Briarwood Girls Part 1

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.

A cry of admiration arose as Alison lifted it from the last swathings and held it up to view. The letter from Aunt Justina was tied to one side, and she unfastened it with fingers that shook a little. It was a message from the dead. It was so strange that that old lady, so far away, should have thought of her and sent her this beautiful thing, and written her a letter with her own trembling hand. With an odd feeling of unreality she unfolded the letter and read it aloud to her excited family.

"My dear great-niece, Alison," it began, "You have never seen me, perhaps you have never heard of me, until you will read this, after my death; and you will think it strange, perhaps, that I should take enough interest in you to send you my favorite lamp. Your father was my favorite nephew, and I had intended to make him my heir; but he displeased me by taking his own way in life, instead of the one I had planned for him. He had a right, I suppose, to do as he thought best, and I was wrong to try to force him to do as I wished. Whether he was wise or not, time will show. I am a lonely old woman with none of my own near me in my last years.

"I declared I would leave his name out of my will, and I must keep my word; but I have followed his career closely enough to know something of his family and circ.u.mstances.

And so, though I am leaving him nothing, I want to leave to his eldest daughter a small token of my interest and affection. Take it, my dear, as an old woman's freak. I bought it long ago in a quaint old shop in Venice. It is not an heirloom, and if you should some day wish to sell it, you may do so. On one condition, however: That is, that you keep it, _as it is_, until you are in some strait when no other help is available. Then, if you have exhausted all other resources, fill the lamp and light it. It may cast a light on your perplexities.

"Until then, keep it bright in remembrance of

"Your affectionate aunt,

"Justina Laurence."

A chorus of exclamations broke forth as Alison ceased reading. "What a strange old lady! Father, was she really angry with you for not doing as she wanted? And what was it?"

"She wanted me to go into politics, backed by her money; but I had no fancy for a politician's career, and I refused. Poor Aunt Justina! She was a very ambitious woman, and would have liked to see me President.

Well, I am glad she felt more kindly at the last. I never wanted her money; but I am glad she has remembered you, daughter," said Mr. Fair, examining Alison's legacy with interest.

"Keep it bright! Why, you can see your face in it now," cried Floss, peering into its s.h.i.+ning sides. "Sister, I don't see how you can wait to 'fill and light it.' I would like to see it lighted right away."

"But she says, 'Keep it as it is until you are in some strait,'" said Alison thoughtfully. "I would rather do just as she wished."

"So it will be just an ornament to stand on your table," said Billy disgustedly. "What a cranky old lady! What good will it do you?"

But Alison was not listening to him. A thought had flashed into her mind, and glancing at her mother she read the same thought in her eyes.

Quietly she lifted her "wonderful lamp" and placed it in the center of the table for all to admire.

Then she went away to her own room to think it over. Was she ever likely to be in a much greater strait than she was now? And would not Aunt Justina want her to go to college? If the lamp was to shed light on her perplexities, surely now was the time it was needed.

A tap at the door heralded her mother. "What is my daughter thinking of?" she asked, smiling.

"Of the same thing you are, mother. I see it in your face. Would it be against Aunt Justina's wishes, to light the lamp now? She must have meant _something_. And--if there is nothing more, after all--if it does not 'shed light on my perplexities,' at any rate, it is valuable in itself. But--I could hardly need its help more than I do now."

"I thought of that, too, Alison, and I think it could not be wrong to investigate. Shall we fill it now, and wait until dark to light it?"

The question settled, they all gathered round while Alison unscrewed the old-fas.h.i.+oned burner of the lamp. "Maybe there is some magic about it,"

she said, laughing nervously. "I feel like Aladdin. Shall I try rubbing it first? But it doesn't need any rubbing to brighten it."

The screw was a little stiff, but presently it turned. She removed it and peered curiously in the top.

"It is stuffed full of paper," she said. "More packing, I suppose. Wait till I pull it out."

"Careful," her father said, as she drew out a folded paper. He took it from her, and waited while she drew out another and another of the thin folded slips, until he had a handful. The bowl was large, and held a good many of those folded papers. When Alison had drawn out the last one, and turned to him, quite pale with excitement, he placed the packet in her hand.