Miss Ashton's New Pupil — 17 - Chapters XXXIII and XXXIV

"I'll knock!

Perhaps, just perhaps, she will let me in;" but there was no response to Susan's knock.

She stood waiting until she shivered with nervous dread from head to foot, then she crept back to her room, and tossed restlessly through a weary night.

CHAPTER XXXIII. SPRING VACATION.

The bright light of a sunny day has a wonderful influence in quieting fears, and the next morning when Susan waked and found her room cheerful, everything looking natural and pleasant, her first feeling was one of shame for all she had suffered the night before.

Nothing was easier now than to make herself believe she had been foolish in her suspicion of Marion; indeed, it was not long before she had made herself almost sure that Marion knew nothing about the stolen story, that she had wronged her in suspecting, even if she did, that she would be mean enough to betray her.

For the first time since she copied it, she treated Marion not only kindly but affectionately, much to Marion's surprise, for she knew how near she had come to betraying Susan, and remembered Miss Ashton's saying, "If you do not choose to tell me what is the matter with Susan, I must be all the more observant of her myself."

Would she watch her?

Could she ever in any way find out about "Storied West Rock"?

"At any rate," Marion comforted herself by thinking, "it will not be through me; but I wish I had not said even what I did."

She wondered over Susan's advances, and met them coldly, shamefacedly.

"If you only knew," she said to herself, "how different you would act!"

Very important as these events seem to those particularly engaged, they make little apparent difference in the life of a large school.

Marion again made faulty recitations, and again her teachers were troubled by them; but Susan, having in a measure, she could hardly understand how, been thrown off her fears, was unusually brilliant in her classes, winning what she valued so much, words of approbation from her teachers.

The school work went on now with much success.

The holiday break-up was fairly over.

Washington's Birthday was not celebrated other than with an abundance of little hatchets of all designs and colors.

Easter was too far away, and the _animus_ of the school was for quiet study.

Even the club held meetings less often.

The two girls who had been the chief planners of whatever mischief originated from it, Mamie Smythe and Annie Ormond, were on their best behavior, knowing full well that another misdeed, no matter of what character, meant expulsion.

Upon these weeks preceding the Easter vacation, Miss Ashton had learned to rely for the best part of the year's work; so uneventfully, with the exception of now and then some slight escapade on the part of the pupils, the term rolled on to its spring rest.

Easter came in the early part of April this year, but the season was backward, even snowstorms coming now and then; and fierce winds, more like March than April, forbade any hunting for early flowers, or looking, as so many longing eyes did, for the swelling of the bare branches of the trees, or the first shadowing of the green tassels that waited to show themselves to warm sunbeams.

There were no examinations in this school, or marking the grade of scholarship; but for all that, there was never a doubt who were the best scholars, or who would have taken the prizes if any had been given.

A week before Easter, Marion received a letter from her Aunt Betty, inviting her to spend the coming recess with her; but she declined it, asking that the visit might be deferred until the long summer vacation, when, as she was probably not to return home, she should be very glad to come.

Evidently Aunt Betty had forgotten whatever was unpleasant in the Thanksgiving visit, and to be among the mountains through some of the hot summer weeks seemed to Marion would be pleasant indeed.

But when the vacation came, and she found herself with only a few other girls almost alone in the great desolated building, she more than once regretted her decision.

A pleasant young teacher of gymnastics, Miss Orne, was left in charge, but she was tired, and more anxious to rest than to amuse the girls, so they were left pretty much to themselves, and passed the ten days of vacation in the best way they could.

"Girls will be girls," that was what Miss Ashton said when the pupils who had been at home came back with their summer outfits, and she found the whole attention of the school given for a few days to their examination and comparison.

"If I could hear you talk half as much about any branch of study, or your art lessons, as I hear you talk about your new clothes," she said with a pleasant laugh, "I should be delighted; but I suppose nothing seems more important to you now than the fashions, and, on the whole, I don't know but I am glad of it."

It was this interest in their many-sided life that gave Miss Ashton her great influence over them.

The girls would take articles of apparel to her for her inspection, and find them doubly valuable if they met with her approval.

There was one set whose wardrobes were objects of especial interest: those were the graduating class.

Next to her bridal dress, there seems to be no other that is thought so much of, not only by the girl, but by her parents.

It would be idle, perhaps out of place here, to say how much display and foolish extravagance there is at such a time.

Where it can be well afforded, it is of comparatively little importance, but a great deal of heartache might be avoided, if the simplest costume were decided to be the most suitable.

