Meg of Mystery Mountain

Grace May North

Meg of Mystery Mountain

CHAPTER I

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL

Jane Abbott, tall, graceful and languidly beautiful, passed through the bevy of girls on the wharf below Highacres Seminary with scarcely a nod for any of them. Closely following her came three other girls, each carrying a satchel and wearing a tailored gown of the latest cut.

Although Esther Ballard and Barbara Morris called gaily to many of their friends, it was around Marion Starr that all of the girls crowded until her passage way to the small boat, even then getting up steam, was completely blocked.

Jane, when she had crossed the gang plank, turned to find only Esther and Barbara at her side. A slight sneer curled her lips as she watched the adulation which Merry was receiving. Then, with a shrug of her slender shoulders that was more eloquent than words, the proud girl seated herself in one of the reclining deck chairs and imperiously motioned her friends to do likewise.

“It’s so silly of Merry to make such a fuss over all those girls. She’ll miss the boat if she doesn’t hurry.”

Marion had evidently thought of the same thing, for she laughingly ran up the gang plank, her arms filled with candy boxes, boquets and magazines, gifts of her admiring friends. Depositing these on a chair, she leaned over the rail to call: “Good-bye, girls! Of course I’ll write to you, Sally, reams and reams; a sort of a round-robin letter to be sent to the whole crowd.

“Sure thing, Betty Ann. I’ll tell my handsome brother Bob that you don’t want him to ever forget you.” Then as there was a protest from the wharf, the girl laughingly added: “But you wished to be remembered to him. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Noticing a small girl who had put her handkerchief to her eyes, Merry remonstrated. “Tessie, don’t cry, child! This isn’t a funeral or a wedding. Of course you’ll see us again. We four intend to come back to Highacres to watch you graduate just as you watched us today. Work hard, Little One, and carry off the honors. I’ve been your big-sister coach all this year, and I want you to make the goal. I know you will! Goodbye!” Marion Starr could say no more for the small river steamer gave a warning whistle – the rope was drawn in, and, as the boat churned the water noisily in starting, the chorus of goodbyes from the throng of girls on the wharf could be heard but faintly.

Marion remained standing at the rail, waving her handkerchief, smiling and nodding until the small steamer rounded a jutting-out point of land, then she turned about and faced the three other girls, who had made themselves comfortable in the reclining steamer chairs.

“What a fuss you make over all those undergrads, Merry,” Jane Abbott remarked languidly. “A casual observer might suppose that each one of them was a very best friend, while we three, who are here present, have that honor. For myself, I much prefer to conserve my enthusiasm.”

Marion sat down in a vacant steamer chair, and merely smiled her reply, but the youngest among them, Esther Ballard, flashed a defense for her ideal among girls. “That’s the very reason why Merry was unanimously voted the most popular girl in Highacres during the entire four years that we have been at the seminary. Nothing was ever too much trouble, and no girl was too unimportant for Merry’s loving consideration.”

“Listen! Listen!” laughed good natured Barbara Morris. “All salute Saint Marion Starr.”

But Esther, flushed and eager, did not stop. “While you, Jane Abbott” – she could not keep the scorn out of her voice – “while you were only voted the most beautiful.”

“Only?” there was a rising inflection in Barbara’s voice, and she also lifted her eyebrows questioningly. “I think our queen is quite satisfied with her laurels.”

Jane merely shrugged her shoulders, then turning her dark, shapely head on the small cherry colored pillow with which she always traveled, she asked in her usual languid manner, “Marion, let’s forget the past and plan for the future.”

“You said you had a wonderful vacation trip to suggest, and that you would reveal it when we were on the boat. Well, this is the time and the place.”

“And the girls?” chimed in Barbara. “Do hurry and tell us, Merry. Your plans are always jolly.”

And so with a smile of pleasurable anticipation, Merry began to unfold her scheme.

“Aunt Belle is going to one of those adorable cottage hotels at Newport. She is just past-perfect as a chaperone and she said that she thought a party of four girls would be ideal. It will only cost each of us about $100 a month.”

