CHAPTER XXII.
CHRISTMAS--MID-YEARS--AND THE WANDERTHIRST.
There are few lonelier and more dismal experiences in life thanChristmas away from home for the first time. Molly felt her heart sinkas the great day approached. One morning a trainload of chattering,laughing girls pulled out of the Wellington station. Judy hangingrecklessly to the last step, waved her handkerchief until Molly's figuregrew indistinct in the distance, and Nance on the crowded platformcalled out again and again, "Good-bye, Molly, dear. Good-bye!"
Molly almost regretted that she had ever left Kentucky, as the Christmastrain became a point of black on the horizon.
"I might have ended my days as a teacher in a country school-house andbeen happier than this," she thought desperately, starting back tocollege.
Some one came running up behind her. It was Mary Stewart who had beendown to see some classmates off. She was to take the night train to NewYork.
"When do you get off?" she asked, slipping her arm through Molly's likethe good comrade she was. "I'm surprised you didn't leave yesterday,with such a long journey before you."
"I'm not going home this Christmas," replied Molly.
"Not going?" began Mary. "You're to be left at Queen's by yourself?"
Molly nodded, vainly endeavoring to smile cheerfully.
"Then you're to go with me. I'll come right along now and help youpack," announced Mary decisively.
"But, Mary, I can't. I haven't anything--money or clothes----"
"Don't say 'but' to me! I've got everything. I've even got thedrawing-room to myself on the night train to New York. You shall gowith me. I don't know why I never thought of it before. We'll have abeautiful Christmas together. Since mother's death, five years ago,Christmas has been a dismal time at our house. You'll be just theperson to cheer us up. It will be like having a child in the house.You shall have a Christmas tree and hang up your stocking. Father willbe delighted and so will Brother Willie."
Thus overruled, Molly was borne triumphantly to New York that sameevening, and spent one of the most wonderful Christmases of her life inMary's beautiful home on Riverside Drive. As her mother and godmotherboth wisely sent her checks for Christmas gifts, she was not embarrassedby any lack of ready money. She was even rich enough to purchase a newevening dress and a pretty blouse which Mary had ordered to be sent upon approval, and not for many a year afterward did she guess why thosecharming things happened to be such bargains. But Molly was a veryinexperienced young person, and knew little concerning prices at thattime.
Mary's father was a fine man, quiet and self-contained, with a splendidrugged face. He treated his only daughter with indescribable tenderness,and called her "Little Mary." They did not see much of "Brother Willie,"a sophomore at Yale, and very busy enjoying his holiday. He regardedMolly as a child and his sister as an old maid, but condescended to takethem to the theatre twice.
But all good things must come to an end, and it seemed just a littlewhile before Molly found herself back at her old desk in her room atQueen's, writing a "bread-and-butter" letter to Mr. Stewart, whichpleased him mightily, since Mary's guests had never before taken thattrouble.
Judy came back radiantly happy. She had had a glorious time inWashington with her "vagabond" parents, as she called them. Nance, too,had enjoyed her Christmas with her father and busy mother, who had comehome to rest during the holidays. Only one of Queen's girls did not jointhe jolly circle that now congregated in the most hospitable room in thehouse to "swap" holiday experiences. But a letter had arrived from themissing member addressed to "Miss M. C. W. Brown," and beginning: "MyDear Molly Brown."
"Good-bye," the letter ran. "I'm off for Europe and Grandmamma, by the _Kismet_, sailing the eighteenth. I am afraid I was too much like a bull in a china shop at college. I was always breaking something, mostly rules. I've done lots of foolish things, and I am sorry. They were jokes, of course, most of them, and intended to frighten silly self-important people. I've learned a great deal from you and your friends, but I'd rather practice my new wisdom on other people. If you ever see me again you'll find me changed. I may enter a convent for a few years in France and learn to keep quiet. You did what you could for me, and so did the others. You are a first rate lot and you make a jolly good freshman class. I shall miss you, and I shall miss old Wellington. I wouldn't have come back this year if I hadn't felt the call of its two gray towers. Somehow, it's been more of a home to me than most places, and when I'm quite old and forgotten I shall go back and see it again some day. Good-bye again, and good luck. I've told Mrs. Murphy to give you my Persian prayer rug. It's just your color of blue.
"F. ANDREWS."