Parents whose means have been tried to the utmost to give their child the advantages of the school, who have never hesitated over any labor or self-denial in order to accomplish it, find themselves at last called to confront the question of dollars, hardly earned or saved, squandered on a dress almost worthless for future use, on pain of seeing their child mortified and unhappy because she cannot, on this eventful occasion, look as well as the others.

Even Miss Ashton's influence, great as it was, had failed to accomplish any good result in changing this long-established custom; and for reasons best known to themselves, the present senior class had voted in their class meetings to make their graduation day one long to be remembered in the annals of the school.

CHAPTER XXXIV. NEMESIS.

Until this year this academy had had a salutatory and a valedictory in the same way they did at Atherton Academy, given for the best scholarship as it was there; but as this was considered a finishing school, differing therefore from the boys' school, which was only preparatory for other and higher education, it had been decided to change the graduating exercises to the four best essays, read by their writers, an address by some distinguished orator, music, and the giving of diplomas.

All the graduating class were expected to write an essay, the Faculty to judge of their merits, and to choose from among them four of the best.

Not only the interest of the class, but of the whole school, was intense on the writing of these essays.

The literary merit of the teaching was to be shown by them; and as no graduating class ever comes to its commencement without pride in, and love for its _alma mater_, so it seemed as if the future reputation of the academy must depend upon the way this class acquitted itself.

If it had been a boys' school, bets would have run high on the supposed best writers; here there was nothing of the kind, only those who had done well whenever compositions had been read to the school were chosen as girls of especial interest, watched, _fêted_, praised, encouraged, in short, prematurely made heroines of.

Among the most conspicuous was Susan Downer.

Though so little had been said of late of her success in writing "Storied West Rock," it was now recalled; and, as the weeks flew by before commencement, she was daily, sometimes it seemed to her hourly, reminded of it, and importuned to be sure and do as well now.

Poor Susan!

She knew how really unable she would be to do anything that would compare with it.

Over and over again she made the attempt;

but as writing was not one of her natural gifts, and as now, whenever she tried even to choose a subject, the theft came up before her, and she went through the whole, from the first temptation to the last crowned success, she could think of nothing else but the inevitable punishment that somewhere and at some time was waiting for her.

There was but one hope she thought left for her, to see her brother Jerry, and tease him into giving her one of his essays, that she might use it as it was if possible, if not, with alterations that would make it suit the occasion.

She would tell him that she only wanted to read it and get some hints from it, and once in her possession, she could do as she pleased.

When she received his note refusing her invitation to come to the academy, her disappointment and her helplessness may be readily imagined, for she had allowed herself to depend upon him.

To write to him for an essay she knew would be useless; he would only laugh, and say,-- "Nonsense!

what does Sue want one for?"

but if he were with her, he was so kind and good-natured, he would do almost anything she asked.

But one thing now remained.

Miss Randall, their teacher in rhetoric, who had the charge of the essays, gave subjects to those who wished them; she could apply to her, and perhaps find in the library something to help her.

Miss Randall gave her, remembering her former success, and hoping she would do even better now, an historical subject, "The Signal of Paul Revere."

"There have not been more than a hundred poems written on the same subject," she said in a little talk she had with Susan; "but if you can write poetry, and succeed, all the better for Montrose Academy.

We will send it to the newspaper, and it may be the beginning of making your name famous."

What a temptation to a girl like Susan!

If--only IF she could find one of those hundred or more poems, find perhaps the whole of them, and make rhymes (easy work that), and be "famous," what a glorious thing it would be!

Here was, alas, no repentance, or even fears of doing wrong.

It almost seemed as if the new temptation had obliterated memory of the old theft, and she was about to enter upon what she had always longed for, a career of fame.

She began to haunt the library, particularly the shelves of American poetry; but there was nothing to be found that had special reference to Paul Revere, not one of "the hundred and more pieces."

In this way she wasted a great deal of precious time, until, disappointed and discouraged, she was about asking for another subject, when she came upon a volume of collections of poetry written on the late war, and a sudden thought that this might be made to answer the same purpose unfortunately struck her.

She had read this kind of poetry but little; but had enough literary taste to make her choose one of the very best, consequently most popular and well known, for her model.

"Model," she said to herself when, delighted, she found how easily she could use it with alterations.

No miser was ever made more happy by a bag of gold than she by this discovery.

"Famous!

famous!

An honor to Montrose Academy!"

In the end, when her poem was ready for Miss Randall's examination, she read it aloud to her room-mates, and their astonishment and delight over her success they were too generous to withhold.

Dorothy had worked very hard on her essay.

It was carefully and well done; but Gladys's, short, brilliant, straight to the point, without pause or repetition, was an effort of which an older, more accustomed writer need not have been ashamed.