“A mere mite,” Jane Abbott commented, “and the plan, as far as I’m concerned, is simply inspirational. I’ve always had a wild desire to live at one of those fashionable cottage-hotels, but not having a mother to take me, I have never been. I know my father will be glad to have me go, since your Aunt Belle is to be there, and I shall ask for $150 a month, so that we may have plenty of ice cream and not feel stinted.”

The usually indolent Jane was so interested in Merry’s plan that she was actually sitting erect, the small cherry-colored pillow in her lap.

“I’m not so sure that I can go,” Esther Ballard said ruefully. “My father is not a Wall Street magnate as is your father, Jane, and $100 a month may seem a good deal to him, following so closely the vast sum that he has had to spend on my four years’ tuition at Highacres.”

“Nonsense,” Jane flashed at their youngest. “You are the idol of your artist-father’s existence. He’d give you anything you needed to make you happy.”

Then, before Esther could voice her retort, the older girl had continued: “As for me, I shall need an additional $500 for clothes. Since we are going to so fashionable a place, we ought to have the smartest and latest summer styles from Paris. Let’s all make note of the wardrobe we’d like to take.”

Out came four small leather notebooks and with tiny pencils suspended above them, the girls thought for a moment.

Then Merry scribbled something as she remarked, “My first is a bathing suit. Green, the color mermaids wear.”

“Mine shall be cherry colored. It best suits my style of beauty,” Jane said complacently.

“You surely do look peachy in it,” Barbara remarked admirably. “It doesn’t matter what I put on, my squint and my freckled pug nose spoil it all.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad!” Esther said generously. “I heard one of the cadets at our closing dance say that he thought your squint was adorable.”

“Lead me to him!” Barbara jumped up as though about to start in search of her unknown admirer, but sank back again when she recalled that she was on a steamer which was chugging down the Hudson at its best speed.

“Do be serious, girls. See, I’ve made out a long list of things that I shall need.” Jane held up her notebook for inspection. But Esther closed hers and replaced it in her natty alligator traveling bag. “I’ll select my wardrobe after I have had my father’s consent,” she said. “You might as well stop planning now, Jane, as we are nearly to the Battery.”

Esther was right and in another five moments all was confusion on the small steamer. When they had safely crossed the gang plank, Merry detained them long enough to say, “Girls, before we part, let’s plan to meet at my home next Friday. Since you will all have to travel so far, suppose you come early and stay to lunch. Then we can make our final plans. How I do hope that we can all go.”

“I know that I can,” Jane replied confidently. “I always do as I wish, and nothing could induce me to spend another summer with my young brother and sister. They’re so boisterous and bothersome. As for Dan, he’s so eager to make high grades at college that he always is deep in a book.”

“Why Jane Abbott,” rebuked Esther. “I think your little sister is adorable. I’d give anything if I were not an only child.” Jane merely shrugged. “Au revoir,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to catch the ferry.”

CHAPTER II

THE MOST SELFISH GIRL

The girls who had been inseparable friends during the four years at the fashionable Highacres Seminary parted at the Battery to go in as many different directions.

Marion Starr’s home was far up on Riverside Drive, while Barbara Morris’ millionaire father had an extensive estate on Long Island. Esther Ballard, the only daughter of devoted parents, resided in the house of her grandfather, Colonel Ballard, on Washington Square, while Jane Abbott’s family of four lived in the same rambling, picturesque wooden house that Mr. Abbott’s father had built for his bride long before his name had become so well known on Wall Street. Edgemere, a pretty little town among the Jersey hills, Mr. Abbott deemed a good place to bring up his younger girl and boy, and so, although Jane often pleaded that they move to a more fashionable suburb, in Edgemere they had remained. Nor would her father tear down the old home to replace it with one finer, for his beloved wife, who had died at the birth of little Julie, had planned it and had chosen all of the furnishings. “Some day you will have a home of your own, Jane,” he had told his proud older daughter, “and then you may have it as fine as you wish.”

But in all other things, Mr. Abbott humored her, for she was so like her mother in appearance. It was with sorrow that the father had to confess in his heart that there the resemblance ceased, for the mother, who had been equally beautiful, had been neither proud nor selfish. Little Julie, though not so beautiful, was far more like the mother in nature, and so, too, was Daniel, the nineteen-year-old lad upon whom the father placed so much reliance.

