Chapter 9

WOODFORD

"Now, Carita, tell me all of it--everything you heard. Come on, I think I ought to know."

Blue Bonnet and Carita had been interrupted in the packing of their suitcases for a week-end at Woodford, by Annabel Jackson, who had stepped in Blue Bonnet's room to return a dress. Her presence had caused Carita to let slip a bit of gossip prevalent in the school.

Carita squeezed a waist into the last bit of space her suitcase afforded, and turned to Blue Bonnet.

"Oh, what do you ask me for, Blue Bonnet? I don't like to tell you--really I don't! What's the use? Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't dropped that hint. I didn't mean to--it just slipped out."

"Go on. Tell me."

Carita sighed deeply.

"It's just gossip. Like enough there isn't a word of truth in it."

"Never mind. Tell me."

"All right, then: Mary Boyd says that Annabel Jackson is a perfect little toady--that she always finds out if a girl has money and nice clothes and things, before she has anything to do with her. She says Annabel has found out that you have a great deal of money, and that's one reason she's so nice to you."

"But I haven't a great deal of money--not to spend here, anyway. I haven't any bigger allowance than Annabel has--or Sue, for that matter!"

"Yes, but it's got out about your ranch; that you have a lot coming to you some day--and--and that you brought me here--that you're paying my way--"

Blue Bonnet turned sharply.

"Who told that? That's my business and Uncle Cliff's--entirely!"

"You said something about being responsible for me when I was sick. I reckon the girls put two and two together and started the story. I can't think how else it got out."

Blue Bonnet put her arms round Carita and gave her a swift hug.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Carita. It must make you feel--horrid!"

"Not a bit," Carita answered cheerfully. "Everybody knows that a poor clergyman's daughter would never get in a school like this without some help. It was splendid of you to do it. I don't mind any one's knowing. Honestly I don't, Blue Bonnet. Don't be angry."

Blue Bonnet sat down limply in a chair and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, Blue Bonnet! Why did you make me tell you? I knew it would only make you unhappy. What difference does it make, anyway?"

"Just this difference: I like Annabel--for herself--and she likes me for what I've got. I suppose that's the way _all_ those girls feel--Sue and Wee, and Ruth--"

Carita was down at Blue Bonnet's side in an instant, her arms about her.

"You know that isn't true, Blue Bonnet. Everybody loves you for yourself. Why, I have the loveliest 'trade last' for you, right this minute. I'll give it to you now, and you can save mine till you hear it. Mary Boyd says--"

Blue Bonnet shrank away, and shook her head.

"Never mind," she said, "it isn't compliments I want. It's friends!"

"Well, you've got 'em--loads! Look at the We Are Sevens! They perfectly adore you. Now, don't they?"

"Well, I reckon they like me," Blue Bonnet acknowledged, and her face brightened.

"I shouldn't have told you all this, Blue Bonnet, only you made me. I wouldn't have dropped the hint about Annabel, only I think she's so awful nervy about wearing your clothes. Why, your Peter Tom's a sight--and that yellow dress--"

"Oh, I don't care about the clothes, Carita. Uncle Cliff will get me some more. Annabel hasn't hurt them any. The Peter Tom will clean. You know how white wool soils, yourself."

Indeed there was no excuse that Blue Bonnet would not have made for Annabel. She had grown very fond of the little Southern girl in the five weeks past. Annabel had a way of ingratiating herself into the affections of her associates. She had the charm that is an inheritance of the South; the musical softness of speech, the daintiness of person, the warmth of heart; and--although Blue Bonnet had it yet to learn--a genius for friendship.

In Annabel Jackson's veins flowed the bluest of Southern blood. Her grandfather--the old General, known throughout the length and breadth of Tennessee--was an aristocrat of the old school. He boasted of an ancestry that defied criticism. Annabel was not a snob--but she was a sybarite; she loved the soft things of life, the luxuries, the pleasures: she turned toward them as naturally as a flower turns to the sun. This tendency had earned for her the reputation of "toady" by those who did not understand her, or were inclined to judge from the surface. She gave--was in a position to give--- as much as she got, always, and her affections were sincere and lasting.

