"Now," said Judith inelegantly to Nancy, "Genevieve will have another spasm."

Privately she resolved to play the detective.

She awoke next morning to hear the rain falling steadily. "Ugh," she thought, "a rainy day and my Latin isn't finished--two horrid things to begin with." And then she remembered her plans of the night before.

Instantly she was out of bed; she wouldn't try to keep her secret any longer. Nancy should share it, but she wouldn't tell Sally May until she had caught Genevieve. Nancy was impressed by Judith's cleverness in thinking of such a thing, but doubtful about Genevieve's guilt.

"Why, she cried and cried; I saw her," Nancy kept repeating. "She couldn't have done it herself."

But Judith was not to be shaken in her resolve, and leaving the study room a little before one o'clock she settled herself in Helen Richard's cupboard to watch. Fortunately for Judith's plan Helen was in the Infirmary with a sore throat and through the keyhole of her cupboard Judith had a clear view of the letter-box.

At a quarter-to-one Miss Marlowe put out the mail, but no one else came near the box until one o'clock when every one came as usual. Then, when everything was quiet again, Judith slipped out and caught up with the others as they went down to the dining-room. Before dinner was quite over, she asked permission to leave early, and she hid herself once more in the cupboard.

The afternoon seemed interminably long, and as the cupboard was stuffy and close, if it had not been for Nancy's chocolates Judith felt that she could not have kept awake. Her knees ached horribly, for she was in a cramped position, but she never dreamed of giving up, so sure was she that something would happen.

And something did happen.

At a quarter-to-five the mail was put out, and as no one had appeared, Judith was beginning to think that she would have to watch another day, when suddenly she saw Genevieve come swiftly down the corridor, pause for an instant at the box, slip in a letter, and then vanish as quickly as she had come.

Judith could hardly wait to get the letter into her own hands. Yes, it was the now familiar printed envelope.

"Genevieve Singleton."

What should she do? Whom should she tell? Nancy? Eleanor? Miss Marlowe?

No; Catherine was the one most concerned. Judith fairly ran with the precious missive to Catherine's room and fortunately found Catherine there studying. Her story was soon told and Catherine was scarcely less excited than Judith.

"Judy, you are the brickiest brick, and the trumpest trump! Come here and let me shake you. Hasn't it been horrid--such a little thing, but everybody in such a stew," she added in a confidential tone, which was ample reward to Judith. "And now we can be rid of her, the little wretch! Three cheers for the first mate of the 'Jolly Susan!'"

The two of them went arm in arm down to the Captain's room. Judith told her story but so modestly and so simply that Eleanor forgot the necessity of "keeping a fifth-form new girl in her place."

The six o'clock dressing-bell rang before they could do more than decide to have a formal prefects' meeting at which they would confront Genevieve with the letter.

"She'll confess, of course, right away," whispered Catherine scornfully to Judith as they went down to tea; "she's that sort."

And this proved to be a true prophecy. Confronted by the prefects, sitting like judges at their study table, Genevieve turned pale and looked unmistakably guilty, and when Eleanor said in her sternest voice: "You were seen putting this letter, which you addressed to yourself, in the letter-box," Genevieve made no denials; she broke down and confessed to all four letters. Her misery and humiliation were so genuine and so overwhelming that Eleanor wisely sent her to her room in the care of Patricia, who could be trusted not to give Genevieve too much sympathy.

Then the prefects faced the difficult question of the culprit's punishment. Esther wanted a special house meeting called at which Genevieve and her ways could be denounced; Catherine thought that a public apology should be made to Sally May, for Genevieve, it seemed, was responsible for the spreading of the false accusation; Helen remarked that Genevieve would like nothing better than to be the centre of such a romantic picture, and she added shrewdly, "Half the girls would make a martyr of her and think we had been awfully cruel and unfair."

Finally, after much discussion it was decided that Eleanor should consult Miss Marlowe, who must be informed that the culprit had been discovered. Miss Marlowe was interested and sympathetic.

"I'll send her to the Infirmary for a few days," she said; "the child is really not well. She is growing too fast and she is morbid and self-centred. Every one thinks of her as seventeen and she has just turned fifteen. Then after she is back again let the facts be made known about the letters; that's only fair to Sally May and to Catherine; but do it as casually as possible. Nothing is so bad for Genevieve as too much attention--and keep an eye on Judith," she added; "she is worth watching, Eleanor. She and Nancy ought to be prefects next year, so we mustn't let Judith be spoiled over this."

Genevieve was safely tucked up in one of the cheerful Infirmary rooms, and for the time she suffered as only a sensitive, highstrung girl of fifteen can suffer. Her one interest in life at the present time was her emotions; her pa.s.sionate attachments were usually short-lived, but for the time being they blotted out everything else. Just now she desired Catherine's love and approval with all the force of her undisciplined nature, and, born actress that she was, it was the wish to attract Catherine's admiration, or at least her attention, which had made her Malvolio last term so outstandingly good. She lacked a sense of proportion in all her thinking, and even now that she had been found out, and knew that she would be shamed in the eyes of the whole school, the only thing that mattered to her was that Catherine would have even less to do with her than before. Eleanor's stern voice might have been the buzzing of a fly; Genevieve's eyes had been fixed on Catherine's face and she had read her sentence there.

