CHAPTER XII
ALMA IN A SCRAPE
It was the custom of Miss Leland's school to hold the mid-year examinations before the Christmas holidays, early in December, so that the teachers and the girls might enjoy their holidays without the shadow of that depressing necessity hanging over them, and so that they might apply themselves to the preparation for them while they were still in the habit of studying. Miss Leland held the opinion that after the gay indolence of the holiday season, and when the girls were still in the state of homesickness and lassitude following their return to school, they were much less interested in making good marks, and much less capable of applying themselves.
Thus, the first week of a snowy December found the entire school in that state of tension which seizes any body of young people when a hostile body of older people is bent upon finding out how much they know.
"History from nine to twelve to-morrow," groaned Charlotte. "I've reread the whole volume. I've crammed dates until I don't know whether Columbus discovered America in 1492 or 1776. I've 'rastled' with Free Silver, and I haven't the faintest notion what the trouble was about. A long, long time ago I knew whether Maryland was a Charter colony or not, but now I never expect to know again. I could write everything I know about this great and glorious country in two minutes, and it would be quite wrong at that, and the thought that we are expected to know enough to require three solid hours for writing it out is driving me rapidly into a state of chronic melancholia."
"What happened in 1812, Charlotte?" demanded Nancy in a dazed voice. "Something happened then, but I don't know what."
"Why, that was the year that Washington said 'Beyond the Alps lies Italy.' Which was quite true. And even if he didn't say it then, it would have been true, so you can't go far wrong there," replied Charlotte. "Nancy, kindly fold up your book. I am going to flunk, and I won't have you pass. If you try to study any more I'm going to sing the Marseillaise at the top of my voice."
"I think I will stop. I really do know my history, but I'm forgetting it the more I try to study."
After dinner that night, the living-room was empty during the usual hour for recreation, nearly all the girls having gone to their room either to study, or simply as a matter of form, since it was considered highly undiplomatic, to say the least, to appear as if you were so sure of the outcome of your examinations that you felt privileged to take life easily.
What they did, once they were in the privacy of their own rooms, was, of course, strictly their own business. Two or three, who believed that rest was essential, had solemnly gone to bed. A dozen or even more of the seriously inclined had hung "Busy" signs on the panel of their doors, through the transoms of which the greenish illumination of the students' lamps burning within told their own story. The others, philosophically believing that if they were going to pass they would, and if they were destined to flunk they would do so in spite of the best-intentioned efforts at study, were cheerfully whiling away the two hours of grace in subdued revelry.
Alma, who had every reason to doubt that she would shine in her examinations unless she made a superhuman effort at cramming, and who, at the same time, was unable to comfort herself with Mildred's philosophical indifference, was curled up on her bed, her fingers in her ears, struggling to make the lines she read convey some sense to her weary brain.
"I say, Milly, will you ask me some questions?" she suggested at length, lifting a weary face from her book. "I don't know what I know."
"Oh, bother! Don't study any more. What does it matter even if you don't pass?" said Mildred. "For goodness' sake don't you turn into a grind like Nancy. One thing I refuse to do is to room with anyone who's studious."
"But I'll flunk, as sure as fate," objected Alma, "and—and I don't want to, Milly."
"You're a bit late finding that out. It's not going to do you a bit of good to stuff now."
"Don't your father and mother mind if you don't pass?"
"Oh, Mother doesn't care a bit. She is always worrying herself to death for fear I'm overstudying. Dad sometimes rows at me about my bad marks, but Mother always takes my part. Besides this is my last year of school, and what earthly good will Latin or Algebra do me when I come out?"
"I suppose they really aren't much use," agreed Alma, finding this a very comforting notion. "Of course, it's different with Nancy; she wants to go to college."
"Well, of course if one wants to be a school teacher," said Mildred with a very faint sneer. "But that's a ridiculous idea for anyone who's as pretty as you are."
