Part 1 (1/2)
Briarwood Girls.
by Julia Lestarjette Glover.
CHAPTER I
ALISON'S WONDERFUL LAMP
”Mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?”
It was the first of June, and Alison Fair, just returned home for vacation at the end of her Freshman year, found herself confronted with the staggering knowledge that she could not return to Briarwood to finish her college course, so well and happily begun.
It was her mother who told her, breaking the hard news as gently as she could, that the pressure of hard times and financial stress made it impossible for her father to think of sending her back in the fall. She told it very tenderly and lovingly, making it clear that only stern necessity compelled them to deny her the opportunity; but the tenderness could not alter the hard fact.
”You are not more disappointed than we are, darling,” she said. ”I would not have told you so soon, but it would be worse if I would leave you under the impression that you can return to Briarwood College. You will be brave, and try not to distress your father by showing your disappointment too much. I know how hard it is, dear. But be patient, and perhaps some way will open. You are only sixteen, you can afford to wait a little.”
Alison swallowed the lump in her throat and said nothing. Wait--yes--but then she could not go on with her cla.s.s--with Polly and Evelyn and Joan and the rest. And next year they would be Soph.o.m.ores--and the fun and study would go on, and she would not be there; she would be out of it all. No other girls would be just the same as those girls, her chums of the Freshman year. And then she asked her one despairing question:
”Mother, isn't there _any_ way for me to go back?”
But even as she asked it, she knew the answer, and gave it herself. ”No, I know there isn't. Father would send me if he could. I'll try to be patient, mother. Don't worry. Don't mind, mother--” seeing that her mother's tears were flowing. ”I'll try not to think of it or talk of it any more. I've had one year, anyway. And maybe I can take a correspondence course, or something--”
She tried to speak bravely, but it was more than she could manage just now, and she hastily kissed her mother, and ran away to have it out by herself.
The children thought it strange that ”Sister,” suddenly stopped talking of her college experiences and the pranks and frolics of the girls. To their questions and demands to hear more, she would reply quietly, ”There isn't anything more to tell you, Floss. I guess I talked myself out those first few days. Now I want to hear all you have been doing during all the months I've been away.”
Which effectually diverted the attention of Floss and Billy and Mat and opened a flood of reminiscences of their own school life, to which she tried to listen patiently.
The summer dragged on. Alison had looked forward to it--and beyond it--with such eager pleasure; but the thought that she was not to go back seemed to take all the zest from life. Letters came from the girls--from Evelyn in the mountains, from Polly at the seaside, from Joan and Katherine in Europe--all telling of the good times they were having, and looking forward to their reunion at Briarwood in September.
And she would not be there. Trying not to show her disappointment too much, not to distress her father and mother, was as far as Alison could get. She could not look forward; there seemed nothing to look forward to. And to look back to the happy days of last winter was more than she could bear.
So the days pa.s.sed, and grew into weeks. August came, with glowing sun and deep blue skies. Summer was at its glorious height. One bright morning Billy came whistling in with the mail; a letter for Alison from Joan, her roommate of last winter, and a long, legal-looking envelope for Mr. Fair. Both became absorbed, and Alison, deep in Joan's news, scarcely heard when her father said gravely,
”Aunt Justina is dead.”
”Who is Aunt Justina?” asked Floss with some curiosity, wondering why father looked so ”funny.”
”An old great-aunt of mine, who lived far away, in New England. You children have scarcely heard of her, perhaps, but I used often to be at her house, as a boy, in my holidays. Now she is dead, and her lawyer has sent me a copy of her will. Wait, I will read it.”
He unfolded a stiff typewritten doc.u.ment. All the family were listening now. Alison folded up Joan's sheet and looked up, interested.
”Did she leave you anything, father?” Floss inquired. ”Was she very rich?”
”No, not very. She was eccentric, and I never expected anything from her. No, she has left me nothing. Most of her money was left to charities; but she has left you, Alison, a bequest. Whether it is of any value or not we cannot tell until we see it. Here it is in the will: 'To my great niece, Alison Fair, my bra.s.s lamp which stands on my dresser, with a letter, which I direct shall be sent to her along with it.'
”The lawyer says: 'The lamp has been forwarded by express, the letter being enclosed with it.' It will probably arrive today, and you can see for yourself what Aunt Justina's legacy is like. It may be valuable; she had a fancy for collecting antiques, and she traveled a good deal in her younger days. On the other hand, it may be merely an old lamp on which she set some fict.i.tious value. So don't raise your expectations too high.”
The thought crossed Alison's mind: ”I wish she had left me its value in money instead;” but she did not say it aloud. It seemed unsuitable to think of money when Aunt Justina was just dead, though she could not be expected to grieve over-much for an aged relative whom she had never seen.
Later in the day the expressman brought a box for Alison. The family crowded around, all eager to help in unpacking the legacy. It was beautifully packed, and as layer after layer of wrappings was lifted off, curiosity rose to an almost irrepressible height. Finally the lamp itself came into view, a beautiful thing of s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s; ancient Venetian work, hammered and beaten into a shape of exquisite loveliness by artist fingers, long since dust.