For two whole days she wanted to die, and then quite suddenly she transferred her affections to a young nurse who was temporarily a.s.sisting the school nurse. She made Miss Burton promise her at least three dances for the prefects' dance on Friday night, and she did frantic sums in mental arithmetic trying to calculate whether she had enough in the bank to buy a posy of sweetheart roses for her new idol's adornment.

Genevieve returned to school to find every one discussing the dance, and the anonymous letters seemed entirely forgotten. But Eleanor found her opportunity a day or two later. The usual crowd was about the letter-box at five o'clock, and Eleanor noted with satisfaction that both Sally May and Catherine were there.

"Any for me?" she called to Sally May, who was at the box.

"Not one," was the answer.

"Oh, well," said Eleanor, clearly and distinctly, "of course I can always follow Genevieve's example and _write one to myself_, a printed one, I mean; but no, on second thoughts I don't believe I shall, they are rather horrid things, don't you think?" And she walked quietly away.

For days afterwards at mail-time Jane, who loved to ride a joke--"till it died of sheer exhaustion," as Peggy said--could always raise a laugh at Genevieve's expense. "Any a-non-y-mous letters for me?" she would inquire plaintively. "No? I really must see about it. I suppose I must attend to it myself."

CHAPTER XI

FRIENDS

EASTER examinations, although a month away, were already looming darkly on the horizon and Judith settled down to a long and hard pull.

"So much to learn and so little time," she groaned to Nancy. "I'd like to spend all my time on my essay for Miss Marlowe, but there are French and geometry tests next week, which need every minute of study time I have. Why can't the days be forty hours long?"

However, most of the school thought the days quite long enough, and in fact some happy souls had already counted up the number of hours until the holidays began and were ticking them off with great glee.

Judith's delight in lesson hours was steadily increasing. Even in mathematics cla.s.ses which she disliked, she was beginning to feel the joy of triumphing over difficulties, and she looked forward to her literature lessons as the happiest hours of the week. Loving Nancy as she did, Judith was always trying to share her enjoyment of some beautiful lines of poetry or an interesting scene in the play they were studying, and not always with p.r.o.nounced success. Nancy's mind was of a practical turn; she was very lukewarm about poetry.

"Listen to this," Judith had commanded one day as she sat waiting for Nancy to finish dressing for dinner:

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank: Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims;

"Isn't that beautiful?"

"Y-e-s," said Nancy, "I suppose it is. The words sound nice when you read them, but I'm sure I haven't a ghost of an idea what it means. Why does he put his ideas into poetry? Why doesn't he say it out plainly so we could all understand it without studying? It's an interesting play, though I believe it is Miss Marlowe who has made it so interesting," she added shrewdly; "I mean if any one had given me the 'Merchant of Venice' to read just like any other book, I'd never have gotten through it. Why can't Shakespeare say things right out plain?"

This was a poser for Judith. "But," she stammered, "it's like--like music. Music isn't right out plain; it's _meant_ to be beautiful."

"Nancy must be joking," thought Judith as she tried to decide why the cherubims were "young-eyed." But no; a few days later Nancy was quite pettish about the preparation Miss Marlowe had set them.

"Find three stanzas of poetry which you could say are 'A joy forever.'"

"How do I know whether they are a joy forever?" she demanded irately of Judith; "I've been hunting for an hour and I can't find any. I don't know what it's all about most of the time."

"But didn't you like 'The Skylark,' and 'The Forsaken Merman,' and 'The Lotus-Eaters,' and 'Ulysses,' and 'The Lady of Shalott' and--oh, Nancy, there are lots to choose from. Let's find some that sound nice and some that have beautiful pictures in them."

They spent a happy hour together, for Judith loved poetry, and it was nice to share it with Nancy.

Looking back afterwards that seemed to Judith to be the last happy hour she had with Nancy for some time. Judith hardly noticed just when it began, but for some reason or other Nancy and Sally May were together now a great deal of their time.

"Choosing partners" was a sacred rite at York Hill, and now it seemed that Nancy and Sally May were always partners for walks, for church, for the symphony concert, and for Miss Meredith's dinner-party.

This last was a great disappointment to Judith. Miss Meredith's dinner-parties were very special treats; about once a fortnight she entertained half a dozen girls at her own dinner-table and, when Nancy had told Judith about these parties, Judith had taken it for granted that they would be partners if they happened to be invited together. And now Sally May was going with Nancy! An ugly little spirit of jealousy began to whisper in Judith's mind. Top Self listened to his hints and surmises: "Nancy doesn't care about you any more; she and Sally May have secrets from you; perhaps they were laughing at you last night when you heard them whispering." Deep-Down Self made protests, "Why couldn't Nancy have two good friends? Of course she still loves you; you can't expect her to be always with you."