THE TORN BOOK
The studies at the Compton Girls’ School were at the top of the house, and consisted of three small rooms set apart for the use of the Sixth, and one fair-sized chamber that was used as prep room by the Upper Fifth. The private sitting-room of the Form-mistresses was also on this floor, the rooms all opening on to one long passage, which had a staircase at either end.
There were twelve girls in the Sixth, which gave four to a study. Hazel and Margaret had with them Dorothy, and also Jessie Wayne, who was a very quiet and studious girl, keeping to her own corner, and having very little to do with the others. The head girl, Dora Selwyn, had the middle study with three others, and the remaining four, of whom Rhoda Fleming was one, had the third room, which was next to the prep room of the Upper Fifth.
All the rooms on this floor were fitted with gas fires, and were very comfortable. To Dorothy there was a wonderfully homey feeling in coming up to this quiet retreat after the stress and strain of Form work. She shared the centre table with Hazel, while Margaret had a corner opposite to the one where Jessie worked.
One Friday evening at the end of October they were all in the study, and, for a wonder, they were all talking. The week’s marks had been posted on the board in the lecture hall an hour before, and they had read the result as they came out from prayers.
It was Dorothy’s class position which had led to the talking; for the first time since she had come to the school she was fourth from the top. Dora Selwyn, Hazel, and Margaret were above her, and Rhoda Fleming was fifth.
“Rhoda has been fourth so far this term,” said Jessie Wayne. “She will not take it kindly that you have climbed above her, Dorothy. How did you manage to do it?”
“I can’t think how I got above her,” answered Dorothy, who was flushed and happy, strangely disinclined for work, too, and disposed to lean back in her chair and discuss her victory. “Rhoda is a long way ahead of me in most things, and she is so wonderfully good at maths, too, while I am a duffer at figures in any shape or form.”
“You are pulling up though. I noticed you had fifty more marks for maths than you had last week,” said Hazel, who had been deep in a new book on chemistry, which she was annotating for next week’s class paper.
“Yes, I know I am fifty up.” Dorothy laughed happily. “To tell the truth, I have been swotting to that end. Indeed, I have let other things slide a bit in order to get level with the rest of you at maths. I have to work harder at that than anything.”
“Well, you jumped in Latin too; you were before me there,” said Margaret. “I should not be surprised if you have me down next week or the week after. You will have your work cut out to do it, though, for I mean to keep in front of you as long as I can.”
“I can’t see myself getting in front of you,” said Dorothy. “You seem to know all there is to be known about most things.”
“In short, she is the beginning and end of wisdom,” laughed Hazel. “But we must get to work, or by this time next week we shall find ourselves at the bottom of the Form.”
“What a row there is in the next study,” said Dorothy. “Don’t you wonder that Dora puts up with such a riot, and she the head girl?”
“The noise is not in the next study,” said Jessie, who had opened the door and gone out into the passage to see where the noise came from. “It is Rhoda and her lot who are carrying on. They do it most nights, only they do not usually make as much noise as this. I suppose they are taking advantage of the mistresses having gone to Ilkestone for that lecture on Anthropology; Dora has gone too, so there is no one up here to keep them in order to-night.”
“Well, shut the door, kid, and drag the curtain across it to deaden the noise. We have to get our work done somehow.” There was a sound of irritation in Hazel’s voice; she had badly wanted to go to the lecture herself, but she knew that she dared not take the time. If she had been free like Dora she would have gone, and not troubled about the fear of dropping in her Form; but in view of her position as an aspirant for the Mutton Bone, she dared not run the risk.
There was silence in the study for the next hour. Sometimes a girl would get up to reach a book, or would rustle papers, or scrape her chair on the floor; but there was no talking, until presently Jessie pushed her chair back, and rising to her feet, declared that she was going to bed, simply because she could not keep awake any longer.
“I am coming too,” said Hazel. “I am doing no good at all, just because I keep dropping asleep; I suppose it is because it has been so windy to-day. Are you others coming now?”
Margaret said that she would go—and indeed she was so pale and heavy-eyed that she did not look fit to stay up any longer; but Dorothy said that she wanted to finish the Latin she was doing for next day, and would stay until she had done it.
When the others had gone she rose and turned out the gas fire, fearful lest she might forget it when she went to bed, and there was a considerable penalty waiting for the girl who left a gas fire burning when she left the room.
The upper floor had grown strangely still. The Upper Fifth had gone downstairs to bed some time ago. There were no mistresses in their private room, which to-night was not even lighted. The noise in the third study had died away, and there was a deep hush over the place.
Dorothy worked on steadily for a time, then suddenly she felt herself growing nervous; there was a sensation upon her that some one was coming, was creeping along the passage, and pausing outside the door.
She stopped work, she held herself rigid, and stared fixedly at the door. The handle moved gently—some one was coming in. The horror of this creeping, silent thing was on her; she wanted to scream, but she had no power—she could only pant.
The door creaked open for perhaps half an inch. Dorothy sprang up, and in her haste knocked over a pile of books, which fell with a clattering bang on the floor. For a moment she paused, appalled by the noise she had made in that quiet place; and then, wrenching open the door, she faced the passage, which stretched, lighted and empty, to her gaze.
