The little teacher’s withered cheek flushed and her bright little eyes clouded. By the way one of her hands fluttered over her heart, too, Ruth knew that Miss Picolet was easily frightened.
“A letter for me?” she whispered.
Ruth was unbuttoning her coat and frock to get at the letter. She said:
“There was an orchestra on that boat that was frozen into the ice, Miss Picolet. One of the musicians spoke to me. He knew you—or said he did—”
The girl hated to go on, Miss Picolet turned so pale and looked so frightened. But it had to be done, and Ruth pursued her story:
“I had seen the man before—the day we came to school here, Helen and I. He played the harp on the Lanawaxa.”
“Ah!” gasped the French woman, holding out her hand. “No more, my dear! I understand. Let me have it.”
But now Ruth hesitated and stammered, and felt in the bosom of her dress with growing fear. She looked at Miss Picolet, her own face paling.
“Oh, Miss Picolet!” she suddenly burst out. “What will you think? What can I say?”
“What—what is the matter?” gasped the French teacher.
“I—I haven’t got it—it is gone!”
“What do you mean, Ruth Fielding?” cried Miss Picolet, springing to her feet.
“It’s gone—I’ve lost it! Oh, my dear Miss Picolet! I didn’t mean to. I tried to be so careful. But I have lost the letter he gave me addressed to you!”
CHAPTER XXIV
“WHO IS THE TATTLE-TALE?”
The next day the whole school were at their books again—the short Thanksgiving recess was ended. It had been just a breathing space for the girls who really were anxious to stand well in their classes at Briarwood Hall. Those who—like some of the Upedes—desired nothing so much as “fun,” complained because the vacation had been so short, and dawdled over their books again.
But there was no dawdling in Duet Two, West Dormitory. Had Helen been inclined to lapse occasionally, or Ruth sunk under the worriment of mind which had borne her down since the day of the skating party on Triton Lake, Mercy Curtis kept the two chums to the mark.
“No shirking, you young ones!” commanded the crippled girl, in her sharp way. “Remember the hare would have won the race easily if he hadn’t laid down to nap beside the course. Come! some tortoise will beat you in French and Latin yet, Helen, if you don’t keep to work. And go to work at that English composition, Ruthie Remissness! You’d both be as lazy as Ludlum’s dog if it wasn’t for me.”
And so she kept them up to the work, and kept herself up, too. There wasn’t much time for larking now, if one wished to stand well at the end of the term. The teachers watched for shirkers more closely, too. Even Mary Cox and her friends next door showed some signs of industry.
“Although it does seem as though we were always being worked to death,” groaned Heavy, one day, to Ruth. “I feel as though my constitution was actually breaking down under the strain. I’ve written to my father that if he wants to see even a shadow of my former self at Christmas, he had better tell Mrs. Tellingham not to force me so!”
She sighed breezily and looked so hard at the piece of cocoanut pie beside Ruth’s plate (having eaten her own piece already) that Ruth laughed and pushed it toward her.
“Have it if you like, Heavy,” she said. “I am not very hungry.”
“Well, there isn’t quite so much of you to nourish, my dear,” declared Jennie Stone, more briskly. “I really do feel the need of an extra piece. Thank you, Ruth! You’re a good little thing.”
“Miss Picolet will see you, Ruth,” whispered Helen, on her other side. “She is disgusted with Heavy’s piggishness. But Miss Picolet, after all, won’t say anything to you. You are her pet.”
“Don’t say that, Helen,” replied Ruth, with some sadness. “I am sorry for Miss Picolet.”
“I don’t see why you need be. She seems to get along very well,” returned her chum.
But Ruth could not forget how the little French teacher had looked—how frightened she was and how tearful—the afternoon when Ruth had told her of the incident aboard the Minnetonka, and of her loss of the mysterious letter sent by the harpist. The little French woman had begged her not to blame herself for the loss of the letter; she had only begged her to say nothing to a soul about either the man or the letter. And Ruth had kept the secret.
