Kitabı oku: «Rilla of the Lighthouse», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE POETRY CONTEST
“Girls, have you heard that Miss Gordon has offered a prize for the best poem written by a student in any of her English literature classes?”
Faith nodded. “I heard, but I haven’t entered. I can’t make two lines rhyme.”
“Nor could I,” Gladys Goodsell said, and laughed over her shoulder at the newcomer, for she was on the hearth rug roasting marshmallows over the fire.
“Who of our clan is going to try for the prize beside myself?” inquired the flushed and excited Joy Kiersey. “Oh, I’d be the happiest, you can’t think how happy, if only I could win it.”
“Why, Joy!” Gladys changed her position that she might divide her attention between the fire and the group of friends. “Why are you so eager to win the prize?”
“Maybe it’s a basket that Joy covets.” This merrily from Faith.
The golden head shook in the negative. “I adore writing poems,” she confessed. “I wrote dozens of them last summer, but, then, the scenery in Colorado and along Lake Tahoe would have inspired a stump to write verse.”
A month had passed since the tennis tournament and Joy’s strength had returned to her almost miraculously, and, to the delight of her friends, she was able to join them in their daily tramps across the snowy fields and she had even suggested a coasting party for the first moonlight night.
Too, she had taken her place in the classes and was going ahead of the others, as she always did when she was strong enough to really study.
Catherine Lambert looked up from the mysterious pink thing upon which she was sewing. “It’s a Christmas gift,” was all that she would tell about it.
In fact, all were sitting about the rose-shaded lamp in Muriel’s room that stormy Friday night, sewing upon gifts equally pretty and mysterious. That is, all except Gladys, their youngest, who said that her fingers were thumbs when it came to sewing, and that she would far rather sit on the rug before the fire and roast marshmallows. One by one she placed the delicious golden puffs upon a warm plate, and when there was a goodly heap of them, she arose, saying: “Put away your sewing, girls, and partake of the refreshments for which I have spent the last nickle I will have until my Christmas money comes.”
“Poor Gladys,” laughed Joy, as she perched upon the arm of the chair in which Muriel was seated. The island girl glanced up with a softening light in her eyes as she felt the caress upon her red-brown hair. How close these two had grown in the last month. Not that Muriel’s love for Faith had lessened; in fact, all of these five girls were very dear to each other, and yet between Joy and Muriel, who were so unlike, there was growing a love the strength of which even they hardly knew. Joy, exquisite, dainty and as jubilant as her name suggested, had been surrounded from babyhood with every luxury, while Muriel had known but the bare necessities.
“Whose names are entered?” Faith asked, as she put her sewing into a dainty workbag and took one of the marshmallows.
Joy counted them off on her fingers. “Dorothy Daggert first and foremost, and, since she is a senior and always wins A-1 in everything that she writes, there will be little hope for any of the rest of us. Four others in the senior class have entered, two in the sophomore, and, girls, what do you think? One of them is Marianne Carnot!”
Faith’s expression registered astonishment. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “Marianne is in my class and she never writes verse, even when we may choose the form for our composition.”
Miss Gordon had entered Muriel’s name as one competing and it was because of this fact, as yet unknown to either Rilla or Joy, that Marianne Carnot had also entered her name.
Miss Gordon looked up brightly one evening a fortnight later when she heard a familiar tap on the door of her little apartment.
“Good evening, Muriel,” she said in response to the greeting from the girl who had entered. “I have some news for you. Can you guess what it is?”
“No, Miss Gordon, unless,” and the hazel eyes were eager, “Uncle Lem is coming for that long-promised visit.”
“Not that,” the older woman smiled. “However, I have a letter from Doctor Winslow and in it he assures us both that just as soon as his duties will permit he shall avail himself of our invitation. The news has something to do with your school work.”
Muriel had taken her usual seat, a low rocker on the side of the fireplace opposite her teacher. Miss Gordon, looking at the truly beautiful face of the girl, and at the soft crown of hair that was like burnished copper in the glow of the firelight, felt more than ever convinced that Muriel had inherited much from that unknown father.
“Am I to be placed in one of the classes?” There was almost dread in the voice that asked the question.
Miss Gordon laughed. “Your expression, dear, is not complimentary to Miss Humphrey, but, truly, Muriel, she is wonderfully kind beneath her nervous, flustery manner, but it isn’t that. I am too selfish to give up teaching you. If you are satisfied with your present tutor, I assure you I am more than pleased with my pupil.”
Tears sprang to the hazel eyes. The girl leaned forward, her expressive face telling more than words could.