Alma hesitated; she felt the slight cast on Nancy in Mildred's remark, but she was afraid to resent it, and told herself that she would not be justified in doing so. She was silent for a moment, wondering why she liked Mildred, when Mildred did not like Nancy. Perhaps,—she was unwilling to admit this supposition, but it formed itself hazily in her mind—perhaps she herself did not really like Mildred. Perhaps way down inside of her she shared her sister's distrust of the girl. But why didn't she admit it? Because she was flattered with being the chosen friend of the most important girl in the school? Because she had accepted favors from Mildred? She blushed involuntarily as these thoughts glided through her mind.
She did not want to quarrel with Mildred, even when she knew that she was right and her roommate in the wrong, because she hoped that Mildred would invite her to visit her, and that through Mildred she might have some good times. She wished that Mildred wouldn't make mean little remarks about Nancy, because she felt ashamed of herself for not openly resenting them.
At length, however, she threw aside her book, and lent her rapt attention to Mildred's chatter about the coming holidays. In a little while other girls joined them, and the next hour of gossip drove away her uneasiness for the coming day, and her uncomfortable reflections.
The last examination which was in Latin ended on Friday at noon. On the Wednesday of the following week the reports had been posted on the bulletin-board, and at the eleven o'clock recess some twenty girls were clustered around them struggling to get near enough to read their marks. Those who were closest called out the percentages to the others who pelted them with agitated questions.
"You got seventy-six in French, Denise. Good enough. Good heavens, Nancy Prescott, you made ninety-two in history, and Charlotte Spencer ninety-four. Ye gods and little fishes, I passed my Algebra—sixty-eight! Catch me, somebody; I'm going to faint."
"Kay Leonard flunked everything but her French," whispered another. "Well, it won't disturb her at all. What did I make in Latin?"
"Eighty-eight. Good for you. Drinkwater doesn't make anyone a present of her marks. I just scraped through. I say, Alma! Alma Prescott, what happened to you on your Latin?"
"Why?" asked Alma, peering over Allison's shoulder, and turning a little pale. "Did—did I flunk very badly?"
"Why, it just says 'Cancelled' after your name. Didn't you take your exam?"
"Of course I took it!"
"Well, there—you can see for yourself. It just has 'Cancelled.'"
A queer silence fell upon the chattering group of girls and for several dreadful moments every eye was turned on Alma, who, white as a sheet, was staring blankly at the uncompromising word written after her name.
"I—I can't understand," she said presently, in a scared, voice. "I did take the examination—and I thought I really got through. I can't understand. Why should it be cancelled?" She turned her big, frightened eyes to Nancy, who, as pale as she was, only stared back at her.
"Why should my examination be cancelled?" repeated Alma, dazedly. "Was anyone else's cancelled too?"
"No. One, two, six girls flunked—and—for goodness' sake—Mildred Lloyd made the highest mark, Ninety-three! Mildred Lloyd, come here, and get your medal! Congratulations!"
Mildred strolled up nonchalantly, glanced at the board and turned away; only Nancy followed her curiously with her eyes. Then she turned to Alma.
"Haven't you any idea why your examination was cancelled?" she asked, in an odd voice that sounded as if her throat was dry. Alma shook her head.
"It's very strange. Come and let's ask Miss Drinkwater. Maybe it's only that your paper was lost or something like that." She tried to sound comforting, but she had no faith in her suggestion. Just then, however, the bell rang, and the girls had to go to their desks. Miss Leland took her place at one end of the room and stood waiting for silence. Everyone felt that she was there to make some important announcement and her grave, cold expression led all of them to suspect that it was not an entirely pleasant one.
She waited a moment after the room was silent. Alma looked piteously at Nancy, with a glance that said, "She's going to say something about me." Nancy kept her eyes fixedly on Miss Leland. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her hands had grown as cold and damp as though she had just taken them out of ice-water. Her heart was beating so heavily that the frill on her shirt-waist trembled.
Miss Leland took a step forward, straightened a book on the big desk, and then looked up.
"Girls, for the first time in the history of this school, I am compelled to make an announcement that is as great a humiliation to me as it must be to you," she said, in a quiet, even voice.
"Ever since this school was founded there has never until now been any occasion when I have been forced to doubt the honor of one of my pupils." She made another pause, and in that silence an electric thrill seemed to pass through each one of the girls; some of them flushed scarlet and others went white, as though each one felt in a hazy way some share in the guilt of the unnamed culprit.
