to be very, very wicked—I can't make up my mind which career to choose. It's an awful problem."
"I'm going to take muthick lethons thith year, Tharlotte—with Mithter Conthtantini," lisped Denise Lloyd. "Don't you think he'th jutht wonderful?" Denise did not resemble her sister in the least. She was a plump, roly-poly girl of sixteen, still at the giggly, gushing stage of her life—but much more likable than the haughty Mildred.
She turned to Nancy, with the polite desire of including the new girl in the conversation, and went on with a blush, "Mithter Conthtantini is jutht wonderful. Are you going to take muthick lethons? You'd jutht love him! And bethides, if you take muthick, you can drop thience."
"I don't think I could get very far with the piano in one year," said Nancy with a smile.
"Oh, he doethn't teach piano. He teacheth violin."
"And of course, the violin is so much simpler," remarked Charlotte. "Mr. Constantini has a rolling black eye, and an artistic temperament—inclined to have fits, I think——"
"Fitth, Tharlotte!" cried Denise, in bitter reproach. "Why, he'th jutht lovely! He doethn't have fitth at all!"
"Well, it sounds as if somebody were having fits, to hear all the awful squeaks and groans that come out of the music room, while one of our rising Paganinis is having her lesson. I always imagined that it was poor Mr. Constantini," replied Charlotte, mildly. "Anyway, the point is, that Constantini is a beautiful creature, and consequently a year of violin is considered infinitely more improving than a year of science. Personally, I think that the study of the violin ought to be forbidden under penalty of the law, except in cases of the most acute genius. I think that the playing of one wrong note on the violin ought to be punishable by a heavy fine, and playing two, by imprisonment for life, or longer. There are times when I feel that hanging is far too good for Dolly Parker. She ought to be boiled in oil, until tender——"
Nancy laughed.
"So you take the year of science? That's where I belong, too, I suppose."
"Tharlotte plays the piano jutht beautifully," said Denise. "She compotheth——"
"My brother calls it decomposition," said Charlotte, reddening, as she always did when any of her talents were lauded, and trying to turn it off with a joke.
Miss Leland rose, and the room became silent, since she appeared to be about to make an announcement.
"To-night, girls, there is, of course, no study-hour, and special privileges are extended to you all," she said, in her clear, well-trained voice. "You have an hour for recreation after dinner, and I hope that all the old girls will make a point of helping our new girls to forget that they are not at home. Prayers will be at nine, as usual, and you will not be required to be in your rooms before nine-forty-five. No doubt you all have a great deal to talk about, so I am going to be lenient with you to-night. To-morrow, the regular school regime will be resumed."
"Hooray! Nancy, you and Alma are herewith cordially invited to my room to a negligee party at nine-twenty sharp. I had the good sense to bring a few delicacies with me, leaving my trunk to the tender mercies of the express company." Charlotte rose, and taking Nancy's arm, filed out of the dining-room with the other girls, behind Miss Leland. But in the living-room, a small band of girls fell upon Charlotte.
"Come along, old dear. Some dance-music now. Come on." And they bore her off to the piano, deposited her almost bodily upon the bench, and opened the keyboard. Three others rolled back the rugs from the polished floor, and in a moment a dozen couples were spinning around as gaily as if they were at a ball.
Nancy, a prey to her usual shyness in the midst of strangers, clung close to the piano, where Charlotte, without pausing in her astonishingly clever playing, reached up, and drew her down on the piano bench, from where she could watch Alma.
Alma's prettiness and natural gaiety was having its usual success. The younger girls crowded around her, the older girls petted her. Even the frigid Mildred made her dance with her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright again. By some indescribable charm she had walked into instant popularity.
Without a shadow of envy, Nancy watched her, proudly. Alma was easily the prettiest girl in the school—everyone must like her, everything must go smoothly and gaily for her. There were people like that in the world—people who didn't have to be wise or prudent—some kindly providence seemed always to protect them from the consequences of their lack of common sense, just as kindly nature protects the butterflies.
The dancers stopped one by one. Some gathered in groups about, the fire, others clustered in the window-seats—one or two practical souls had gone to their rooms to put away some of their things.
Charlotte's nimble fingers began to wander idly among the keys. Nancy watched her curiously, listening in some surprise to the change in the music. She felt an instinctive fondness for this big, whimsical, friendly girl, and knew very well that underneath her nonsense lay a streak of some fine quality that would make an unshakeable foundation for a genuine friendship. She would have liked to talk to Charlotte by herself; but Charlotte was already talking in her own way. She seemed to have quite forgotten Nancy and everyone else in the room, and with her head bent over the keys, she was playing for herself. Little by little, the other girls stopped talking. She did not notice that at all. Nancy listened to her playing in astonishment. It was far beyond anything like ordinary schoolgirl facility. It was full of genuine talent and poetry, now smooth and lyrical, and again as capricious and impish as some of her own moods.
She raised her head, and looked at Nancy with an absent-minded smile.
"Like music?" Nancy nodded.
"I believe you really do. You aren't just saying so, are you? Well, I like you—ever so much. Listen, don't get the idea that everything I say is meant to be funny—sometimes—I'm very serious—you wouldn't believe it, would you?"