“I’ll study that hard and be as little trouble as I can if only you’ll keep me just this year out, Miss Gordon.” Then she inquired: “Now, may I know the news?”
“It is about the poetry contest that I was thinking when you came in. I have been looking over the poems that have entered and although several are good, I believe that your verses, ‘To a Lonely Pelican,’ are best; but, of course, as you know, dear, I am not to be the judge.”
“Who is, Miss Gordon?” Muriel asked.
“An old friend of mine who is Professor of English in Columbia University. The poems are to be sent him unsigned and he will decide which reveals the most talent.”
She was looking over a dozen neatly written contributions to the contest as she spoke. Taking one from among them, the older woman smiled at the girl. “Muriel,” she said, “I am surprised to see how prettily Joy Kiersey can write verse. This plaint of a Washoe Indian maid who yearns for the days when her wigwam home was beside the lake that bears her name, and for the young Indian brave who came to her in a bark canoe across the star-reflecting waters, shows feeling and is artistically done. I believe that it will win second place.”
“Oh, Miss Gordon,” Muriel’s voice was eager, “may I withdraw my poem – if you think it might win?”
The older woman looked up amazed. “Dear,” she said, not understanding this unusual request, “may I know your reason?”
“I want Joy to win. She loves to write verse and she said it would please her dad. He thinks it is wonderful because his daughter is talented. He is so plain, just a business man without a bit of the artist in his nature.”
Miss Gordon had surmised that a very tender love was binding these two girls each day closer and closer and yet she hardly thought it fair to permit Muriel to make the sacrifice. Joy, she knew, would not wish it.
“Has Marianne Carnot entered a poem yet?” the island girl asked.
Miss Gordon’s expression was hard to interpret. “No, and I very much doubt her doing so,” she had just said when there came a tap on the door. Muriel answered the summons. A maid stood there with a rolled manuscript. “It’s for Miss Gordon,” she said. “Mam’selle Carnot asked me to bring it.”
A moment later Miss Gordon looked up from the finely written contribution. “Muriel,” she announced, “you will not need to withdraw your poem, for this is by far the best. It is marked original, and, though I marvel at it, I may not question the honor of a pupil of High Cliffs. A week from today we will know whose poem has been awarded the prize.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MARIANNE WINS THE PRIZE
“I can’t understand it in the least, and what’s more, I don’t believe it’s so.” This from Catherine Lambert, who sat on a low bench buckling her skates.
The tennis courts had been flooded and the shining blue expanse of ice delighted the girls of High Cliffs, who enjoyed outdoor frolics.
“But, Cathy, Miss Gordon herself made the announcement, and who are we to deny it?” Faith remonstrated. “However, as I said before, I never knew Marianne Carnot to write verse and when one is a natural poet, one scribbles in rhyme all of the time.”
Muriel and Joy were skating toward the bench, their faces flushed beneath their jaunty tams.
“That’s fine sport,” Rilla declared as they glided up. “At least I can stand now, thanks to the patience of all of you girls, but I never will be content until I can do the whirls and figure eights as well as Catherine.”
Laughingly Cathy held out her hands. “Come, I’ll give you a lesson!”
But Gladys detained them, saying: “Shall we tell the girls the bad news?”
“Bad news on a day as sparkling as this?” Joy began. Then, as she glanced from one face to another, she exclaimed: “I know what it is! You have heard who has won the poetry contest.”
“Have you really?” This eagerly from Muriel. How she did hope that the prize had been awarded to Joy. But, remembering what Miss Gordon had said, she almost knew the name that she would hear.
“Girls,” Catherine Lambert said emphatically, “I’m just sure that Marianne Carnot is a plagiarist.”
Faith put a warmly gloved hand on the arm of her friend. “That’s a very serious accusation, Cathy. I really do not think that we ought to make it unless we have more evidence than we have at present.”
Catherine whirled about and her dark eyes flashed. “I suppose you’d stand by and see your best friends cheated out of the prize rather than call that snobbish French girl a thief, which she is, of course, if she has copied that poem and presented it as her own.”
“We will have to prove it first, I think,” Faith replied quietly.
But Catherine, who was not at all meek, retorted: “Well, how are we going to prove it? Of course, she is too clever to copy one of Tennyson’s or any other poem with which we are all familiar. Now, I think the way for Miss Gordon to find out the truth of this matter would be to lock Marianne in a classroom and tell her she will have to stay there until she writes another poem of equal merit.”