Regrettable as it may seem, Jane Abbott, as she stood on the deck of the ferry that was to convey her to the Jersey shore, was actually dreading the two weeks that she would have to spend in her own home. Marion had suggested that they plan going to Newport by the middle of July and it was now the first.

It was late afternoon, and there were many working girls on the huge ferry, who were returning to their Jersey homes after a long hot day in the New York offices. As they crowded against her, Jane drew herself away from them haughtily, thankful, indeed, that her father was so wealthy that she would never have to earn her own way in the world, nor wear such unattractive ready-made dresses. Unconsciously her lips curled scornfully until she chanced to catch a glimpse of her own trim tailored figure in one of the panel mirrors; then she smiled complacently and seated herself somewhat apart from the working girls, who, from time to time, glanced at her, as she supposed, with admiration. But she was disabused of this satisfying thought when one of them spoke loud enough for her to hear. “See that stiff-necked snob! She thinks she’s made of different clay from the rest of us. I wish her pa’d lose his money, so she’d have to scrub for a living.”

This remark merely caused Jane to sneer slightly, but what she heard next filled her heart with terrified foreboding, for another girl had turned to look at her and replied:

“Well, if she’s who I think she is, her father’s already gone bankrupt, and she’s poor enough, all right.”

The working girls then moved to another part of the ferry and Jane was left alone. It was ridiculous, of course. Her father could not lose his vast fortune. Jane determined to think no more about it. The ferry had reached its destination, and the proud girl hurried away. Never before had she so longed to reach her home.

“Of course it is not true,” her panicky thought kept repeating. “But what could it mean? What could it mean?”

* * * * * * * *

Jane vowed to herself that she would not again think of what the spiteful working girl had said, for how could she, a mere nobody, have information concerning the affairs of a man of her father’s standing, which Jane, his own daughter, did not have?

But a disquieting thought reminded her that the working girl’s face had been familiar, and then memory recalled that she had seen her in the very building on Wall Street where Mr. Abbott’s offices were located.

Jane’s troubled reverie was interrupted by a joyous exclamation, and her brother, who was three years her senior and a head taller, leaped from the crowd and held out both hands. His greeting was so enthusiastic, his expression so radiant, that the girl was convinced that all was well with their father, and so she said nothing of what she had heard.

It was not until they were seated on the train and had started for Edgemere that Jane noticed how pale and thin was her brother’s face, and, when his eager flow of conversation was interrupted by a severe coughing spell, the girl exclaimed with real concern, “Why, Brother Dan, what a terrible cold you have! You ought to be in bed.”

The boy’s smile was reassuring. “Don’t worry about that cough, sis,” he said lightly. “Now the grind is over, it will let up, I’m thinking. But it surely has stuck closer than a postage stamp. Caught it weeks ago, but I’ve been so busy, well, doing things, that I haven’t had time to coddle myself.”

Suddenly the lad’s expression became very serious, and turning, he placed a thin hand, that was far too white, lovingly on his sister’s as he said: “Jane, dear, some changes have taken place in our home since you went back to Highacres last Christmas. For Dad’s sake try to bear them bravely.”

Then it was true, true, all that this dreadful working girl had said. For a moment the girl’s whole being surged with self-pity, then she felt cold and hard. What right had their father to lose his fortune and bring disgrace and privation upon his family? In a voice that sounded most unfeeling, she asked, “And just what may those changes be?”

It was hard, so hard for Dan to tell the whole truth to a girl whom he knew, with sorrow, thought only of herself. He had believed that trouble might awaken the true Jane, whom he had always felt must be somewhere deep under all the adamant of selfishness, but as yet there was no evidence of it.

He removed his hand, as from something that hurt him, and folding his arms, he began: “Our father is in great trouble, Jane, and he needs our aid, but at present all we can do is to bear cheerfully the inconveniences that are not nearly as severe as many others have to endure.”

But the girl was impatient. “For goodness sakes, Dan, don’t preach! Now is no time to moralize. If our father has done some idiotic speculating and has lost his money, tell me so squarely.”

A red spot burned in each pale cheek of the lad and a light of momentary indignation flashed in his eyes, but he replied calmly enough: “Remember, Jane, that you are speaking of our father, one of the noblest men who ever trod on this earth. You know as well as I do that Dad never did any wildcat speculating.”