"For the first time in eighteen years one of my teachers has had to bring to my attention the fact that a pupil of this school attempted to cheat in an examination. That examination has, of course, been cancelled, so that that girl's attempt to win a high mark, dishonestly, availed her nothing.
"I do not need, I am sure, to incite in you feelings of disgust and shame for that girl's action. Your own sense of honor makes any warnings on my part superfluous and insulting to you.
"Fortunately, the imposition was discovered, because that girl most unwisely left the interlinear translation of Virgil's Æneid, which she had used to assist her in the examination, on her desk, where it was found, and brought to me.
"I do not choose to announce the name of that girl, much as she merits the public disgrace. I shall speak to her privately, and if she can offer, which is not likely, any defense of her action, I may soften her punishment. Otherwise, I have no choice left to me than to expel her from a school which she has disgraced. Now, you may go to your class-rooms."
The girls rose in silence, and hardly knowing what they were doing, began feverishly to collect their books and papers. But neither Alma nor Nancy moved. In a few moments the assembly hall was empty, save for the two sisters, neither of whom seemed to have been conscious of the curious glances cast at them by the other girls as they went out.
When they were alone, Nancy got up and went over to Alma, who sat as if she had been turned to stone, with a face as white as chalk.
"Alma, of course I know you didn't do it," said Nancy, laying her hand on her sister's, and speaking in a gentle, trembling voice.
"Oh, Nancy, it's so horrible—it's so horrible," moaned Alma. "I don't know how all this could have happened. What shall I do, Nancy? What in the world shall I do?"
"Come, dearest, let's go up-stairs," coaxed Nancy. "It'll come out all right. Come, dear."
"Of course, now everyone knows that Miss Leland meant me," said Alma, dully. "Am I going to be expelled; Nancy? I can't stand it—I won't stand it. Come on, Nancy, let's get our things and go home."
"Alma, darling, you didn't do it?" cried Nancy, the very shadow of such a doubt making her feel faint and ill. Alma lifted a wan face and smiled.
"I don't know that I didn't do it," she said, drearily. "If they found a trot on my desk—and it must have been my desk, because mine was the only examination that was cancelled—why, how can I prove that I wasn't using it?"
"But you don't even own such a thing! You wouldn't dream of having one. In some schools girls are allowed to use interlinear translations for their daily work, but it's not permitted here, and it wouldn't have entered your mind to get one. Come, we'll go to Miss Leland at once. She's alone in her office now."
Alma let herself be guided up to the principal's cosy little sanctum, where Miss Leland was seated at her desk writing. A wood-fire smoldered with friendly warmth on the brightly burnished andirons, and a clear, wintry sunlight fell in through the curtained windows, where a perfect garden of indoor plants bloomed gaily. But all these pleasant, homelike things seemed to share the chill hostility of Miss Leland's level glance, as the two sisters stood looking at her timidly from the threshold of the open door.
"You may come in," she said, with a curt nod. "No doubt, Alma, you wish to offer some explanation. Be seated."
"My sister wanted to say that there was a mistake. The book you referred to was never in her possession, and she did not use it at her examination," said Nancy, speaking rapidly, and almost harshly, in her endeavor to keep from breaking into a fit of hysterical tears. Alma was quite incapable of saying a word for herself.
"Then I am sorry that it happened to be found on her desk just after she had left the examination-room," replied Miss Leland dryly, her tone expressing her complete lack of belief in Nancy's words.
"Alma, did you have that book?" asked Nancy, turning sharply to her sister. Miss Leland opened a drawer of her writing-table and took out a small volume, bound in green cloth, which she handed over to Alma. Alma had already opened her lips to utter a frantic denial to Nancy's question, when her eyes fell upon the book. She shut her mouth with a sudden gasp, and without taking it, simply stared at the inoffensive little volume with a fixed, horrified gaze.
"Is that an interlinear?" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Is that the book that was found on my desk?"
