by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER VII
A DROP OF INK
"Somehow I find it awfully hard to settle down to work," said Martine toone of the girls at school a day or two after Washington's Birthday. "Idon't know whether it's the holiday--or what."
"It's 'what,' I think; vacations ought not to hurt us, they are meant toset one up."
"How literal you are! Look at Priscilla; she's as busy as can be. Sheknows how to study at school; but then of course there couldn't havebeen anything very exciting in a Plymouth holiday; but although she wasaway only two days I do wonder that she can study so in school."
"It's a sensible thing, all the same, and saves home study. I begrudgemore than an hour a day out of school, and if you don't work here, yousurely have to spend three or four hours there."
"You'll have to spend more than an hour a day on home work if you aregoing to prepare that essay. Isn't it outrageous?"
"Well, it's as fair for one as for another. There's no use in talkingabout it now; we must keep at this translation." And for the next tenminutes the two girls kept their eyes on their Virgils.
Martine and Grace had gone into a small room off the main schoolroom,where a certain amount of conversation was permitted to two girls whohappened to be studying together. They were not expected, however, towander far from the lesson they had set out to prepare, and idleconversation, if overheard, would have carried a reproof. Yet thespecial essay to which Grace had referred was for the time uppermost inthe minds of most of Miss Crawdon's pupils, and to Martine the necessityfor writing it was peculiarly disagreeable; she did not pretend to beliterary; her brightness and energy expressed themselves in fardifferent ways. She could talk better than most girls, but when it cameto putting her thoughts on paper in an extended form, she was really atsea. No one sympathized with her when she protested that it wasabsolutely impossible for her to write a ten-page essay on the question"Is the pen mightier than the sword?"
"Why, it's what I call the simplest kind of a subject," said Priscilla."We all know that war is a terrible thing and ought to be done awaywith, and that a good book accomplishes a great deal more than the mostfamous battle. That's all the subject means."
"Oh, is it?" queried Martine, somewhat sarcastically. "Well, I'd like tosee you fill ten large foolscap pages proving it."
"That's easy enough; just get your thoughts together."
"I can get a few of them together, but when it comes to putting them onpaper, that's quite another thing."
Yet in the face of Martine's evident despair, Priscilla still insistedthat the subject was not difficult, and that if Martine would simplycollect her thoughts, she would soon find words to fill ten pages.
"Of course you've got to look up authorities on peace and war and someof the poets like Whittier and Tennyson, and Longfellow's 'Ship ofState,' and say something about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and look over yourEnglish history pretty carefully."
"Oh, Priscilla, with all my other lessons? It's quite natural for you toknow where to find all these authorities and poems, but it's quiteanother thing for me, and there's likely to be some splendid skatingthis month; and it's odious to have to stay cooped up in the house whenthe afternoons are short enough at the best."
But at last Martine had to yield to necessity, and less than a weekbefore the day when the essays were to be handed in she sat down for onelast, and it may be said first, great effort.
Lucian, happening in from Cambridge, laughed as he saw her forlorn faceas she sat at a table littered with papers.
"What a ridiculous fuss," he cried, "about a little composition."
"It isn't a little composition; it's an essay."
"Well, what's the difference? You ought to have daily themes, then you'dknow."
"We do, we have them once a week, every Monday morning."
"Daily themes,--once a week!" and again Lucian laughed.
"You needn't laugh, Lucian. Of course it's easy enough to write; thatisn't the trouble; but it's getting things together."
"What things?"
"My ideas. Oh, if I were only Priscilla."
"Well, you are not; she's altogether different. But what's this?" criedLucian, picking up a paper from the table.
"Oh, that's one of Priscilla's last year's essays. It's perfectlysplendid, and she thought it might help me to look it over."
"Why don't you get her to help you in some other way?"
"Oh, that wouldn't do. We're supposed to do this all alone. It's a kindof test. You see the little themes are different. We write accounts ofthings we see, or that somebody tells us; but Miss Crawdon likes thingswe observe, and I am always seeing something funny. Everyone laughs atwhat I write. But I just can't do a long logical essay, and I don't wantmine to be the very worst in the class."