“Well, then, stop beating around the bush and tell me just what has happened.”

CHAPTER III

FACING HARD TRUTHS

“It is because our father is honest that today we are poor,” Dan Abbott began, “and I glory in that fact.”

His sister, sitting beside him in the train that was nearing Edgemere, curled her lips but did not reply. “The firm to which Dad belonged made illegal contracts in western oil fields. The other men will be many times richer than they were before, but, because our father scorned to be a party to such dishonesty, he has failed. Not a one of the men in whom he trusted made the slightest effort to help avert the catastrophe.”

“When did this all happen?” Jane’s voice was still hard, almost bitter, as though she felt hatred and scorn for her father, rather than loyalty and admiration.

“Last February,” was the brief reply.

“Then why was I not informed? Am I a mere infant to be kept in ignorance of facts like these? Father has treated me unfairly, letting me boast to my most intimate friends that I could have an elaborate Paris wardrobe for the summer. My position is certainly a most unpleasant one.”

At this the slow temper of the lad at her side flamed and though he spoke in a low voice that the other passengers might not hear, he said just what he thought. “Jane Abbott, you are the most selfish, heartless girl I have ever known. It is very hard to believe that you are an own daughter to that most wonderful woman whom we are permitted to claim as our mother. In an hour of trouble (and there were many of them in those long ago days) she was always brave and cheerful, comforting Dad and urging him above all to be true to an ideal. But I actually believe that you, Jane Abbott, would rather our Dad had entered into dishonest negotiations as did the other members of his firm.”

The lad glanced hopefully at his sister. Surely she would indignantly refute this accusation, but she did nothing of the sort. With a shrug of her slender shoulders, she sank back against the cherry colored cushion as she replied, “I have often heard that an honest man can not be a success in business, and I do feel that our father should have considered his family above all else.”

Dan pressed his lips firmly together. He feared that if his torrent of angry thoughts were expressed it might form a barrier between himself and his sister that the future could not tear down, and so, after taking a deep breath that seemed almost a half sob, he again placed his hand tenderly on the cold white one that lay listlessly near him.

“Sis, dear,” he implored, “try to be brave, won’t you? I’ll do all I can to make things easier for you, and so will Dad. He’s pretty much stunned, just now, but, oh, little girl, you can’t guess how he is dreading your homecoming. That’s why I offered to meet you at the ferry station. I wanted to tell you and save Dad that agony of spirit. If you would only go in brightly and say, what our dear mother would have said, it will do more to help our father than anything else in this world.”

Selfish as Jane was, she dearly loved the brother who had idolized her, and who in moments of great tenderness had always called her his little girl, remembering only that she was three years younger and in need of his protection.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but as the train was drawing in at the Edgemere station she only had time to say, “I’ll try. But, oh, it is so hard, so hard.”

Dan engaged a hack and after assisting his sister in, he sat beside her. Then, as they drove along the pleasant streets of the village that were shaded by wide spreading elms, the lad told her what changes had occurred in their home.

“Mrs. Beach, our housekeeper, and Nora, her assistant, have left, and our dear old grandmother has closed up her farm in Vermont and is staying with father. It has been his greatest comfort to have his mother with him. You always thought her ways so old-fashioned and farmerish, Jane, but for all that she is the sweetest kind of a little old lady and as brisk and capable as she was two years ago when we visited the farm.”

There was a slight curl to Jane’s lips, but she merely said: “I suppose I shall be expected to wash dishes now. We must be terribly poor if we couldn’t even keep Nora.”

“But we have one big blessing,” Dan said brightly, “the home, which was mother’s can not be taken from us, for it belongs to us children.”

Jane was not listening. She was trying to figure out something in her own mind. “Dan.” She turned toward him suddenly. “I can’t see why Dad lost his money, just because he did not want to be a partner in what he considered a dishonest oil deal. Explain it to me a little more clearly.”

“I didn’t at first,” her brother confessed, “fearing that it would not have your sympathy. Many poor people invested their entire savings in the oil deal, supposing that father’s firm could be relied upon to be absolutely honest. It is their money, much of it, which is making the rich men richer. Our father, knowing that many had invested their all because they trusted his personal integrity, has turned over his entire fortune to make up their losses, as far as it will go.” Dan was sorry he had to make this explanation, for he saw at once the hard expression returning to the eyes of his sister.

