CHAPTER XXXIV. MARIANNE WINS THE PRIZE.
"I can't understand it in the least, and what's more, I don't believeit's so." This from Catherine Lambert, who sat on a low bench bucklingher skates.
The tennis courts had been flooded and the shining blue expanse of icedelighted the girls of High Cliffs, who enjoyed outdoor frolics.
"But, Cathy, Miss Gordon herself made the announcement, and who are we todeny it?" Faith remonstrated. "However, as I said before, I never knewMarianne Carnot to write verse and when one is a natural poet, onescribbles in rhyme all of the time."
Muriel and Joy were skating toward the bench, their faces flushed beneaththeir jaunty tams.
"That's fine sport," Rilla declared as they glided up. "At least I canstand now, thanks to the patience of all of you girls, but I never willbe content until I can do the whirls and figure eights as well asCatherine."
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 glancedfrom one face to another, she exclaimed: "I know what it is! You haveheard who has won the poetry contest."
"Have you really?" This eagerly from Muriel. How she did hope that theprize had been awarded to Joy. But, remembering what Miss Gordon hadsaid, she almost knew the name that she would hear.
"Girls," Catherine Lambert said emphatically, "I'm just sure thatMarianne Carnot is a plagiarist."
Faith put a warmly gloved hand on the arm of her friend. "That's a veryserious accusation, Cathy. I really do not think that we ought to make itunless we have more evidence than we have at present."
Catherine whirled about and her dark eyes flashed. "I suppose you'd standby and see your best friends cheated out of the prize rather than callthat snobbish French girl a thief, which she is, of course, if she hascopied 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 goingto prove it? Of course, she is too clever to copy one of Tennyson's orany other poem with which we are all familiar. Now, I think the way forMiss Gordon to find out the truth of this matter would be to lockMarianne in a classroom and tell her she will have to stay there untilshe writes another poem of equal merit."
Gladys laughed. "Poor Marianne! She would be in there for the rest of hernatural life, I fear. Genius doesn't work that way. There was a pupilhere two years ago who composed music and said the inspiration came toher at the queerest hours. Once she went to the music room at threeo'clock in the morning, and poor Miss Humphrey, who slept just above, wasterribly frightened. She thought the music room was haunted. MaybeMarianne is the same way. Maybe she has had the one inspiration of herlifetime."
The dark eyes of Catherine flashed toward Gladys scornfully. "Since whenhave you taken to championing Marianne Carnot? Perhaps you would like tobe 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. NowI suggest that we all take hands and play cartwheel on the ice until thegong rings."
Half an hour later, flushed and warm, they were trooping back to theschool when little Peggy Paterson ran out to meet them, calling: "MurielStorm, Miss Widdemere wants you to stop at her office before you go toyour 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 themwas 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 letterwas from her dear Uncle Barney.
The good priest had written it for him, as he did so want Rilly to knowthat, Heaven willing, he and his old mother would sail for America in thespring.
"It's lonely I am for a look at me gal, an' it's lonely I am for me cabindown 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 letterjust as the kindly old Irishman had dictated it, and it sounded so likeher beloved Uncle Barney that, for a moment, it was hard for Muriel tokeep from crying.
"'Twill be a different place that he'll be findin'," she thought, "withthe lighthouse but a tumbled down heap of rocks and with grandfathergone. Oh, I'm that glad Uncle Barney's coming. I'll ask Uncle Lem to takeme to Tunkett just as soon as they are back."
Then Muriel opened the other envelope, which was addressed in ahandwriting with which she was familiar, as Gene wrote very often to his"storm maiden."
"Dear Rilla," the lad had written, "such an adventure as I have had! At last the dull grey monotony of living in England has ceased, for I have met the most interesting man, and, for some reason unknown to me, he invites my companionship. I really can't believe that I interest him, for all I do is listen while he talks so wonderfully about everything that is inside books and out. If there is one corner of this earth that he hasn't visited, I can't imagine where it is. Oh, yes, Tunkett! I don't suppose he has ever been there. In fact, it's such an out-of-the-way place I don't suppose anybody ever would find it unless he happened to be born there, as Uncle Lem was, and I, of course, went to visit him. Did I hear you inquire, 'Who is your new friend?'
"Muriel, I suppose I ought to be greatly impressed with the fact that he is a viscount. People over here treat him as though he were made of a very superior kind of clay, my mother among them, but the viscount himself isn't a bit flattered by the adulation he receives. He calls it 'tommyrot,' and whenever there are social functions at the castle (honest Injun, Rilla, that's what they call the turreted stone pile in which he lives), he retires to his rustic log cabin in the woods, which is so hedged in that strangers could not even guess that it was there unless they happened to stumble on it.
"I wish I could tell you about the man himself and do justice to him, but I simply can't. He has the most boyish face I ever saw crowned with grey hair. He tells me that he is forty-five years old, but he seems nearer my age than any chap of twenty I ever met.