With a jerk she clicked off the electric light of the study, and with a series of bounds reached the top of the stairs, fleeing down and along the corridor to the dormitory. All the girls were in bed except Hazel, who looked out from her cubicle to know what was wrong.
“Nerves, I expect. Yah, I turned into a horrible coward, and when the door creaked gently open I just got up and fled,” said Dorothy, who was hanging on to the side of her cubicle, looking thoroughly scared and done up from her experience upstairs.
“I guess you have been doing too much; you would have been wiser to have come down when we did,” said Hazel calmly; and then, as her own toilet was all but complete, she came and helped Dorothy to get to bed.
It was good to be helped. Dorothy was shaking in every limb, and she was feeling so thoroughly demoralized that it was all she could do to keep from bursting into noisy crying. She thanked Hazel with lips that trembled, and creeping into her bed, hid her head beneath the clothes because her teeth chattered so badly.
Sleep came to her after a time, for she was healthily tired with the long day of work and play. But with sleep came dreams, and these were for the most part weird and frightening. Some evil was always coming upon her from behind, and yet she could never get her head round to see what it was that was menacing her. Oh, it was fearful! She struggled to wake, but was not able; and presently she slid into deeper slumber, getting more restful as the hours went by. Then the old trouble broke out again: something was certainly coming upon her, the curtains of her cubicle were shaking, her bed was shaking, and next minute she herself would be shaken out of bed. Making a great effort she opened her eyes, and saw Margaret standing over her.
“What is the matter?” gasped Dorothy, wondering why her head was feeling so queer and her mouth so parched and dry.
“That is what I have come to ask you,” said Margaret with a laugh. “You have nearly waked us all up by crying out and groaning in a really tragic fashion. Are you feeling ill?”
“Why, no, I am all right,” said Dorothy, who began to feel herself all over to see if she was really awake and undamaged. “I have been having ghastly dreams, and I thought something was coming after me, only I was not able to get awake to see what it was.”
“Ah! a fit of nightmare, I suppose.” Margaret’s tone was sympathetic, but she yawned with sleepiness, and shivered from the cold. “I found you lying across the bed with your head hanging down, as if you were going to pitch out on to the floor, so I guess you were feeling bad.”
“What is the time?” Dorothy had struggled to a sitting posture, and was wondering if she dared ask Margaret to creep into bed with her, for there was a sense of panic on her still, and she feared—actually feared—to be left alone.
“Oh, the wee sma’ hours are getting bigger. It is just five o’clock—plenty of time for a good sleep yet before the rising bell. Lie down, and I will tuck you in snugly, then you will feel better.”
Dorothy sank back on her pillow, submitting to be vigorously tucked in by Margaret. She was suddenly ashamed of being afraid to stay alone. Now that she was wider awake the creeping horror was further behind her, while the fact that it was already five o’clock seemed to bring the daylight so much nearer.
She was soon asleep again, and she did not wake until roused by the bell. So heavy had been her sleep that her movements were slower than usual, and she was the last girl to leave the dormitory.
To her immense surprise both Hazel and Margaret gave her the cold shoulder at breakfast. They only spoke to her when she spoke to them. They both sat with gloom on their faces, as if the fog in which the outside world was wrapped that morning had somehow got into them.
Dorothy was at first disposed to be resentful. She supposed their grumpiness must be the result of her having disturbed the dormitory with her nightmare. It seemed a trifle rotten that they should treat her in such a fashion for what she could not help. She relapsed into silence herself for the remainder of breakfast, concentrating her thoughts and energies on the day’s work, and trying to get all the satisfaction she could out of the fact that she had pulled up one again this week in her school position.
“Dorothy, the Head wishes to see you in her study as soon as breakfast is over.” There was a constraint in Miss Groome’s voice which Dorothy was quick to feel, and she looked from her to the averted faces of Hazel and Margaret, wondering what could be the matter with them all.
“Yes, Miss Groome, I will go,” she said cheerfully; and she held her head up, feeling all the comfort of a quiet conscience, although privately she told herself that they were all being very horrid to her, seeing that she was so absolutely unconscious of having given offence in any way.
The Head’s study was a small room on the first floor, having a window which gave a delightful view over the Sowerbrook valley, with a distant glimpse of the blue waters of the English Channel. There was no view to be had this morning, however—nothing but a grey wall of fog, dense and smothering.
Miss Arden was sitting at her writing table, and lying before her was a torn book—this was very shabby, as if from much use. There was something so sinister about the disreputable volume lying there that Dorothy felt her eyes turn to it, as if drawn by a magnet.
“Good morning, Dorothy; come and sit down.” The tone of the Head was so kind that all at once Dorothy sensed disaster, and the colour rushed in a flood over her face and right up to her hair, then receded, leaving her pale and cold, while a sensation seized upon her of being caught in a trap.
She sat down on the chair pointed out by the Head, trying to gather up her forces to meet what was in front of her, yet feeling absolutely bewildered.