Nearly a fortnight had passed since the occurrence, and it lacked not many days to the close of the term, when one evening, after a meeting of the S. B.’s in their usual room over the dining hall, Ruth had been delayed a bit and was hurrying out alone so as not to be caught out of the dormitory after warning bell, when old Tony Foyle hailed her.
“I was a-goin’ to the West Dormitory to ax Miss Scrimp for to call ye, Miss Ruthie,” said the old Irishman, who—like most of the help about the school—was fond of the girl from the Red Mill. “Ye’re wanted, Miss.”
“Wanted?” asked Ruth, in surprise. “Who by?”
“The Missus wants ye—Missus Tellingham. Ye’re ter go straight to her study, so ye are.”
Much disturbed—for she feared there might be bad news from home—Ruth ran to the main building and knocked on Mrs. Tellingham’s door. At her pleasantly spoken “Come in!” the girl entered and found the Preceptress at her desk, while the old doctor, quite as blind and deaf to everything but his own work as usual, was bent over his papers at the end of the long table. But at this hour, and in the privacy of the place, he had cocked the brown wig over one ear in the most comical way, displaying a perfectly bald, shiny patch of pate which made his naturally high forehead look fairly enormous.
“Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Fielding,” said Mrs. Tellingham, instantly reading aright what she saw in Ruth’s countenance. “You need not be disturbed. For I really do not believe you are at fault in this matter which has been brought to my notice.”
“No, Mrs. Tellingham?” asked Ruth, curiously.
“I have only a question to ask you. Have you lost something—something that might have been entrusted to you for another person? Some letter, for instance?”
The color flashed into Ruth’s face. She was always thinking about the note the harpist had given to her on the steamboat to take to Miss Picolet. She could not hide her trouble from the sharp eyes of Mrs. Tellingham.
“You have lost something?”
“I don’t know whether I should tell you. I don’t know that I have a right to tell you,” Ruth stammered.
Mrs. Tellingham looked at her sharply for a minute or so, and then nodded. Then she said:
“I understand. You have been put on your honor not to tell?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tellingham. It is not my secret.”
“But there is a letter to be recovered?”
“Ye-es.”
“Is this it?” asked Mrs. Tellingham, suddenly thrusting under Ruth’s eye a very much soiled and crumpled envelope. And it had been unsealed, Ruth could see. The superscription was to “Mademoiselle Picolet.”
“It—it looks like it,” Ruth whispered. “But it was sealed when I had it.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Mrs. Tellingham, with a shake of her head. “But the letter was given to me first, and then the envelope. The—the person who claims to have found it when you dropped it, declared it to be open then.”
“Oh, I do not think so!” cried Ruth.
“Well. Enough that I know its contents. You do not?”
“Indeed, no, Mrs. Tellingham. I may have done wrong to agree to deliver the letter. But I—I was so sorry for her—”
“I understand. I do not blame you in the least, child,” said Mrs. Tellingham, shortly. “This letter states that the writer expects more money from our Miss Picolet—poor thing! It states that if the money is not forthcoming to an address he gives her before to-day—to-day, mind you, is the
date—he will come here for it. It is, in short, a threat to make trouble for Miss Picolet. And the person finding this letter when you dropped it has deliberately, I believe, retained it until today before bringing it to me, for the express purpose of letting the scoundrel come here and disturb Miss Picolet’s peace of mind.”
“Oh, how mean!” gasped Ruth, involuntarily.
“Mean indeed, Ruth,” said the Preceptress, gravely. “And you have yourself experienced some ill-usage from the person who has played spy and informer in this matter, since you have come to Briarwood Hall. I understand—you know that little can go on about the school that does not reach my ears in one way or another—that this same person has called you a ‘tattle-tale’ and tried to make your friends among the girls believe that you played traitor to them on a certain occasion. I have told Miss Cox exactly what I think of her action in this case,” and she tapped the letter before her. “She has shown plainly,” said Mrs. Tellingham, with sternness, “that she is a most sly and mean-spirited girl. I am sorry that one of the young ladies of Briarwood Hall is possessed of so contemptible a disposition.”