Blue Bonnet finished packing her suitcase.

"Well, I'm not going to worry over what Mary says," she announced after a few minutes' deliberation. "I think Mary is apt to take snap judgment. She put me on the wrong track altogether about Doctor Giles. She said he was a regular old fogy--too slow for words, and--why, he's a man with a big reputation--Cousin Tracy's own doctor."

"Mary is a dear, though," Carita said loyally. "She's apt to be a little opinionated, maybe. Peggy Austin thinks she is--though Peggy dotes on her."

"Most smart people are," Blue Bonnet admitted. "Mary is as sharp as tacks. We've just three-quarters of an hour to get the train. I wonder if Mrs. White is ready to take us to the station."

* * * * *

A thick glittering mantle of snow lay over Woodford. Blue Bonnet had never before arrived in the winter, and the snow was not as inviting as the green hills and leafy swaying elms of the early autumn; but the sight of old Denham, with Solomon at his heels, put aside all thought of gloom.

Denham was pacing up and down the platform swinging his arms back and forth briskly to ward off the cold. Solomon paced with him, alert and expectant.

Miss Clyde had not ventured to the station because of the cold; but she and Grandmother were at the parlor window when the carriage drove up, watching for the visitors.

It was, as always, a happy home-coming. There was no gloom inside the stately old house. Cheerful fires blazed on the hearths, the little brass kettle steamed and sang on the tea-table, and Grandmother's eyes shone with joy. She held Blue Bonnet in a close embrace, while she scanned her face for any change that five weeks might have brought there.

"Why, how well you look, dear," she said, turning her to the light. "How very well! You are as plump as can be. You have rounded out wonderfully."

Blue Bonnet laughed and patted her Grandmother's cheek affectionately.

"Yes, that's the only difficulty, Grandmother. Boarding-school has a tendency to round people out--too much! I wish you could see Wee Watts--one of the girls. She's huge! Poor Wee, she hates it so."

Mrs. Clyde was small and thin, and she never could understand why any one objected to being stout. In her eyes flesh was becoming.

Nor was Carita forgotten. She shared with Blue Bonnet in Grandmother's caresses and attention. Mrs. Clyde's warm heart went out to the slender, pale young girl, so far from her own relatives and friends.

Miss Clyde was busy serving tea, but she cast covert glances in Blue Bonnet's direction. There was something beside the "rounding out" that interested her. There was a different air, a decided improvement in her niece. What was it? Not poise--yet! It was too soon to expect that.

Blue Bonnet and Carita chatted as they drank their tea.

Miss Clyde listened attentively. Yes, there _was_ a change. Blue Bonnet was growing up. But what made such a difference? Suddenly she knew! It was Blue Bonnet's hair. It was put up.

"How long have you been putting up your hair, Blue Bonnet?" she asked.

Blue Bonnet started and colored.

"Not so very long, Aunt Lucinda. The girls made so much fun of hair-ribbons--the girls I go with. They thought I was much too old to wear them, and after I took them off, it was so hard to go back to them again. Don't you like it this way? The girls liked it parted. They said--they seemed to think my nose suited it."

Aunt Lucinda could not resist a smile. She hesitated before she spoke--she was eminently truthful. Much as she disliked the idea of Blue Bonnet's putting up her hair, she could not deny the becomingness of it.

"It's very pretty," she said slowly. "I don't think you need to cover your ears so completely, do you? The style is too old for you, though. You look--much older."

Blue Bonnet drew a sigh of relief. This was so mild to what she had expected. She glanced in Grandmother's direction.

There was a far-away expression in Mrs. Clyde's eyes, as if she were looking beyond Blue Bonnet--back into the shadowy past. She was: Blue Bonnet with her brown hair coiled low, curling about her neck and brow, was her mother over again--a perfect replica.

Miss Clyde noticed it, also, and when Blue Bonnet and Carita went up-stairs she spoke of it.