But neither of these, they decided, could hold any comparison with Susan's. It was Marion who, though she did not recognize the poem, could not forget "Storied West Rock," that listened with a troubled face, and only added a few faint words to those of the others' praise.

"She is an ugly, jealous old thing!"

Susan made herself think, as she watched her narrowly; but then would come the thought, "I wonder if she suspects me?"

remembering the story, and a cloud fell instantly over the bright sky of her hopes.

But she was not to escape so easily;

when she carried her poem to Miss Randall, she only glanced at the heading and down over the neatly written page, without reading a line, then said, "Come to me to-morrow afternoon at three, and we will read and correct it together.

I hope you have made a success of it."

Susan almost counted the hours until three came; then, proud and happy, she presented herself at Miss Randall's door.

The teacher had the poem on a table before her, and by its side a book, the covers of which Susan recognized at once as being the volume from which she had stolen the poem.

"Sit down, Susan," said Miss Randall gravely.

Then without another word she began to read first a line of Susan's poem, then one from the poem in the book, pausing over the changed words, to substitute the one for the other.

In truth, the changes were very few, how few Susan had not realized until they were thus set before her.

"This is hardly what might be called a parody," Miss Randall said as she ended, looking gravely into Susan's face.

"I suppose you had no idea of passing it off as your own work?"

How inevitably one wrong act leads to another!

There is an old saying that "one lie takes a hundred to cover it," and it is true.

Susan had confidently expected this to pass for her own; but now, without a moment's hesitation, looking Miss Randall fully in the face, with a pleasant smile she said,-- "Oh, no, Miss Randall!

I knew you would recognize it; you are too good a teacher of literature not to suppose you would be familiar with such a fine poem as that.

I thought if I made a successful parody, it would be better than any poor thing I could write myself."

Miss Randall was for a moment staggered.

Was the girl telling her the truth, or was it only a readily gotten-up excuse?

She waited a moment before she answered, then she said coldly,-- "This will not pass at all.

I am sorry you have wasted so much time upon it; you will begin at once upon your essay, and, for fear you will be tempted to use some thoughts not your own, I will change the subject.

You will write an essay on 'Truth.'

Good-afternoon."

"Miss Ashton!"

said Miss Randall, presenting herself, a few moments after Susan's departure, in the principal's room.

"I am afraid Susan Downer never wrote that excellent story, 'Storied West Rock.'

I always have wondered over it, for it was far superior to anything else she has done since she has been in school, and now, I am sure, though she denies it in a very plausible way, that she has copied a poem, with only a few immaterial changes to make it fit her subject, intending to palm it off for her own."

Miss Ashton did not answer at once; she was busy thinking.

With the other teachers, her surprise had been great at the ability Susan had shown in the story; and now, instantly, she connected this report of Miss Randall's with Marion's embarrassed mention of Susan's name, and her own intention to discover what was wrong.

Perhaps Susan had stolen it, and Marion had become acquainted with the theft.

It was not impossible, at any rate she must inquire into it, so she said to Miss Randall.

A day or two was allowed to pass before any further notice was taken of it, then Miss Ashton had decided to spare Marion, and call Susan directly to her.

Susan had word sent to her that she was wanted in the principal's room, and obeyed the summons with a heavy heart.

"Susan!"

said Miss Ashton, "I am willing to believe that you copied your poem with the innocent intention of passing it off as a parody, and that you really did not know it could not be accepted, but there is one other thing that troubles me.

Some time ago you wrote an excellent story called 'Storied West Rock;' was that yours, or another parody?"

[Illustration: Susan dropped her head upon her chest, the color surging into her face, and the tears dropping from her eyes; but she did not speak a word.

--Page 343. _Miss Ashton's New Pupil.

_] Susan!

Susan!

Tell the truth now; tell it at once, simply, honestly.

Do not conceal even how you have suffered from it, not even how unkind and cross you have been to Marion.

Own it all at once, quickly, without giving the tempter even a chance to tempt you!

Don't you know, don't you see, how much your future depends upon it?

Susan dropped her head upon her chest, the color surging into her face, and the tears dropping from her eyes; but she did not speak a word.

In the silence of the room you could have heard a pin drop.

Miss Ashton was answered.

When she spoke there was tenderness and deep feeling in her voice.

"Will you tell me the truth, Susan?"

she said.

But Susan did not answer; she only burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, and after waiting a few moments in vain for it to subside, Miss Ashton added, "You had better go to your room now.

I hope you will come soon to me, and tell me the whole truth."

Susan rose slowly, lifting her swollen and discolored face up to Miss Ashton with an entreating look the kind principal found it hard to resist; but she did.

She held the door open for Susan to pass out, and watched her go down the corridor with a troubled heart.

CHAPTER XXXV.