Miss Ashton's New Pupil — 09 - Chapters XVII and XVIII

NOVEMBER SNOWSTORM.

When November had fairly begun, the grove was leafless; the boats taken out of the little lake and stored carefully away, to await the return of birds and leaves; the days grown short, dark, and cold; the "constitutionals" matters of dire necessity, but not in the least of pleasure; study assumed new interest, and the worried teachers, relieved for a time of their anxieties over half-learned lessons, began to enjoy their arduous work, finding it really pleasant to teach such bright girls.

The girl who made the best recitation was the heroine of the hour, rules were observed more faithfully, a tender spirit went with them into the morning and evening devotions, Faculty meetings became cheerful.

This seemed to Miss Ashton one of the most prosperous and successful fall terms she had ever known; she congratulated herself constantly on its benign influences, and often said, "I have fewer black sheep in my flock than I have ever gathered together before."

There was one reason for this prosperity which she fully realized.

Thanksgiving was not far distant, and on that happy New England festival, the school had a holiday of three or four days.

It was a practice to send then to the parents or guardians of the pupils an account of their progress in their studies.

The system of marking had not been abandoned in the school; and many a lazy scholar, whom neither intreaties nor scolding seemed to touch, was alarmed at the record which she was to carry home.

Such a thing had been known as girls refusing to leave the academy even for Thanksgiving, rather than to face what they knew awaited them with their disappointed parents.

But from whatever cause the change had come, it was destined to have a severe shock before the festival day came.

Montrose Academy had been purposely built within a few miles of the old and famous school for boys in Atherton.

The reasons for this were, the ease with which the best lecturers could be obtained from there in many departments (a competent man finding plenty of time to lecture in both academies), and the general literary atmosphere which a social acquaintance engendered.

Of course this social acquaintance was not without its drawbacks, and it had been found necessary for both principals to require written permits for the visits which the boys were inclined to make upon the girls at Montrose.

So far, during this term, the boys had been fully occupied by their athletic games; but as the ground became one series of frozen humps, hands grew numb, and feet cold, the interest in them subsided; and yet the love of misrule, so much stronger in a boys' than in a girls' school, grew more active and troublesome.

Jerry Downer, a brother of Susan Downer, was a member of this famous school; and it soon became known among a class of boys who studied the Montrose catalogue more faithfully than they did their Livy, that he had a sister there, that she was a lively girl, not too strict in obeying rules, fond of fun, "up to everything," as they described her;

so it not infrequently happened that Jerry was invited by a set, with whom at other times he had little to do, to ride over with them to Montrose, he calling on his sister and cousins, while they apparently were waiting for him.

In this way Jerry had been quite frequently there, no objection being made by Miss Ashton, as a note from her to the principal of Atherton Academy brought back a flattering account of Jerry as a scholar, and as a boy to be fully trusted.

Jerry had improved in every respect since he went to Atherton.

He was now a tall, broad-shouldered, active, well-dressed young man, who rang the doorbell of the majestic porch at the Montrose Academy with that unconsciousness which is the perfection of good manners, and which came to him from his simplicity, and went in among the crowd of girls, neither seeing nor thinking of any but those he had come to visit.

Susan, in her own selfish way, was proud of him, so he was always sure of a reception that sent him back to his studies ambitiously happy.

On the fifteenth of November there fell upon Massachusetts such a snowstorm as the rugged old State never had known before.

It piled itself a foot deep on the level ground, heaped up on fence and wall, covered the trees with ermine, until even the tenderest twig had its soft garment; bent telegraph poles as ruthlessly as if communication was the last thing to be cared for, blotted telephoning out of existence, delayed trains all over the north, turned electric and horse cars into nuisances, filled the streets and the railroad stations with impatient grumblers, had only one single redeeming thing, the beauty of its scenery, and a certain weird, uncanny feeling it brought of being suddenly taken out of a familiar world and dropped into one the like of which was never even imagined before.

There was one part of the community, however, that looked upon it with great favor.

"Now for the jolliest of sleigh-rides!"

said a clique of Atherton boys.

"Hurra for old Jerry Downer!

We'll make him turn out this time!"

The roads between the two places were soon well worn, and not two days after the astonished world had waked to its surprise, Samuel Ray's best sleigh was hired, four extra sets of bells promised for the four horses, and a thoroughly organized "spree" was decided upon.

It was no use to ask Jerry to help them in any thing contrary to the rules; but through him they might convey to certain girls there the knowledge of their coming, and their plans for the evening.

They would give Jerry a note to his sister; she would hand it to Mamie Smythe;

and, once in her possession, the whole thing would take care of itself.

The bells were taken off from the horses and put carefully away in the bottom of the sleigh before it left the stable; the boys did not have it driven to the dormitories, as it did when they had a licensed ride, but met it at Wilbur's Corner.

They had a ready reason for this, and for the absence of the bells when Jerry noticed and inquired about them.

It would not do to give him the least occasion to suspect them.

It was a beautiful night, with a bright moon making the cold landscape clearer and colder.