"The first time I met him he suggested a hike through Scotland. It seemed a good deal of an undertaking, for I wasn't very strong (just beginning to take short walks), but every day I grew stronger, and what a week it was.
"The Viscount of Wainwater with a pack on his back was not recognized by anyone. The boy in his nature was very much in evidence that week. He sang as we tramped along the deserted highways and sometimes I knew that he was improvising. Then it was that I made a discovery. He is the Waine Waters whose vagabond poems so often appear in American magazines.
"One night we stopped at an out-of-the-way inn. We had been tramping over a snow-covered moor and, as we sat near the great fireplace where peat was burning, he began to scribble and at last he looked up and asked, 'Shall I read it to you?' I nodded, and, Muriel, that poem was a gem. It was called 'The Moor in Winter,' and told of the quiet trust that is in the heart of all nature, for, although the moor lies covered with snow, it is dreaming of the spring that is to bring back the bird song and the heather.
"I asked Waine (he told me to call him that) for a copy of the poem, and he gave it to me. I had planned sending it to you. I had it a week later when I returned. I took it to the library to show mother, but, finding that Monsieur Carnot and father were there, I turned away. I have never seen it since. I must have dropped it and the maid probably thought it merely a scrap and burned it. I'll ask Waine for another copy some day, but just now, with his countess mother, he has gone away for a fortnight.
"Isn't it about time that you were writing a
first letter to your brother-friend,
"Gene Beavers.
"P. S.--I have never mentioned you to Waine, but if you are willing, I'd like to show him that copy of 'The Lonely Pelican' which Doctor Winslow sent me. Shall I?
"Y. B., F. G."
Scarcely had Muriel finished reading this letter when Joy burst in with,"Rilla, Miss Gordon has called an assembly for two o'clock thisafternoon. We are all so excited, for this is only done on very especialoccasions. 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, whowere already seated.
"My opinion is that Miss Gordon merely wishes to announce the name of thewinner 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 ofbringing us together." And Joy was right.
Miss Gordon's smile, as she entered with Miss Humphrey and MissWiddemere, was so pleasant that it at once quieted the fears of thesenior girls that something had gone wrong.
"Although only a small group of you are interested in the poetrycontest," she began, "I wish you all to hear the three poems that havebeen pronounced best by a most able judge, who is the Professor ofEnglish literature at Columbia.
"The first prize has been awarded to Marianne Carnot, the second toMuriel Storm, and the third to Joy Kiersey."
There was a rustle among the girls, all of whom turned to look at thehonored three.
Muriel and Joy were not surprised at the announcement that the winner hadbeen Marianne Carnot, but they had not known that a second and thirdprize had been offered.
They made no whispered comment, however, as Miss Gordon was againspeaking. "I am going to ask the three girls, beginning with Joy, thenMuriel, and then Marianne, to come to the platform and read aloud thereally 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 didnot look up even when her name was mentioned.
After all, Faith decided, the meeting had a deeper purpose than that forwhich it had been called.
Joy, with her flower-like face flushed, read the poem, which she reallyknew by heart, so sympathetically, and the plaint of the Indian maid soappealed to her listeners, that they wondered how the other two poemscould 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, atleast, have had second place.
"Now, Marianne."
Faith and Catherine watched the French girl, and for that matter, so didMiss Gordon and Miss Humphrey, but the winner of the first prize seemedto be in no way disconcerted. She stood up and her dark eyes lookeddirectly into those of Miss Gordon as she took the manuscript.
Everyone had to acknowledge that Marianne read well, but what was shereading? From the very announcement of the title, Muriel had leanedforward, her breath coming in little gasps, her face suddenly pale, herhands clasped tensely.
Marianne, having read her poem through to the end, walked down the aislebetween the girls to her former seat, but she could not resist sending aglance of triumph toward Muriel. The clear hazel eyes that looked back ather were scornful and accusing. Marianne quickly seated herself, a deepred 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 readwas "Winter on the Moor." Muriel left the other girls directly after themeeting and hurried to her own room. She wanted to be alone to think, butthis she was not permitted to do. Almost immediately there came a tap onher door and Faith was admitted. With her hands on the shoulders of herfriend, she looked deep into the hazel eyes.
"Tell me, dear," she said. "I will keep it a secret if you wish. What istroubling you?"
Muriel turned and taking Gene's letter from its envelope, she read aloudhis 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. "Herfather 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 yearwhen Miss Gordon enumerated the ideals of High Cliffs, she mentionedplagiarism 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 wasthinking and planning for the Christmas holidays that were but two weeksaway.
However, it was noticeable that Marianne Carnot never again chose verseas the form of her compositions. Her classmates were not interestedenough to speculate about it, but Miss Gordon and Miss Humphrey believedthat some day they would know the truth.