  “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.”
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. |
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