There wasn't a young heart in either of these two educational towns that would not have leaped with joy over the pleasure of a sleigh-ride then and there.

A very merry ride the boys had as soon as they had cleared the thickly settled part of the town, breaking out into college songs, glees, snatches of wild music that the buoyant air caught up and carried on over the long reaches of the ghost-like road before them.

Jerry had a fine baritone voice, and he loved music.

How he led tune after tune was a marvel and a delight.

As they passed solitary farmhouses, where only a light shone from a back kitchen window, the quiet people there would drop their work and listen as the sleigh dashed by.

When the party reached Montrose, Jerry was told that "while he was making his visit they would drive on, and if they were not back in time he had better go home by the train, as they knew he would not like to be out late."

"And by the way," said Tom Lucas, taking a ticket out of his pocket, "here is a railroad ticket I bought the other day; you'd better use it, old fellow.

I shall never want it--that is, if we are not back in time for you."

The boys knew Jerry worked hard for every cent he had, and Tom would have felt mean if he had let a ride to which he had invited him be an expense.

The first thing he did when Susan came into the room was to give her the note intrusted to him; and Susan, understanding only too well what it meant, delivered it without any delay to Mamie Smythe.

Jerry's call was always a treat to his friends; and to-night, Marion coming with them, he had an evening the pleasure of which, in spite of what followed, he did not soon forget.

When it came time for him to leave, he saw with surprise that he could only by running catch his train, and, as the boys had not come back for him, he hurried away.

He found when he reached Atherton that the study hour had already passed, and, going to his room, he was met with,-- "I say, Jerry; Uncle John don't expect _you_ to go stealing off on sleigh-rides without leave.

Give an account of yourself."

"The party had leave, and when that is given, Uncle John don't trouble himself to single out every boy, and call him up to ask if he had his permission to go.

It's all right."

But, in spite of this assertion, Jerry began to have suspicions that, as the boys had failed to come for him to return with them, it might, after all, be not quite in order; and with these doubts he did not find committing his lesson an easy task.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE SLEIGH-RIDE.

When Susan hurried away from her brother to find Mamie Smythe and give her the note, she knew full well what it probably contained.

Jerry had told her he had come over with a party of boys, and had the very best sleigh-ride he had ever had in his life; and when she asked the names of his companions, she recognized some, who, for reasons best known to herself, Miss Ashton had forbidden to be received as visitors to the academy.

Mamie Smythe read the note with a heightening color.

This was it,-- "Sleigh waiting corner of Bond and Centre Streets.

Supper at Bascoms' Hall engaged for a dance.

Bring six lively girls!

8 P.

M.

sharp.

SUB ROSA."

For a moment Mamie looked doubtingly into Susan's face.

She would not have chosen her for one of the "lively girls;" but, now, as Susan knew something was going on, perhaps it would be best to ask her, if--Mamie had conscience enough to dally with this _if_ for a moment; perhaps she might have longer, if there had been time, but as it was now half-past seven, and the time was "eight sharp," and the girls were to be chosen and notified, there was not a moment for parleying, even with so respectable a thing as her conscience, so she showed Susan the note.

"Oh, dear!

that's too bad!"

said Susan, as she finished reading it.

"Jerry is here, and he won't go away before eight.

What can I do?

it would be just splendid!"

And the tears actually came into her eyes.

"That's a pity!"

and Mamie, more relieved than sorry, tried to look regretful.

"But don't you tell.

Promise me, Susan Downer, let come what may, you won't tell."

"I'm no tell-tale, Mamie Smythe, and I'll thank you not even to hint at such a thing.

You'll all get expelled, as like as not, and, come to think of it, I'm real glad I'm not to go with you."

Before her sentence was finished, Mamie had flown out of the room, and wild with delight over the "fun" before her, she rapidly made her choice among the girls, not giving them time for consideration, but hurrying them with all speed into their best clothes.

They crept out, one by one, through different ways.

Myra Peters jumped from a window when she heard Miss Palmer's door open, sure that otherwise she would be found.

That her dress caught, that for a moment she hung between the moonlit sky and a deep snow-bank, seemed to her of no consequence, so she could escape.

She left a bit of her best dress hanging on a hook, but this she did not know until afterwards.

The girls met in the street, near the large front gate, where a tall Norway spruce hid them entirely from the front windows of the academy.

Certainly they were not a merry group when they came together.

All they had to say to each other was in hushed and frightened tones the peril of their escape.

When they reached the corner of Bond and Centre Streets there stood the sleigh!

How tempting it looked with its warm fur robes, its four gayly caparisoned horses, its driver, slapping his hands together to keep them warm, and the boys coming to meet them with such a merry welcome!

Did they forget there was such a thing as consequences?

Who can tell?

We would not if we could describe any further the occurrences of the evening.

It was past twelve when the six girls, tired, frightened, locked out of the house by every door, found themselves--sleigh, horses, bells, boys, all gone--shivering under the back balcony, as forlorn a set of beings as the calm moon shone upon.

It was not for some time that Myra Peters remembered the window out of which she had clambered.