Molly read the letter aloud and the girls were half sorry and halfrelieved over its contents. After all, Frances was a very disturbingelement, but as Margaret Wakefield announced later at a meeting of theG. F. Society, she had responded to kind treatment, and she, Margaret,moved that they send her a combination steamer letter of farewell anda bunch of violets to cheer her on her lonely voyage. The movement waspromptly seconded by Molly, carried by universal acclaim, and theresolution put into effect immediately.
After Christmas comes the terror of every freshman's heart--the mid-yearexaminations. As the dreaded week approached, lights burned late inevery house on the campus and nobody offered any interference. Behindclosed doors sat scores of weary maidens with pale concentrated facesbent over text-books.
Judy Kean made a record at Queen's. She crammed history for thirty-sixhours at a stretch, only stopping for food occasionally or to snatch ahalf hour's nap.
It was Saturday and bitter cold. Examinations were to begin on Monday,and there yet remained two more blessed days of respite. Molly, in along, gray dressing gown, with a towel wrapped around her head, hadbeen cramming mathematics since six in the morning, and now at eleveno'clock, she lifted her eyes from the hated volume and looked about herwith a dazed expression as if she had suddenly awakened from a blackdream. Nance had hurried into the room.
"Molly, for heaven's sake, go to Judy. I think she's losing her mind.She has overstudied and it has affected her brain. I can't do anythingwith her at all."
"What?" cried Molly, rushing down the hall, her long, gray wrappertrailing after her in voluminous folds.
She opened Judy's door unceremoniously and marched in.
The room looked as if a cyclone had struck it. The contents of thebureau drawers were dumped onto the floor; the closet was emptied,clothes and books piled about on the bed and chairs, and Judy's twotrunks filled up what floor space remained.
Judy herself was working feverishly. She had packed a layer of books inone of the trunks and was now folding up her best dresses.
"Julia Kean, what are you doing?" cried Molly in a stern voice.
Judy gave her a constrained nod.
"Don't bother me now. There's a dear. I'm in a dreadful hurry."
Molly shook her violently by the shoulder. She had a feeling that Judywas asleep and must be waked up.
"Get up from there this minute and answer my question," she commanded.
"What was your question?" asked Judy with an embarrassed little laugh."Oh, yes, you asked what I was doing. I should think you could see Iwasn't gathering cowslips on the campus."
"Are you running away, Judy?" asked Molly, trying another tack.
"Yes, my Mariucci," cried Judy, quoting a popular song, "'_I'm gonapacka my trunk and taka my monk and sail for sunny It._'"
Molly refused even to smile at this witticism.
"I know what you're doing," she exclaimed. "You are running away fromexaminations. You're a coward. You are no better than a deserter fromthe army in time of war. It's bad enough in time of peace, but justbefore the battle--I'm so ashamed and disappointed in you that I canhardly understand how I ever could have loved you so much."
Judy went on stolidly packing, rolling her clothes into little bundlesand stuffing them in anywhere she could fin
d a place between hernumerous books.
"Have you lost your nerve, Judy, dear?" said Molly, after a minute,kneeling down beside her friend and seizing her hands.
"I suppose so," said Judy, extricating her hands, and speaking in ahard, strained voice in an effort to keep from breaking down. "I'drather not stay here and be disgraced by flunking, but there's anotherreason beside that, Molly. I know I look like a deserter and deserve tobe shot, but there's another reason," she wailed; "there's another goodreason."
"Why, Judy, dearest, what can it be?" asked Molly gently.
"They're going to Italy," she burst out. "They're sailing on Monday. Igot the letter to-day, and, oh, I can't stand it--I can't endure it.They'll be in Sicily in a few weeks--and without me! Mamma hates thecold. So do I. I'm numb now with it. Oh, Molly, they'll be sailingwithout me, and I want to go. You can't understand what the feelingis. There is something in me that is calling all the time, and I can'thelp hearing it and answering. In my mind I can live through every bitof the voyage. At first it's cold, bitter cold, and then after a fewdays we get into the Gulf Stream and gradually it grows warmer. Evenin the winter time the air is soft and smells of the south. At lastthe Azores come--cunning little islands snuggling down out there inthe Atlantic--and finally you see a long line of coast--it's Africa;then Gibraltar and the Mediterranean--oh, Molly--and Algiers, lovelyAlgiers, nestling down between the hills and looking across such aharbor! You can see the domes of the mosques as you sail in and Arabboys come out in funny little boats and offer to row you to shore.It's delightfully warm and you smell flowers everywhere. The sky is adeep blue. It's like June. And then, after Algiers, comes Italy----"
Judy had risen to her feet now, and her eyes had an uncanny expressionin them. She appeared to have lost sight entirely of the little room atQueen's, and through the chaos of books and clothing, she was seeing avision of the South.