"So you have seen it before," remarked Miss Leland. "Alma, this is a very serious matter. There can be no excuse for a girl's making use of any text-book whatever at an examination. A failure is to be deplored, but it is not a disgrace—and it is to be very much regretted that you did not choose rather to run the risk of an honorable failure than to attempt to steal a good mark, I have no choice in the matter. I am very sorry that I had to speak of it before the school, but I had to make a public example of the girl who could stoop to such an act. You understand, of course, that it will be impossible for you to continue as a pupil in this school."
For some reason Alma had grown quite calm, and when Miss Leland had finished speaking, instead of appearing to be overcome by the grim meaning in the last words, she rose quietly.
"Of course, if you cannot take my word for it that I never looked inside that book or anything like it in my whole life, why there is no use in my saying anything more," she said, with the utmost self-possession. "I don't know how it came to be on my desk——"
"Alma, I am anxious to believe a girl is innocent until she is proved guilty," said Miss Leland, impressed by Alma's coolness, "only—you have seen this volume before?" She looked at the girl with a still doubtful and puzzled expression.
Alma hesitated a moment before she admitted slowly:
"Yes, I have seen it, Miss Leland. But I never knew what it was."
"You have seen it in the possession of some girl in this school?"
"That I can't answer," replied Alma, with a firmness that Nancy had never seen in her before. "I—I don't think you have a right to ask me any more questions, Miss Leland. If—if you just let the whole business go, I'm perfectly willing to—to bear the blame. Please don't ask me any more questions. Let it be as it is. Just as long as Nancy is satisfied that I never did that hateful thing, why, I don't mind, you know."
The two sisters looked at each other happily, each of them sincerely indifferent as to whether anyone else in the school believed Alma innocent or guilty.
"Come on, Nancy," said Alma, almost gaily. They had started to leave the room, when Miss Leland called them back.
"I am very anxious to believe in you, Alma. If there has been a mistake, be assured that it will be set right. I will tell the other girls at luncheon that—well, I must see. I am in a difficult position. You may both go now. I would advise you to go directly to your classes."
Nancy was curiously absent-minded as they made their way down-stairs, hand in hand. Then all at once she drew in her breath sharply, catching her under lip between her teeth. On the bottom step she stopped short and, putting her hands on Alma's shoulder, swung her about so that she could look into her eyes. Her own were very bright.
"What is it?" asked Alma; then, for some reason, she colored and turned her eyes away.
"I know now where I saw that book myself, Alma," said Nancy.
"Nancy!" Alma's blue eyes now suddenly filled with tears. "Oh, Nancy—you won't say anything. No, no, you didn't see it. Please don't believe that of her."
"Two Sundays ago when I was talking to you—I noticed it in the bookcase in your room. I kept reading the titles on the books when I—you know the way you do when you're worried. It stood between a copy of 'Bryce's Commonwealth' and a French grammar——"
"Nancy, you mustn't say anything, do you hear?" insisted Alma, beseechingly.
"I won't say anything. But—but I'm going to—you go on to class. I tell you, I won't say anything. Oh, Alma, you darling! Go on to class, I say."
"Nancy, what are you going to do?" demanded Alma, as Nancy broke away from her and ran up the stairs again. "You aren't going to Miss Leland?"
"No, I'm not. There, isn't that the postman? You might as well see if there's anything for us before you go to French."
Alma walked down the hall toward the front door, where the maid was taking the noon mail from the postman. Nancy stood waiting, half-way up the stairs, evidently lost in thoughts which were not very pleasant, for her brown eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation and contempt, and once or twice she pressed her lips together tightly, as she always did when she was trying to make herself look calmer than she felt.
"Here's a letter from Mother," said Alma, coming back with an envelope in her hand. "I can't read it now, so you take it and save it for me." Nancy leaned over and took it from her.
"I—I may not see you until to-night," she said, slipping the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "You know you can trust me to hold my tongue, well—quite as well as she can, and she holds hers very well indeed. Do you mind being stared at and whispered about?"
Alma only smiled, then, with a little toss of her head, made a right about face, marched off, chin up, to brave the battery of glancing eyes and whispering tongues alone.