CHAPTER XXV
GETTING ON
It was a frosty night and snow lay smoothly upon the campus. Only the walks and the cemented place about the fountain were cleaned. Tony Foyle had made his last rounds and put out the lights; but although there was no moon the starlight on the snow made the campus silvery in spots. But the leafless trees, and the buildings about the open space, cast deep shadows.
There was a light shining in a study window of the West Dormitory and that light was in the room occupied by the Triumvirate—Ruth Fielding, Helen Cameron and Mercy Curtis. The two latter were abed, but awake and wondering why Ruth had not returned, and what Miss Scrimp had meant by coming to the door and telling them to leave the light burning.
The clocks had long since struck eleven and it was close to midnight. The night was still, for there was no wind. It was possible that very few of either the scholars, teachers, or servants at Briarwood were awake. But almost directly under the light in the Triumvirate’s room another light burned—in the study of the French teacher. She seldom retired early; that is one reason why those girls who considered Miss Picolet their enemy believed she was always on the watch.
Three figures came out of the basement door under the tower of Briarwood Hall—a lady much bundled up, a girl ditto, and the old Irishman, Tony Foyle.
“Sure, ma’am, jest as I told ye this afternoon, the big felly that sassed me last fall, tryin’ ter git in ter play his harp, and with his other vagabonds, was hanging around again to-day. I hear him an’ his rapscallion companions is in Lumberton. They’ve been playing about here and there, for a month back. And now I see him comin’ along with his harp on his back—bad ’cess to him! P’raps they’re walkin’ across to Sivin Oaks, an’ are takin’ in Briarwood as a ‘cross-cut’.”
“Hush!” whispered the Preceptress. “Isn’t that somebody over yonder—by the fountain?”
They were all three silent, keeping close in the shadow. Some object did seem to be moving in the shadow of the fountain. Suddenly there sounded on the still night air the reverberating note of a harp—a crash of sound following the flourish of a practised hand across the wires.
“Bless us and save us!” muttered Tony. “’Tis the marble harp. ’Tis a banshee playin’.”
“Be still!” commanded Mrs. Tellingham. “It is nothing of the kind, you very well know, Tony. Ah!”
She had looked instantly toward the illuminated window of the French teacher’s study at the other side of the campus. The shade had snapped up to the top of the casement, and the shadow of Miss Picolet appeared. The French teacher had heard the voice of the harp.
“Oh, poor little thing,” murmured Mrs. Tellingham. “This seems like spying and eavesdropping, Ruth Fielding; but I mean to stop this thing right here and now. She shall not be frightened out of her wits by this villain.”
They heard no further sound from the harp at the fountain. But the door of the West Dormitory opened and the little figure of Miss Picolet appeared, wrapped in some long, loose garment, and she sped down toward the fountain. Soon she was out of sight behind the marble statue.
“Come!” breathed the Preceptress.
They heard Miss Picolet and the man chattering in their own language—the man threatening, the woman pleading—when the trio got to the fountain. Ruth was a poor French scholar, but of course Mrs. Tellingham understood what they said. And the Preceptress glided around the fountain and confronted the harpist with a suddenness that quite startled him.
“You, sir!” exclaimed the lady, coldly. “I have heard enough of this. Don’t be frightened, Miss Picolet. I only blame you for not coming to me. I have long known your circumstances, and the fact that you are poor, and that you have an imbecile sister to support, and that this man is your disreputable half-brother. And that he threatens to hang about here and make you lose your position unless you pay him to be good, is well known to me, too.
“We will have no more of this fellow’s threats,” continued Mrs. Tellingham, sternly. “You will give him none of your hard-earned money, Miss Picolet. Tony, here, shall see him off the grounds, and if he ever appears here again, or troubles you, let me know and I shall send him to jail for trespass. Now, remember—you Jean Picolet! I have your record and the police at Lumberton shall have it, too, if you ever trouble your sister again.”
“Ah-ha!” snarled the big man, looking evilly at Ruth. “So the little Mademoiselle betrayed me; did she?”