"Of course not." Lucian's tone was more sympathetic than usual. "Therecan't be any harm in my helping you." And he took up a pencil.
"I'm not sure," responded Martine; "but still a brother, I suppose, isdifferent from anyone else."
"Naturally," said Lucian, undisturbed by any scruples.
In a moment the two were at work, or rather Lucian was working, whileMartine listened intently.
"First of all," he began, in a professorial manner, "you must think outyour subject carefully and sub-divide it--so--and so. Then, well,whenever you have a thought, write it down on a piece of paper or acard--if I were you I'd buy a box of blank cards." Martine instantlyresolved to pay a visit to a wholesale stationer's, and Lucian spent afew moments in cogitation and then wrote down a number of headings onsmall squares of paper. He had never before had so good a chance toexpose the methods of his favorite English course.
"See, now, you kind of shuffle and arrange your headings, and you beginto think of other funny little things to put in, and write them out onlarge sheets, and before you know it, it's almost done. Now try."
Martine tried. Lucian's method was something like a game, and under hisguidance she made a fair beginning. Before they had fairly started onthe essay, Lucian talked learnedly about "clearness," and "force," and"elegance," and Martine listened, somewhat dazzled by her brother's showof knowledge.
"Well, Harvard has done you some good, after all, Lucian. As a sophomoreyou seem to be making up for what you lost in your freshman year."
"There, there, child, no twitting on facts. Of course Harvard has done agreat deal for me. Why else should I go to college?"
"I wonder what college would do for me. What would you think of my goingto Radcliffe, for example?" Martine looked anxiously at her brother; shehad known boys who positively opposed their sister's ambitions in thisdirection.
"Well, if you could get in," said Lucian, "I think it would be a mightygood thing."
The "if" nettled Martine.
"What other girls do I suppose I could do too."
"Oh, yes; and if you should turn out like Miss Amy Redmond, or if you'dwork like Priscilla, why I'd be proud enough of you."
"Ah, Amy's a brick," responded Martine, "but I didn't know that youreally admired Priscilla. Robert Pringle says she's just the kind boysdon't like."
"Oh, Robert is too fresh; he can't settle everything, though he thinkshe can. But here, we can't waste time. Remember that you're trying toprove your point."
"Yes, the point of the sword," said Martine.
"No frivolity, child." And by their united efforts they made a draft ofthe essay, which Lucian copied out in his peculiar back hand, and laterMartine, still further expanding what he presented to her, was able toproduce ten pages that were not only fairly logical, according toLucian's standards, but in addition had various humorous little touchesfrom the hand of Martine. Priscilla was so busy with her own work thatshe hardly had time to observe that Martine had ceased to complain atwhat she had at first called "an outrageous task."
On the morning when the essays were handed in, Miss Crawdon made a shortspeech to the class. "You will be interested, I am sure, to hear that Ihave decided to award a prize for the best essay. I did not
suggest thisin advance, because in a general way I do not approve of schoolcompetition. You have worked under natural conditions, and although onlyone girl will have a prize, I am sure all the others will see nothingunfair in this distinction, since all have had an equal chance. All haveworked independently without help from anyone, and none have beentempted to put themselves under too severe a strain. I ought to say thatthe prize, which consists of the new two-volume 'Life of Tennyson,' is agift from Mrs. Edward Elton. You remember that she was one of ourteachers here a few years ago and that English was her specialty. Whenshe left this school she helped establish the Mansion School in thehouse of her grandmother, Madame DuLaunuy. For more than a year she andMr. Elton have been travelling abroad, but she writes to me often aboutthe school, and her interest in our English work still continues."