Gladys laughed. “Poor Marianne! She would be in there for the rest of her natural life, I fear. Genius doesn’t work that way. There was a pupil here two years ago who composed music and said the inspiration came to her at the queerest hours. Once she went to the music room at three o’clock in the morning, and poor Miss Humphrey, who slept just above, was terribly frightened. She thought the music room was haunted. Maybe Marianne is the same way. Maybe she has had the one inspiration of her lifetime.”
The dark eyes of Catherine flashed toward Gladys scornfully. “Since when have you taken to championing Marianne Carnot? Perhaps you would like to be numbered among her friends, and – ”
Gladys flushed and was about to retort when Joy laughingly exclaimed: “What a tempest in a teapot we are trying to brew!” Then, more seriously: “If Marianne wins the prize unfairly, her own heart will punish her. Now I suggest that we all take hands and play cartwheel on the ice until the gong rings.”
Half an hour later, flushed and warm, they were trooping back to the school when little Peggy Paterson ran out to meet them, calling: “Muriel Storm, Miss Widdemere wants you to stop at her office before you go to your room. The mail just came.”
Muriel’s heart leaped. Would there be a letter from Gene?
* * * * * * * *
There were two letters for Muriel bearing foreign postmarks. One of them was addressed in a writing strange to the girl, and she tore it open, almost with dread, but this was quickly changed to joy, for the letter was from her dear Uncle Barney.
The good priest had written it for him, as he did so want Rilly to know that, Heaven willing, he and his old mother would sail for America in the spring.
“It’s lonely I am for a look at me gal, an’ it’s lonely I am for me cabin down by the sea, an’ it’s lonely me cabin has been this long spell, closed there, a-waitin’ for me,” the letter ran.
The sympathetic young priest who had been scribe had written the letter just as the kindly old Irishman had dictated it, and it sounded so like her beloved Uncle Barney that, for a moment, it was hard for Muriel to keep from crying.
“’Twill be a different place that he’ll be findin’,” she thought, “with the lighthouse but a tumbled down heap of rocks and with grandfather gone. Oh, I’m that glad Uncle Barney’s coming. I’ll ask Uncle Lem to take me to Tunkett just as soon as they are back.”
Then Muriel opened the other envelope, which was addressed in a handwriting with which she was familiar, as Gene wrote very often to his “storm maiden.”
“Dear Rilla,” the lad had written, “such an adventure as I have had! At last the dull grey monotony of living in England has ceased, for I have met the most interesting man, and, for some reason unknown to me, he invites my companionship. I really can’t believe that I interest him, for all I do is listen while he talks so wonderfully about everything that is inside books and out. If there is one corner of this earth that he hasn’t visited, I can’t imagine where it is. Oh, yes, Tunkett! I don’t suppose he has ever been there. In fact, it’s such an out-of-the-way place I don’t suppose anybody ever would find it unless he happened to be born there, as Uncle Lem was, and I, of course, went to visit him. Did I hear you inquire, ‘Who is your new friend?’
“Muriel, I suppose I ought to be greatly impressed with the fact that he is a viscount. People over here treat him as though he were made of a very superior kind of clay, my mother among them, but the viscount himself isn’t a bit flattered by the adulation he receives. He calls it ‘tommyrot,’ and whenever there are social functions at the castle (honest Injun, Rilla, that’s what they call the turreted stone pile in which he lives), he retires to his rustic log cabin in the woods, which is so hedged in that strangers could not even guess that it was there unless they happened to stumble on it.
“I wish I could tell you about the man himself and do justice to him, but I simply can’t. He has the most boyish face I ever saw crowned with grey hair. He tells me that he is forty-five years old, but he seems nearer my age than any chap of twenty I ever met.
“The first time I met him he suggested a hike through Scotland. It seemed a good deal of an undertaking, for I wasn’t very strong (just beginning to take short walks), but every day I grew stronger, and what a week it was.
“The Viscount of Wainwater with a pack on his back was not recognized by anyone. The boy in his nature was very much in evidence that week. He sang as we tramped along the deserted highways and sometimes I knew that he was improvising. Then it was that I made a discovery. He is the Waine Waters whose vagabond poems so often appear in American magazines.
“One night we stopped at an out-of-the-way inn. We had been tramping over a snow-covered moor and, as we sat near the great fireplace where peat was burning, he began to scribble and at last he looked up and asked, ‘Shall I read it to you?’ I nodded, and, Muriel, that poem was a gem. It was called ‘The Moor in Winter,’ and told of the quiet trust that is in the heart of all nature, for, although the moor lies covered with snow, it is dreaming of the spring that is to bring back the bird song and the heather.