“She has had nothing to do with it—save to have had the misfortune of losing the letter you gave her to deliver to Miss Picolet,” Mrs. Tellingham said, briefly. “I had her here to identify you, had Miss Picolet not come out to meet you. Now, Tony!”
And big as the harpist was, and little as the old Irishman seemed, there was that in Tony Foyle’s eye that made the man pick up his harp in a hurry and make his way from the campus.
“Child! go in to bed,” said Mrs. Tellingham. “Not a word of this, remember. Thank goodness, you are one girl who can keep a secret. Miss Picolet, I want to see you in my study. I hope that, hereafter, you will give me your confidence. For you need fear no dismissal from the school over such a misfortune as is visited upon you.”
She took the sobbing, trembling French teacher away with her while Ruth ran up to Duet Two in the West Dormitory, in a much excited state of mind.
Fortunately both Helen and Mercy had dropped to sleep and none of the other girls seemed to have heard the harp at midnight. So there was no talk this time about the Ghost of the Campus. To the other girls at Briarwood, the mystery remained unsolved, and the legend of the marble harp was told again and again to the Infants who came to the school, with the added point that, on the night Ruth Fielding and Helen Cameron had come to the hall, the marble harp was again heard to sound its ghostly note.
No thought of such foolish, old-wives’ fables troubled Ruth Fielding’s dreams as she lay down on this night which had seen the complete exposure of the campus mystery and the laying of the campus ghost. She dreamed, instead, of completing her first term at Briarwood with satisfaction to herself and her teachers—which she did! She dreamed of returning to the old Red Mill and being joyfully received by Aunt Alviry and Uncle Jabez—which she did! She dreamed, too, of joining Helen Cameron and her mid-winter party at Snow Camp and enjoying quantities of fun and frolic in the wintry woods; which, likewise, came true, and which adventures will be related in good time In the next volume of this series: “Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp; Or, Lost in the Backwoods.”
“I am so glad it is over!” said Ruth to herself, as she retired. “I hope there is no more trouble.”
And here let us for the time being say good bye to Ruth Fielding and her chums of Briarwood Hall.
PENNY ALLEN AND THE MYSTERY OF THE HIDDEN TREASURE, by Jean McKechnie
CHAPTER 1
A NEW ADVENTURE
A warm June breeze was blowing in from Lake Superior. It caught a strand of Penny Allen’s blonde hair and blew it across her dark blue eyes.
Penny was out in the clearing behind the Lodge hanging blankets on the line. “Help,” she called to her brother, Philip, who was working nearby. “Help, I can’t see what I’m doing, and my arms are full of blankets.”
Philip, his clear, blue-gray eyes sparkling with laughter, hurried to the rescue. He extricated Penny from the mound of blankets she was carrying and helped her hang them on the line.
As they worked together, fighting the capricious breeze that threatened every minute to blow the blankets away, Penny said excitedly:
“I can’t believe it, Phil. We’re practically ready to open the Lodge for guests!”
“Well, not quite,” Philip said soberly. He was twenty, a year older than Penny, and usually wore a rather serious air. This was partly due to his responsibilities as the head of the Allen family.
Their Uncle John Allen had died suddenly a year ago leaving the four orphans, Penny, Philip, Jimmy and Marjorie, to shift for themselves. He had left the Lodge to Philip and a beautiful yacht, the Penny Allen, to Penny.
Recently, Philip had decided to turn his inheritance into a business venture. The lovely house, situated in the Michigan woods near Lake Superior, would make an ideal summer hotel. Ever since the first of June they had all been busy helping to get it ready for many of their old friends who planned to spend the summer there.
“Don’t look so serious, Phil,” Penny cried. “We are just about ready.”
Philip’s eyes, under their straight, dark eyebrows, were thoughtful. “We’re not even organized yet, Penny,” he said. “The winter just seemed to go like lightning.” A quick smile dispelled his seriousness. “I guess we spent too much of the holidays enjoying the winter sports.”
“Pooh,” Penny said impulsively. “We were all together and we had fun. We deserved that.”
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