"How Blue Bonnet grows to resemble her mother. Do you remember, Elizabeth wore her hair that way when she first began putting it up? The child grows to be more of a Clyde every day."

"We're going out to see Chula," Blue Bonnet announced, coming back after she had put her things away.

"Chula? Why, dear, didn't Aunt Lucinda write you that Chula is out at pasture? She was eating her head off in the barn, and with no one to exercise her--"

Blue Bonnet looked disappointed.

"Of course," she said, "she must have just gorged. I can quite fancy; but I did want to see her."

She laid the apples she had begged from Katie on the tea-table.

"Suppose you take Solomon for a run over to the General's," Mrs. Clyde suggested. "Alec is at home. You must make the best of your visit; he is leaving on Monday."

"Where's he going?"

"To Washington, to school. He prepares there for West Point. He has a trying period before him, and much hard work. Be sure to put on rubbers and big coats. It is very cold to-day."

Blue Bonnet and Carita were off in a trice.

Alec met them at the stile.

"Was just coming over to see you," he said, shaking hands.

"All right. We'll go back."

"No, come along. Grandfather is expecting this visit."

The General was comfortably ensconced before the fire. He greeted the girls with real delight. Blue Bonnet was one of his special favorites.

It was dinner-time before Blue Bonnet had finished with half her news of school, and she seemed surprised when she looked at her watch.

"Oh, my, we must run," she said, flying out the door and pulling Carita after her. "Aunt Lucinda will be serving dinner. Come over, Alec--to-night if you can."

"Perhaps," he called after her. "I'm up to my ears in work just now. Preparing for the Point's no joke, you know."

Aunt Lucinda was serving dinner, and the girls scrambled into their places hastily.

"I wish we could see the We Are Sevens to-night," Blue Bonnet said as she began the meal. "It seems like a year since I last saw them. Sometimes I can hardly remember how they look."

"You will have plenty of time to refresh your memory," Miss Clyde promised. "They have planned for every hour of your visit--almost."

After dinner there was a cosy chat around the fire. There was so much that Aunt Lucinda and Grandmother wanted to know about the school, and so much to tell.

About eight o'clock there was a terrific pull at the door bell--then another--and still another!

Blue Bonnet looked startled. Then she jumped up from her chair.

"It's the We Are Sevens," she said. "I know it is! I'll go."

She opened the door to admit--not only the We Are Sevens, but a number of the We Are Sevens' friends, boys, mostly--Alec in the lead.

"Oh, it's a party! A surprise party! Come quick, Carita."

There was a great stamping of snow from many pairs of feet, glad greetings of welcome, mingled with shouts of laughter. The old house rang with merriment.

Mrs. Clyde and her daughter did not act as if they were greatly surprised. Indeed they had been taken into the secret some days before. So had Katie, who at that moment was preparing all sorts of good things in the kitchen, to be served the young people later.

Blue Bonnet gave each of the We Are Sevens an extra hug, and looked into their faces long and eagerly.

"Why, you haven't changed a bit!" she remarked.

One might have thought the separation had covered five years, rather than five weeks.

"But you have, Blue Bonnet--lots! What is it?" Kitty asked.

"It's her hair," Debby discovered. "She's put it up! And her dresses are longer, too."

There was a general inspection, during which the boys looked on disinterestedly.

The evening passed like a dream to Blue Bonnet. It was so good to be at home again, among one's friends; people who loved you for yourself.

"Haven't we had a heavenly time to-night, Carita," Blue Bonnet asked between yawns, after they had retired. "Didn't Kitty Clark look pretty? I'm going to get after her hair to-morrow and do it like mine. Won't it be sweet? She has such loads."

By noon the next day, each of the We Are Sevens were wearing their locks parted, and coiled in a knot--regardless of the adaptability of noses.

Saturday was quite as busy as Friday had been. There was another gathering at Alec's in the evening; a farewell party, for very soon Woodford was to know Alec no more.