In the brief interval following Miss Crawdon's speech, those girls whohad known the former Miss South said one or two agreeable things abouther to the others, and it pleased Martine to recall that Mr. Elton was acousin of Brenda's. But she was not altogether pleased that the essaywith which Lucian had helped her was to compete for a prize. In thisspecial case Martine was not quite sure of the precise line betweenright and wrong, and until she could decide this for herself, shethought it not worth while to discuss the matter with others.
Now it happened, strangely enough, that the essay which in a small wayhad been a snare for Martine also caused some trouble for Priscilla. Thebeginning came on the Friday after the essays were handed in. In theearly afternoon Priscilla had an errand to do for her aunt at thefarther end of Commonwealth Avenue. There was no Symphony this week, andshe enjoyed the change. As she walked homeward, she was in an unusuallyhappy mood. It was one of those mild days in late January that seemed tobe preparing the way for an early spring. The path under the trees inthe middle of the park was rather wet from melting snow and ice, andafter trying it for a few steps, Priscilla preferred the sidewalk. Thereshe walked down between the rows of nurses with their baby carriages, orlittle children in charge. "A prize baby show" Martine had called it.Priscilla enjoyed the show and thought of her little brothers andsisters at home as she stopped at intervals to speak to some child sheknew. From the Avenue she crossed the Garden and stood for a moment onthe bridge to watch the ice breaking in the pond; and she continued herwalk along the mall of the Common, until she was opposite Spruce Street.Turning into the narrower streets, when at last she reached her aunt'shouse, it seemed particularly gloomy, and she wished that she might havestayed out in the sun an hour longer. But she realized that the taskbefore her could not be postponed. The weekly theme must be ready onMonday, and nothing could be accomplished unless she set herself atwork. Filling her fountain pen carefully she sat down at a small tablenear the window and began her task.
Although Priscilla frowned slightly, as almost any girl will frown whenwriting a theme, the frown was not very deep. She expected no realdifficulties at the present stage of her work, as she had already made agood draft in pencil, and it only remained now for her to copy it.
At first her pen fairly flew over the paper, but after a time, as it mayhappen even with more accomplished authors, she grew a little weary, andrising, she walked to the window. Then she took a few steps around theroom, at the same time idly flourishing her pen. The habits of fountainpens are indeed hard to understand. There certainly seemed to be noreason why Priscilla's pen should have chosen the particular moment whenshe stood beside her bureau for a catastrophe. Priscilla herself wasalmost petrified with horror as she gazed at the great black spot on theimmaculate bureau-scarf. How could one little drop of ink, fallingcarelessly from a pen held upside down, spread itself into such a bigspot?
After her first resentment against the pen, which she quickly laid downon the blotter on her table, Priscilla's irritation took a new form.
"I always hated that bureau-scarf. I always thought it foolish of auntTilworth to put it in my room. She has told me a dozen times that it wasmade by a favorite cousin who can never make any more like it becauseshe's dead. I can't bear to think what she will say when she sees this."
Priscilla went closer to the bureau. Fortunately the spot was on theplain material, some distance from the embroidery. It almost looked asif she might wash it out--if ink ever could be washed out. If it shouldstay, how could she ever explain the accident to her aunt, since it wasan unwritten law of the house that ink was to be used only in thelibrary?
"This might help a little," she murmured, tearing off a small piece fromher blotter, and applying it to the spot. But the ink had been sothoroughly absorbed that her efforts made no impression. Then sheremembered something she had read and rushed to the kitchen.
"A glass of milk, is it?" exclaimed the crabbed old cook; "and whydidn't you send the housemaid?" But Priscilla secured the milk, andwhile she was busily mopping the spot, Martine appeared on the scene.
"You queer child, what are you doing? That milk will certainly spoil thebureau."
"Oh no, it's marble underneath."
"But what are you doing? Oh, that spot? But you'll never get it out thatway. You must use salts, salts of something, I forget its name, onlyit's deadly poison. They'll know what it is when you ask at thedruggist's."
"Nothing would induce me to touch poison. Please don't suggest such athing."
"But you're not going to taste it or give it to anyone. Just think whatyour aunt would say if she saw that spot!"