“I asked Waine (he told me to call him that) for a copy of the poem, and he gave it to me. I had planned sending it to you. I had it a week later when I returned. I took it to the library to show mother, but, finding that Monsieur Carnot and father were there, I turned away. I have never seen it since. I must have dropped it and the maid probably thought it merely a scrap and burned it. I’ll ask Waine for another copy some day, but just now, with his countess mother, he has gone away for a fortnight.
“Isn’t it about time that you were writing a first letter to your brother-friend,
“Gene Beavers.
“P. S. – I have never mentioned you to Waine, but if you are willing, I’d like to show him that copy of ‘The Lonely Pelican’ which Doctor Winslow sent me. Shall I?
“Y. B., F. G.”
Scarcely had Muriel finished reading this letter when Joy burst in with, “Rilla, Miss Gordon has called an assembly for two o’clock this afternoon. We are all so excited, for this is only done on very especial occasions. What do you suppose has happened?”
“I wonder if it has anything to do with the contest?” Faith said softly, as she and Muriel found unoccupied chairs near their three friends, who were already seated.
“My opinion is that Miss Gordon merely wishes to announce the name of the winner of the prize, and as we would not again be assembled until Monday, except in the dining hall and chapel, she has taken this method of bringing us together.” And Joy was right.
Miss Gordon’s smile, as she entered with Miss Humphrey and Miss Widdemere, was so pleasant that it at once quieted the fears of the senior girls that something had gone wrong.
“Although only a small group of you are interested in the poetry contest,” she began, “I wish you all to hear the three poems that have been pronounced best by a most able judge, who is the Professor of English literature at Columbia.
“The first prize has been awarded to Marianne Carnot, the second to Muriel Storm, and the third to Joy Kiersey.”
There was a rustle among the girls, all of whom turned to look at the honored three.
Muriel and Joy were not surprised at the announcement that the winner had been Marianne Carnot, but they had not known that a second and third prize had been offered.
They made no whispered comment, however, as Miss Gordon was again speaking. “I am going to ask the three girls, beginning with Joy, then Muriel, and then Marianne, to come to the platform and read aloud the really excellent poems which they have submitted.”
Faith noticed that the eyes of this kind principal never left the dark, handsome face of the French girl, and she also noticed that Marianne did not look up even when her name was mentioned.
After all, Faith decided, the meeting had a deeper purpose than that for which it had been called.
Joy, with her flower-like face flushed, read the poem, which she really knew by heart, so sympathetically, and the plaint of the Indian maid so appealed to her listeners, that they wondered how the other two poems could be better.
Muriel’s poem, although showing more real talent, was not read as well, and the pupils were still inclined to believe that Joy’s should, at least, have had second place.
“Now, Marianne.”
Faith and Catherine watched the French girl, and for that matter, so did Miss Gordon and Miss Humphrey, but the winner of the first prize seemed to be in no way disconcerted. She stood up and her dark eyes looked directly into those of Miss Gordon as she took the manuscript.
Everyone had to acknowledge that Marianne read well, but what was she reading? From the very announcement of the title, Muriel had leaned forward, her breath coming in little gasps, her face suddenly pale, her hands clasped tensely.
Marianne, having read her poem through to the end, walked down the aisle between the girls to her former seat, but she could not resist sending a glance of triumph toward Muriel. The clear hazel eyes that looked back at her were scornful and accusing. Marianne quickly seated herself, a deep red flush suffusing her face.
Within her heart was the certainty that Muriel knew, but how could she?
And Muriel did know, for the title of the poem which Marianne had read was “Winter on the Moor.” Muriel left the other girls directly after the meeting and hurried to her own room. She wanted to be alone to think, but this she was not permitted to do. Almost immediately there came a tap on her door and Faith was admitted. With her hands on the shoulders of her friend, she looked deep into the hazel eyes.
“Tell me, dear,” she said. “I will keep it a secret if you wish. What is troubling you?”
Muriel turned and taking Gene’s letter from its envelope, she read aloud his description of the viscount and the poem by Waine Waters entitled “The Moor in Winter.”
“The very poem that won the prize for Marianne,” Faith exclaimed. “Her father must have found and sent it to her. What shall you do about it? Marianne will, of course, be expelled when the truth is known. Last year when Miss Gordon enumerated the ideals of High Cliffs, she mentioned plagiarism as being one of the greatest of misdemeanors.”
“I shall not mention it,” was the quiet reply. “Now let us forget it.”
The poetry contest was soon a thing of the past, for everyone was thinking and planning for the Christmas holidays that were but two weeks away.
However, it was noticeable that Marianne Carnot never again chose verse as the form of her compositions. Her classmates were not interested enough to speculate about it, but Miss Gordon and Miss Humphrey believed that some day they would know the truth.