"Come back to earth, Judy," said Molly, gently pulling her sleeve."Wouldn't your mother and father be angry with you for giving up collegeand joining them uninvited?"
"Angry?" cried Judy. "Of course not. Even if I just caught the steamer,it would be all right, they would fix it up somehow, and they would beglad--oh, so glad! What a glorious time we will have together. Perhapswe shall spend a few weeks in Capri. I shall try and make them stay awhile in Capri. Such a view there is at Capri across the Bay. Papa lovesNaples. He even loves its dirtiness and calls it 'local color.' We'llhave to stay there a week to satisfy him, and then mamma will make usgo to Ravello. She's mad about it; and then I'll have my choice--it'sVenice, of course; but we'll wait until it's warmer for Venice. April isperfect there, and then Rome after Easter. Oh, Molly, Molly, help mepack! I'm off--I'm off--isn't it glorious, Italy, when the springbegins, the roses and the violets and the fresias----"
Judy began running about the room, snatching her things from the bed andchairs and tossing them into the trunks helter-skelter. Molly watchedher in silence for a while. She must collect her ideas, and think ofsomething to say. But not now. It was like arguing with a lunatic to sayanything now.
At last Judy's feverish energy burned itself out and she sat down on thebed exhausted.
"So you're going to give up four splendid years at college and all thefriends you've made--Nance and me and Margaret and Jessie, and nice oldSallie Marks and Mabel, all the fun and the jolly times, the delightful,glorious life we have here--and for what? For a three months' trip youhave taken before, and will take again often, no doubt. Just for threeshort, paltry little months' pleasure, you're going to give up thingsthat will be precious to you for the rest of your life. It's not onlythe book learning, it's the associations and the friends----"
"I don't see why I should lose my friends," broke in Judy sullenly.
"They'll never be the same again. They couldn't after such adisappointment as this. You see, you'll always be remembered as a cowardwho turned and ran when examinations came--you lost your nerve anddropped out and even pretty little Jessie has the courage to face it.Oh, Judy, but I'm disappointed in you. It's a hard blow to come nowwhen we're all fighting to save ourselves and pull through safely. Andyou--one of the cleverest and brightest girls in the class. Don't tellme your father will be pleased. He'll be mortified, I'm certain of it.He's much too fine a man to admire a cowardly act, no matter whose actit is. You'll see. He'll be shocked and hurt. If he had thought it wasright for you to give up college on the eve of examinations, he wouldhave written for you to come. It will be a crushing blow to him, Judy."
Judy lay on her bed, her hands clasped back of her head. There was adefiant look on her face, and she kicked the quilt up and down with onefoot, like an impatient horse pawing the ground. Then, suddenly, shecollapsed like a pricked balloon. Burying her face in the pillows, shebegan sobbing bitterly, her body shaking convulsively with every sob.It was a terrible sight to see Judy cry, and Molly hoped she would bespared such another experience.
Without saying another word, Molly began quietly unpacking the trunksand putting the things back in their places. Then she pulled theempty trunks into the hall. This done, she filled a basin with water,recklessly poured in an ample quantity of Judy's German cologne, andsitting on the side of the bed, began bathing her friend's convulsedand swollen face. Gradually Judy's sobs subsided, her weary eyelidsdrooped and presently she dropped off into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Nance crept into the room.
"She's all right now," whispered Molly. "She's had an attack of the'wanderthirst,' but it's passed."
All day and all night Judy slept, and on Sunday morning she was her oldself once more, gay and laughing and full of fun. That afternoon she wasan usher at Vespers in Wellington Chapel, with Molly and Nance, and woreher best suit and a big black velvet hat.
She never alluded again to her attack of wanderthirst, but her devotionto Molly deepened and strengthened as the days flew by until it becameas real to her as her love for her mother and father.
Once in the midst of the dreaded examinations they did not seem sodreadful after all. The girls at Queen's came out of the fight with"some wounds, but still breathing," as Margaret Wakefield had put it.Molly had a condition in mathematics.
"I got it because I expected it," she said.
But Judy came through with flying colors--not a single black markagainst her. Jessie barely pulled through, and her friends rejoiced thatthe prettiest, most frivolous member of the freshman class had made sucha valiant fight and won.