"That's just what I have been thinking," said poor Priscilla, feebly. "Ihate to have her know how careless I have been."
"Then let me go--no, I am going anyway, I want to see how surprised thedruggist will be when I ask for this salts of something or other."
"He can't appear very surprised if you don't know its name."
"Oh, I'll tell him it's a deadly poison, and that I want it immediately.Good-bye, Prissie dear, I'll soon be back, alive or dead."
"Now cheer up, Miss Doleful," cried Martine, when she returned tenminutes later. "I got it easily enough, and the man hardly seemedsurprised, though he put a little poison label on the box."
Priscilla handled the box gingerly.
"There, there," cried Martine, "it won't hurt you! Give it back!" Andtaking off the cover, she disclosed some innocent looking crystals.
Moistening a few of these, she spread the pasty mass on the spot.
"My, how it stings! My tongue is burning."
"You didn't taste it! I thought you said it was poison?"
"Oh, I got some on my fingers. But I know it won't hurt. But there,"scraping the crystals from the spot, "it hasn't done a bit of good."
"Yes, it has done a little. I think the ink is not quite so black. But abrown spot is about as bad as a black one."
"I'll tell you what we ought to do," and Martine read the label on thebox.
"We should spread this out in the sun. Then something chemical willhappen, and the ink will fade away."
"This ink will _never_ fade. I am sure of that, and besides there's nosun to-day, and there won't be, because it's after four o'clock."
"To-morrow will do just as well," said Martine.
"If aunt Tilworth doesn't happen to come in."
"What are you afraid of, my dear Prissie? You surely don't expect youraunt to whip you like a baby?"
"Of course not. My aunt doesn't mean to be unkind, only she is veryparticular."
"I should say so. Her house shows that she was meant to be a regular oldmaid. How I should love to stir things up a little. I don't suppose youdropped that ink on purpose, though the room certainly looks far lessprim than when I saw it a day or two ago."
Priscilla bore Martine's teasing fairly well, but at last she saidfirmly, "I have wasted a lot of time over this ink-spot. Now I must goback to my work. I haven't even prepared my lessons for Monday. I knowyou will excuse me, Martine, and I am ever so much obliged for yourhelp."
"On this hint I'll act," replied Martine, gayly. "Your spot is certainlyworse than the one in Macbeth, though I won't use
the language thatMacbeth--or was it her Ladyship?--used regarding it. But don't worry,Prissie dear. I will arrange things so that no one will know whathappened." And suiting her action to her words, Martine carefullyreplaced the scarf on the table and set a large pincushion over theink-spot, so that not a vestige of the spot, or of the attempts toremove it, could be seen.
Then with a word or two more of absurd advice to Priscilla, Martine,bidding her friend good-bye, tripped lightly downstairs.
When Martine reached the lower story all was still. Priscilla had saidthat her aunt was at a meeting. Evidently she had not yet returned.
On her way downstairs a mischievous plan had been forming in Martine'sbrain.
"I'll never have a better chance," she said to herself, and she tiptoedinto the drawing-room.
A noise from the direction of the dining-room made her start. Thenglancing around she took heart.
"I think I can do it," she murmured, "before any one appears on thescene."
Again she felt discouraged as she noted how massive, how immovable mostof the furniture appeared. A large centre-table in the middle of theroom pleased her; she pushed it from its place into a distant corner.Over it she threw a scarf that had decorated a sofa. Then from the greatbookcase in the hall she took two or three volumes that she laid on thetable open and face downward.
"Everything seems glued to the walls," she murmured, "and these tidiesare so ugly. There can't be much harm in folding them up and puttingthem under the sofa."
Then she paused. "This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just thething for Julius Caesar." And tying the striped scarf around the neck ofthe great conqueror, she bolstered the bust on an easy-chair, draping anafghan around him to conceal his lack of body and limbs.
"'This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the thingfor Julius Caesar.'"]
Then with one or two minor touches to the room she hurried away.