The General seemed a bit sad as he watched the young people in their frolics. He was facing a long separation from his grandson: the old home was going to be very lonely without him. Many times he had wished that Boyd Trent's record would permit of his bringing _him_ back again, but fresh grievances had followed in Boyd's wake, and reports of him were disappointing in the extreme. And yet the General was happy--very happy. Alec's health had been restored, and he had his appointment; two things for which the General was devoutly thankful.

Sunday there was the service in the little church. Blue Bonnet did not have to be urged to go as on that first occasion. She and Carita were dressed and waiting when Denham drove round, exactly at a quarter before eleven, as he had been in the habit of doing for almost a quarter of a century.

"That was a very nice sermon," Blue Bonnet remarked on the way home. "I think Doctor Blake is growing. Don't you, Aunt Lucinda?"

Miss Clyde smiled.

"Or Blue Bonnet is," she said quickly.

"Perhaps that is it, Aunt Lucinda. Anyway he's more interesting."

* * * * *

It was five o'clock on the Friday afternoon that Blue Bonnet and Carita had left for Woodford, that Joy Cross entered the room which she and Blue Bonnet occupied jointly. She glanced about, a look closely akin to joy lighting her plain features. Joy Cross was a recluse by nature, and the thought of having the room solely to herself for three days gave her infinite pleasure.

She laid an armful of books on the table by the window, then drew up a comfortable chair and sat for awhile looking out into the gathering twilight. The pleased expression which she had worn when she entered the room gradually died from her face, and in its place came one of discontent.

Between Blue Bonnet Ashe and Joy Cross there was no love lost. They disliked each other with the utmost cordiality. Blue Bonnet disliked Joy on general principles--possibly because she could not approach her, understand her; and Joy disliked Blue Bonnet because Blue Bonnet stood for everything that she herself wanted to stand for, and couldn't.

This evening as she sat looking out into the dusk, her figure, usually so apathetic and lifeless, took on an animated line, and stiffened into something that suggested a smothered, half-dead temperament breathing into life. She took her arms from the back of her neck, where they had been supporting her head, and digging her elbows into her knees made a place for her chin to rest in the palms of her hands. She sat this way for a long time, thinking, and her thoughts, for the most part, were occupied with her room-mate.

She wished she could get rid of her--be alone. She was tired of the running in of the girls who had taken Blue Bonnet up; their incessant gabble; their whispered conversations during the visiting hour. To be sure, Blue Bonnet had tried, time and time again, to draw her into these conversations, but she had no desire to be drawn in. She hated Annabel Jackson--the little snob--and Ruth Biddle's impertinences were beyond endurance. These girls had snubbed her since her entrance as a Sophomore, three years before, leaving her out of their festivities,--ignoring, scorning her, just as on the other hand they had taken up this new room-mate, deluging her with devotion, showering their gifts and attentions upon her.

Joy Cross was a scholar--so reputed, and justly; but one of life's most important lessons had passed her by. She had never learned that to receive, one must give; to be loved, one must love; to attain, one must reach out. It never occurred to her to weigh her own shortcomings and throw them into the balance with those of her enemies. She spent no time in introspection, self examination. She set a high standard on her own virtues, and, like most persons of this character, was oblivious to her faults.

Her three years in the school had been marked by no serious difficulties. She had been able to hide most of the unpleasant things in her nature, by her very aloofness. She had no close friends. She was judged by her work, her attention to duty, her obedience to rules; all of which were apparently beyond criticism. Her teachers, though they respected her, never grew fond of her. She led her classes through assiduous application, rather than brilliancy of mind.

She was an omnivorous reader. The only rule she ever thought of breaking, was to rise in the dead of night, when the house was still, and taking a secreted candle, lock herself in the bathroom--which had an outside window to give back no tell-tale reflection--and read until the dawn.

She changed her position after awhile, and getting up went to the door and locked it, listening for footsteps down the hall. None passed, evidently, for she went over to her bed and turning back the mattress brought out a book which had been carefully hidden. Then she drew up the comfortable chair again, placing it by a table which stood near Blue Bonnet's bureau. Adjusting the reading lamp to a proper angle, she was soon lost in the book, the leaves of which she turned with eager haste.