There followed a little pause of silence. It was almost as if the Head was not feeling quite sure about how to tackle the situation in front of her; then she said in a crisp, businesslike manner, pointing to the torn book in front of her, “This book, is it yours?”
“No,” said Dorothy with decision. “I am sure it is not. I have no book so ragged and worn.”
“Perhaps you have borrowed it, then?” persisted the Head, fixing her with a keen glance which seemed to look right through her.
“I beg your pardon?” murmured Dorothy, looking blank.
“I asked, have you borrowed it?” repeated Miss Arden patiently. It was never her way to harry or confuse a girl.
“I have never seen it before that I can remember. What book is it?” Dorothy fairly hurled her question at the Head, and rose from her seat as if to take it.
The Head waved her back. “Sit still, and think a minute. This book was found with yours on the table of your study this morning. I have learned that you were the last girl to leave the study last night; your books were left in a confused heap on the table, and this one was open at the place where you had been working before you went to bed.”
“I was doing Latin before I went to bed,” said Dorothy, her senses still in a whirling confusion.
“Just so. This book is a key, a translation of the book we are doing in the Sixth this time,” said the Head slowly, “Now, do you understand the significance of it being found among your books?”
“Do you mean that you think I was using a key last night in preparing my Form Latin?” asked Dorothy, her eyes wide with amazement.
“No; I only mean that appearances point to this, and I have sent for you so that you may be able to explain—to clear yourself, if that is possible; if not, to own up as to how far you have been depending on this kind of thing to help you in your work and advance your position in your form.”
Dorothy sat quite silent. Her face was white and pinched, and there was a feeling of despair in her heart that she had never known before. It was her bare word against this clear evidence of that torn, disreputable old book, and how could she expect that any one was going to believe her?
“Come, I want to hear what you have to say about it all.” The voice of the Head had a ring of calm authority, and Dorothy found her tongue with an effort.
“I have never used a key to help me with my Latin, or with any of my work, and I have never seen that book before,” she said in a low tone.
“It was found among the books you had been using before you went to bed.” There was so much suggestion in the voice of the Head that Dorothy gave a start of painful recollection.
“Oh! I left my books lying anyhow, and I shall have to take a bad-conduct mark. I am so sorry, but I was frightened, and ran away. I ought to have gone to bed when Hazel and Margaret went down, but I wanted to finish my Latin; it takes me longer than they to do it.”
“What frightened you?” demanded the Head.
“While I was sitting at work, and the place was very still, I had suddenly the sensation of some one, or something, creeping along outside the door; I saw the handle turn, and the door creaked open for half an inch; I cried out, but there was no answer, and I just got up and bolted.”
“There was not much to frighten you in the fact of some one coming along the passage and softly opening the door?”
The voice of the Head was questioning, and under the compelling quality of her gaze Dorothy had to own up to the real cause of her fear.
“The girls have said that the rooms up there are haunted—that a certain something comes along at night opening the doors, sighing heavily, and moaning as if in pain.”
“Did you hear sighs and moans?” asked the Head, her lips giving an involuntary twitch.
“I did not stay to listen; I bolted as fast as I could go,” admitted Dorothy. “That was why my books were not put away, or any of my things cleared up.”
“Do you know why the girls say the rooms are haunted?” asked the Head, and this time she smiled so kindly that Dorothy found the courage to reply.
“I was told that a girl, Amelia Herschstein, was killed on that landing.” Her voice was very low, and her gaze dropped to the carpet. Standing there in the daylight it seemed so perfectly absurd to admit that she had been nearly scared out of her senses on the previous evening by her remembrance of a ghost story.
“You don’t seem to have got the details quite right,” said the Head in a matter-of-fact tone. “About twenty years ago, I have been told, the landing where the studies are was given up to the Sixth for bedrooms; girls were not supposed to need studies then—at least they did not have them here. There was no second staircase then; the place where the stairs go down by the prep room of the Upper Fifth was a small box-room which had a window with a balcony. Amelia Herschstein was leaning over this balcony one night to talk to a soldier from Beckworth Camp who had contrived to scrape an acquaintance with her, when she fell, and was so injured that she died a week later. I suppose that the idea of the haunting comes from the fact of the Governors making such drastic alterations in that part of the house immediately afterwards. I am sorry you were frightened by the story, and I can understand how you would rush away, forgetting all about your books. But your fright is a small matter compared with this business of the torn book.” As she spoke the Head pointed in distaste at the ragged, dirty book in front of her, and paused, looking at Dorothy as if expecting her to speak.
Dorothy had nothing to say. Having told the Head that she had never seen the book before, it seemed useless to repeat her assertion.
After a little pause Miss Arden went on: “Your Form-mistress says that she has always found you truthful and straightforward in your work. It is possible that you have an enemy who put the book among your things. For the present I suspend judgment. As the matter is something of a mystery, and others of the Form may be involved, I must also suspend the Latin marks of the entire Form to-day. Will you please tell Miss Groome that I will come to her room, and talk about this question of the day’s Latin, at eleven o’clock. You may go now.”
Dorothy bowed and went out, with her head held very high and her heart feeling very heavy.