If that were unlocked here might be an entrance that at this time of night would be wholly unobserved.

"But if it is?"

asked the most frightened of the girls.

"Julia Abbey, you are always croaking," scolded shaking Mamie Smythe.

"The next time I ask you to go anywhere, I shall know it!"

"I--I hope you never will; it--it don't pay," sobbed Julia.

One of the girls had tried the window, found it still unlocked, and had partly raised it.

Now the question was, who would be the first one to go in?

It was Mamie Smythe who felt the responsibility of the ride, and therefore the necessity of putting on a brave face, and taking whatever consequences followed.

"I'll go, girls," she said.

"Some of you lift me."

Mamie was small and light; it was not a difficult thing to do, as she clung to the window-sill, and in a moment she had disappeared.

Then her head came out of the window.

"All right, girls," she said in a whisper.

"Come quickly, and as soon as you are in go softly right to your rooms.

It's still as a mouse here."

Now there was a pushing among the girls, not who should venture as before, but who might go.

They were too cold and alarmed not to be selfish, and their struggle for precedence delayed them, until Mamie impatiently called the one to come by name.

In this way, one after another safely entered, crept to their rooms unheard and unseen, leaving the tell-tale bit of dress hanging on the hook, and forgetting to fasten the window behind them.

If they had been all together in one corridor, their pale faces and poor recitations might, at least, have excited the teachers' suspicion that something was wrong; but, as it was, it only seemed to be an event of not very uncommon occurrence that some one should come into the class poorly prepared.

It now wanted ten days of Thanksgiving.

Only a few of the pupils,--those who had come from Mexico, Texas, Oregon, San Francisco, and other distant places,--but had all their plans made for spending the festival at home; and these, with one exception, were invited away.

The school was on the tiptoe of expectation, when, one morning after prayers, Miss Ashton sent for Susan Downer to come to her room.

This was the first time such a thing had happened to Susan, and if she had been an innocent girl she would have been elated by it; but, alas, we well know that she was not, so it was with much trepidation that she answered the summons.

"Susan," said Miss Ashton kindly, "I am in a good deal of trouble; I thought you might help me.

How long is it since your brother came to see you?"

What a relief to Susan!

Miss Ashton had often inquired about Jerry, and once came into the room to see him, so she answered glibly,-- "Week before last, on Wednesday."

"He came in the evening, I believe."

"Yes, ma'am: it was a beautiful moonlight night, and a party of boys that were taking a sleigh-ride brought him over."

"Did he go back with them?"

"I suppose so," said Susan unhesitatingly.

Jerry had not told her of his possible return in the cars.

"Does your brother know many of the young ladies here?"

"He knows his cousins, of course, and Marion Parke, and some of the girls that happened to come into the parlor when he was here, to whom I introduced him."

"Can you tell me the names of the girls?"

Susan hesitated a moment.

What could Miss Ashton want to know for?

What could Jerry have done to make her suspect him?

All at once the thought of the sleigh-ride flashed upon her, and she colored violently.

He had brought the note for Mamie Smythe.

The girls had gone on the sleigh-ride.

She had heard the whole story from them on their return.

Miss Ashton watched the color come and go; then she said quietly,-- "The names of the girls to whom you have introduced him, please."

Now, it so happened that these girls were not among the sleighing-party, and after a moment's hesitation Susan named them.

"Thank you," Miss Ashton said pleasantly.

"That is all now."

"All now, _now_," repeated Susan to herself, as she went back to her room.

"Is there anything more to come by and by I wonder?"

Miss Drake, Susan's teacher in logic, found her a very absent-minded pupil during the next recitation, and gave her the lowest mark for the poorest lesson of the term.

In truth, the more Susan thought the matter over, the more troubled she became.

Miss Ashton never would have asked those questions without a particular purpose.

That she had no suspicions about "Storied West Rock" was plain, for not a question tended that way, but all toward the sleigh-ride; for the first time since it had taken place Susan felt glad that she had not gone.

She attached little importance to the giving of the note to Mamie Smythe.

How was she to know its contents?

She was not in the habit of opening other people's notes.

To be sure, her conscience told her, she did know them, and, besides, that troublesome old adage would keep coming back to her, "The partaker is as bad as the thief."

Should Miss Ashton put the question point-blank to her, "Susan Downer, did, or did you not, know of the sleigh-ride?"

What should she answer?

To say she did, would be to bring not only herself, but all the other girls into trouble, perhaps to be the means of their being expelled.

To say she knew nothing about it would be to tell a _lie_.

Susan dealt plainly enough with herself now, not even to cover it with the more respectable name of falsehood, and it was so hard to escape Miss Ashton if she were once on the track; she _would_ find out, and if she did not expel her too, she would never respect her again.

It must be acknowledged, Susan's was a hard place; but she is not the first, and will by no means be the last, to learn that the way of the transgressor is often very, very hard.

"I don't care," was Susan's conclusion, after some hours of painful thought.

"Thanksgiving is most here, and she'll forget it before we come back."

CHAPTER XIX.