“If our father has greater consideration for the poor of New York than he has for his own children, you can not expect me to express much sympathy for him.”

“Dear girl, wouldn’t you rather have our father honest than rich?” The lad’s clear grey eyes looked at her searchingly.

Jane put her hand to her forehead as though it ached. “Oh, Dan,” she said, wearily, “you and father have different ideals from what I have, I guess. I never really gave any thought to these things. I like comfort and nice clothes and I hate, hate, hate drudgery and work of every kind. I suppose now I shall have to scrub for a living.” Jane was recalling what the working girl on the ferry had said.

Dan’s amused laughter rang out. “Oh, Jane, what nonsense. Do you suppose that while I have a strong right arm I would let my little pal work in any of those drudgery ways? No, indeed, so forget that fear, if it’s haunting you.” But the boy could say no more, for another violent coughing spell racked his frail body.

Instantly Jane was self-reproachful. “Oh, Dan, Dan,” she said, “I know you would give your very life to help me. I’m so selfish, so very selfish! I’m going to think of only one thing, and that is how I can help you to get well, for I can see now that you must have been ill.”

The boy took advantage of this momentary tender spell to turn and take the girl’s hands in his and say imploringly: “Dear, we’re almost home. If you really want to help me to get well, be loving and brave to Dad. Your unhappiness grieves me more than our loss, little girl, and I can’t get strong while I am so worried.”

There were again tears in the beautiful dark eyes of the girl, and impulsively she kissed the one person on earth whom she truly loved. “Brother, for your sake I’ll try to be brave,” she said with a half sob as the hack stopped in front of their home.

CHAPTER IV

A SAD HOMECOMING

As Jane walked up the circling graveled path which led to the picturesque, rambling, low-built brown house that she called home her heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She bit her trembling lips and brushed away the tears that quivered on her eyelashes. She knew, oh, how well she knew, that they were prompted only by self-pity. She struggled to awaken the nobler self that her brother was so confident still slumbered in her soul, but she could not. She felt cold, hard, indignant every time she recalled that her father had sacrificed his children’s comfort for a Quixotic ideal. “It is no use trying,” she assured herself, noticing vaguely that they were passing the rose garden, which was a riot of fragrant, colorful bloom. How tenderly her father cared for that garden, for every bush in it had been planted by the loved one who was gone.

The tall lad carrying her satchels walked silently at Jane’s side. He well knew the conflict that was raging in the heart of the girl he had always loved, in spite of her ever-increasing selfishness, with a tenderness akin to that which he had given his mother, but he said no word to try to help. This was a moment when Jane must stand alone.

They were ascending the wide front steps when the door of the house was flung open and a little girl of ten leaped out with a glad cry. “Oh, Janey, my wonderful big sister Janey.” Two arms were held out, and in another moment, as the older girl well knew, she would be in one of those crushing embraces that the younger children called “bear hugs.” She frowned slightly. “Don’t, Julie!” she implored. “My suit has just been pressed. Won’t you ever grow up, and greet people in a more dignified way?”

The glad expression on the freckled face of the little girl, who could not be called really pretty, changed instantly. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t be a silly,” Jane said rebukingly, as she stooped and kissed the child indifferently on the forehead.

A dear old lady, wearing a pretty lavender gingham and a white “afternoon apron,” appeared in the doorway all a-flutter of happy excitement. She had not seen Jane for two years, and she took the girl’s hands in her own that trembled.

“Dear, dear Jenny!” (How the graduate of fashionable Highacres had always hated the name her grandmother had given her.) “What a blessing ’tis that you have come home at last. It’ll mean more to your father to have you here than you can think.” The old lady evidently did not notice the scornful curling of the girl’s lips, or, if she did, she purposely pretended that she did not, and kept on with her speech. “You know, dearie, you’re the perfect image of that other Jane my Daniel loved so dearly, and she was just your age, Jenny, when they met. It’ll be like meeting her all over again to have you coming home now, when he’s in such trouble, you being so like her, and she was most tender and brave and unselfish.”