She had been reading but a short time when a knock at the door startled her. Reaching over, she pulled out one of Blue Bonnet's bureau drawers stealthily, and laid the book inside, carefully covering it with some underwear. Then she opened the door.

Miss Martin, assistant to the house-mother, stood outside.

"I began to think you were not here, Miss Cross," she said. "May I come in?"

Joy opened the door.

"I was busy," she answered, dropping her eyes. "I came as quickly as I could."

Miss Martin was not long in making her business known.

"I am inspecting drawers, and I am late to-day. Things seem to have piled up so this week. Shall I begin with yours? It is quite unnecessary; they are always immaculate--but rules are rules."

She smiled pleasantly, and glancing through the drawers found them neat and orderly. She then turned to Blue Bonnet's bureau.

Under the usual pallor of Joy Cross's face a dull red mounted, dying out quickly, leaving it whiter than before.

"Miss Ashe is away, isn't she? Gone home for the week-end. She seems to be an unusually sweet, attractive girl--so unaffected and genuine. You must count yourself very lucky, Miss Cross--Why, what is this?"

She drew from its hiding-place the book that had been placed there only a moment before, and held it closer to the light.

"To whom does this belong, Miss Cross, do you know? I am amazed to find such a book in this room. French literature of this kind is expressly forbidden."

Joy shook her head slowly. Her lips refused to speak.

"You have never seen it before?"

Again the head shook slowly.

"Have you seen Miss Ashe reading it at any time?"

"No, Miss Martin."

"This is her drawer, is it not?"

"Yes--it is her drawer."

Miss Martin finished the inspection of the bureau rather hurriedly, and book in hand, left the room.

Joy went over to the window and stood looking out. The color had come back into her face, but her hand trembled as she put it up to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

She had not really meant to incriminate Blue Bonnet Ashe, but circumstances were against her. It had all happened so quickly--she hadn't had time to think clearly. There had been but one thought in her mind; she, a Senior, could not afford to be found with a book of that character in her possession. It might mean defeat after three years' struggle--struggle to graduate with the highest honor. She had been cheated out of so much in Miss North's school--_that_ should not escape her, now! No, her record must go on, clear to the end.

She took a few steps round the room and then came back to the window. She was frightened. Her heart beat like a trip hammer and her face was hot, burning, as if with fever. She threw the window open and let the cold air fan her face--her hot hands. What should she do? What _could_ she do, without bringing down upon herself the gravest consequences?

A Senior in Miss North's school stood for something--was supposed to stand for _all_ that was honorable, above board. She was trusted, looked up to--privileged. Anything that touched her honor touched the school,--lowered the standard of the class. A Senior stood as an example--a pattern for juniors and younger girls, and she ... well, she had blundered--terribly! If it became known that she was the owner of the book--that she had lied to Miss Martin--

Visions of her father--old, silent, unforgiving--passed before her eyes; her mother--patient, long-suffering--who had made one sacrifice after another to keep her in this school, far beyond her means. The vision of those faces settled Joy's mind--made a coward of her. Her disgrace should not touch them. She would not acknowledge the book, no matter what came! Blue Bonnet Ashe could disclaim any knowledge of it. She was innocent--could prove that she was. If she, herself, kept still, the storm would soon blow over. No one could prove the book was hers. No one had seen it in her possession. She could not explain--now. She had incriminated herself by telling an untruth. A lie, in the eyes of Miss North, was a serious offence, and in a Senior--intolerable--unforgivable--a malicious, willful lie that injured another....

The gong sounded for dinner. Joy hesitated. She hated to meet Miss Martin, at whose table she sat. She thought she would not go to dinner. On second thought she knew she must--that she was in a difficult position and must play the game to the end.

She went into the bathroom and bathed her flushed face in cold water, straightened her tumbled hair, resumed her usual attitude of indifference to the world in general, and going down to the dining-room slipped into her place quietly.