Molly Brown's Freshman Days Part 23

There were several letters for the girls; Judy's bi-weeklies from both her parents, who wrote to her a.s.siduously, and Molly's numerous home epistles from her sisters and mother. But there were two, one for each of the girls, with the Exmoor postmark on them.

Molly opened hers first.

"Oh, Judy," she exclaimed, "do you remember that nice Exmoor Soph.o.m.ore named 'Upton?' He wants to come over Sat.u.r.day afternoon to call and go walking. Dodo has probably written the same thing to you. I see you have an Exmoor letter."

"He has," answered Judy, perusing her note. "He wishes the honor of my company for a short walk. Evidently they don't think we have many engagements since they don't give us time to answer their notes."

"Judy!"

"Molly!"

The two girls looked at each other for a brief moment and then broke into a laugh.

"Nance's letter must have been from one of the others, Andy McLean, perhaps, that was why she was so----"

Judy paused. Somehow, it didn't seem very kind to imply that poor Nance was elated over her first beau.

"Dear, sweet old Nance!" cried Molly, her heart warming to her friend.

"She will probably have them by the dozens some of these days."

"I'm sure I should camp on her trail if I were a man," said Judy loyally. "But, Molly," she added, laughing again, "what are we to do about old Mrs. Oldham?"

"Oh, dear! I hadn't thought of that. And poor Nance would have enjoyed the walk so much more than a learned discourse on woman's rights."

Just before supper time Nance burst into the room. She was humming a waltz tune; her cheeks looked flushed, and she went briskly over to the mirror and glanced at her image quickly, while she took off her tam and sweater.

The girls had never seen her looking so pretty. They waited for her to mention the note, but she talked of other things until Judy, always impatient to force events, exclaimed:

"What was that note you were waving at us this afternoon, Nance?"

"Oh, that was from----"

A tap on the door interrupted her and Margaret Wakefield entered.

"Oh, Nance," she cried, "I am so excited over your mother's coming to speak at college to-morrow afternoon. Isn't it fine of her? It's Miss Bowles, Professor in Advanced Math., who is bringing her, you know, of course?"

Except that her face turned perfectly white, Nance showed no sign whatever that she had received a staggering blow, but her two friends felt for her deeply and Molly came to her rescue.

"By the way, Nance, dearest," she said, "I thought you might want to have your mother with you to-morrow night, and I was going to offer you my bed and turn in with Judy."

"Thanks, Molly," answered Nance, huskily; "that would be nice."

Very little ever escaped the alert eyes of Margaret Wakefield; but if she noticed anything strange in Nance's manner, she made no comment whatever. She was a fine girl, full of sympathy and understanding, with a certain well-bred dignity of manner that is seldom seen in a young girl.

"It will be quite a gala event at Queen's if Mrs. Oldham eats supper here," she said gently; "but no doubt she will be claimed by some of the faculty." Then she slipped quietly out of the room, just in time, for quiet, self-contained Nance burst suddenly into a storm of weeping and flung herself on the bed.

"And she never even took the trouble to tell me," she sobbed brokenly.

"She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington."

It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her arms around her.

"Darling, sweetest Nance," she cried, "I am sure the message will come.

Perhaps she'll telegraph, and they will telephone from the village. Judy and I love you so dearly, it breaks our hearts to see you cry like this.

Doesn't it, Judy?"

"Indeed, it does," answered Judy, who was kneeling at the side of the couch with her cheek against Nance's hand.

It was a comfort to Nance to realize that she had gained the friendship and affection of these two loving, warm-hearted girls. Never in her life had she met any girls like them, and presently the bitterness in her heart began to melt away.

"Perhaps she will telegraph," she said, drying her eyes. "It was silly of me to take on so, but, you see, I had a little shock--I'm all right now. You're dears, both of you."

Judy went into her own room and returned in a moment with a large bottle of German cologne. Filling the stationary wash basin with cold water she poured in a liberal quant.i.ty of the cologne.

"Now, dearest Nance," she said, "bathe your face in that, and then powder with Molly's pink rice powder, and all will be as if it never had been," she added, smiling.

The others smiled, too. Somehow, Nance's outburst had done her more good than harm. For the first time in her life she had been coddled and sympathized with and petted. It was almost worth while to have suffered to have gained such rewards. After all, there were some pleasant things in life. For instance, the note which had come to her that afternoon from young Andy McLean, son of Dr. McLean, the college physician. To think that she, "the little gray mouse," as her father had often called her, had inspired any one with a desire to see her again. It was almost impossible to believe, but there was the young Scotchman's note to refute all contrary arguments.

"DEAR MISS OLDHAM," it said, in a good, round handwriting, "I have been wanting so much to see you again since our jolly day at Exmoor. I am bringing some fellows over on Sat.u.r.day to supper at my father's. If you should happen to be in about four o'clock, may I call? How about a walk before supper? I can't tell you how disappointed I'll be if you have another engagement.

"Yours sincerely, "ANDREW MCLEAN, 2D."

Of course, she would have to give up the walk now, but it was pleasant to have been remembered and perhaps he would come again.

That night at supper Nance was unusually bright and talkative. She answered all the many questions concerning her famous mother so easily and pleasantly that even Margaret Wakefield must have been deceived.

The two soph.o.m.ores at Queen's were giving a dance that evening, and while the girls sat in the long sitting room waiting for the guests to arrive, Judy took occasion to whisper to Molly:

"Why should she have to appear at the lecture, anyhow?"

"Because it would be disrespectful not to," answered Molly. "She must be there, of course. Would you go gallivanting off with a young man if your mother was going to give a lecture here?"

"I should say not; but that's different."

"No, no," persisted Molly; "it's never different when it's your mother, even when she doesn't behave like one. Can't you see that Nance would rather die than have people know that her mother isn't exactly like other mothers?"

The next day was one of the busiest in the week for Molly. Two of her morning hours she spent coaching Judy in Latin. Then there were her lace collars to be done up, her stockings to be darned; a trip to be made to the library, where she stood in line for more than twenty minutes waiting for a certain volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and spent more than an hour extracting notes on "Norse Mythology." It was well on toward lunch time when she finally hastened across the campus to Queen's to fill some orders for "cloud-bursts," which were intended to be part of the refreshments for certain Sat.u.r.day evening suppers.

So weary was she and so intent on getting through in what she called "schedule time," that she almost ran into Professor Edwin Green before she even recognized him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, a wave of color sweeping over her pale face.

"Why are you hurrying so fast on Sat.u.r.day?" he asked pleasantly. "Don't you ever give yourself a holiday?"

"Oh, yes; lots of them," she answered; "but I'm a little rushed to-day with some extra duties."

She thought of the "cloud-bursts," which must be made and packed in boxes by the afternoon.

"You are overdoing it, Miss Brown. You are not obeying the doctor's orders. When I see you there to-night I shall confront you in his presence with the charge of disobedience."