For there was the burden of a secret
on Ruth Fielding’s mind and heart. She
had slipped away when she saw The Fox appear in the
outer cabin and, walking forward, had been stopped
suddenly in a cross gallery by a firm touch upon her
arm.
“Sh! Mademoiselle!”
Before she looked into the shadowy
place she realized that it was the harpist.
His very presence so near her made Ruth shrink and
tremble for an instant. But then she recovered
her self-possession and asked, unshakenly:
“What do you want of me?”
“Ah, Mademoiselle! Kind
Mademoiselle!” purred the great creature and
Ruth knew well what his villainous smile must look
like, although she could not see it. “May
the unfortunate vagabond musician speak a single word
into Mademoiselle’s ear?”
“You have spoken several words
into it already, sir,” said Ruth, sharply.
“What do you want?”
“Ah! the Mademoiselle is so
practical,” murmured the harpist again.
“Be quick,” commanded
Ruth, for although she had a strong repugnance for
the fellow there was no reason why she should fear
him, with so many people within call. “State
your reason for stopping me, sir.”
“The Mademoiselle is from the
school the institute where learning is
taught the lo-fe-ly Misses?”
He thus made three syllables of “lovely”
and Ruth knew that he leered like a Billiken in the
dark.
“I am at Briarwood Hall yes,”
she said.
“I have seen the kind Mademoiselle
before,” said the man. “On the boat
on that other so-beeg lake Osago, is it?”
“On the Lanawaxa yes,”
admitted Ruth.
“Ah! I am proud.
The Mademoiselle remember me,” he exclaimed,
bowing in the dark alley.
“Go on,” urged Ruth, impatiently.
“It is of the leetle lady Mademoiselle
Picolet I would speak,” he said,
more quickly.
“Our French teacher yes.”
“Then, knowing her, will the
Mademoiselle take a small note from the poor musician
to the good Picolet? ’Tis a small matter no?”
“You want me to do this without
telling anybody about it?” questioned Ruth,
bluntly.
“Oui, oui, Mademoiselle!
You have the discernment beyond your years.
Indeed!”
“I knew it must be something
underhanded you wanted,” declared Ruth, boldly.
He laughed and Ruth saw a small envelope
thrust toward her in the dusk of the passage.
“You will take it?” he said.
“I will take it providing
you do not come there again,” exclaimed Ruth.
“Come where?” he demanded.
“To the school. To the campus where the
fountain is.”
“Ha! you know that, my
pretty bird?” he returned. “Well!
this will perhaps relieve the good Picolet of my presence who
knows?”
“Then I will take it,”
Ruth said, hastily, her hand closing on the billet.
“Comme il faut,”
he said, and went away down the passage, humming in
his bassoon voice.
And so, as she sped shoreward between
her two friends, Ruth had the little letter tucked
away in the bosom of her frock. The secret troubled
her. She was really glad to say good bye to Tom
at the landing, and all the way back in the wagonette,
although Helen sat close to her and tried to show
her how sorry she was for her past neglect, Ruth was
very silent.
For she was much disturbed by this
secret. She feared she was doing wrong in carrying
the note to Miss Picolet. Yet, under different
circumstances, she might have thought little of it.
But after her talk with Mrs. Tellingham about the
mystery of the campus, she was troubled to think that
she was taking any part in the French teacher’s
private affairs.
Helen was so filled with the excitement
of the day, and of her long talk with her twin brother,
that she did not observe Ruth’s distraught manner.
“And we’ll have such fun!”
Ruth finally awoke to hear her chum declare in a
whisper. “Father’s always promised
to get a place in the woods, and Snow Camp is a delightful
spot.”
“What are you talking about,
Helen?” demanded Ruth, suddenly.
“I don’t believe you’ve
heard a thing I’ve been saying,” cried
her chum.
“I haven’t heard everything,”
admitted Ruth. “But tell me now; I’ll
listen.”
“It’s about the Christmas
Holidays. You shall go with us. We’re
going ’way up in the woods to a hunting
camp that father has bought. We were there for
a week-end once when Mr. Parrish owned it. Snow
Camp is the most delightful place.”
“I am sure you will have a fine
time,” Ruth said, generously.
“And so you will, too,”
declared Helen, “for you’re going.”
“My dear! I am
going home to the Red Mill at Christmas.”
“And we’ll go home for
Christmas, too; but there are three weeks’ holidays,
and two of them we will spend at Snow Camp. Oh,
yes we will!” Helen cried. “I’d
cry my eyes out if you didn’t go, Ruth.”
“But Uncle Jabez ”
“We’ll just tease him
until he lets you go. He’ll not object
much, I’m sure. I should just cry my eyes
out if you didn’t go with us, Ruthie,”
she repeated.
The plan for the winter holidays sank
into insignificance in Ruth’s mind, however,
when they left the carriages and ran over to the West
Dormitory just as evening was falling. Mercy
waved a white hand to them from her window as they
crossed the campus; but Ruth allowed Helen to run
ahead while she halted in the lower corridor and asked
Miss Scrimp if the French teacher was in her room.
“Oh, yes, Miss Ruthie,”
said the matron. “Miss Picolet is in.
You can knock.”
As Ruth asked this question and received
its answer she saw Mary Cox come in alone at the hall
door. The Fox had not spoken to Ruth since the
accident on the ice. Now she cast no pleasant
glance in Ruth’s direction. Yet, seeing
the younger girl approaching Miss Picolet’s
door, Mary smiled one of her very queerest smiles,
nodded her head with secret satisfaction, and marched
on upstairs to her own study.
“Enter!” said Miss Picolet’s
soft voice in answer to Ruth’s timid rap on
the panel of the door.
The girl entered and found the little
French teacher sewing by the window. Miss Picolet
looked up, saw who it was, and welcomed Ruth with
a smile.
“I hope you have had a joyful
day, Miss Ruth,” she said. “Come
to the radiator you are cold.”
“I am going to run upstairs
in a moment, Mademoiselle,” said Ruth, hesitatingly.
“But I have a message for you.”
“A message for me?” said the lady, in
surprise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“From the Preceptress, Ruth?”
“No, Miss Picolet. It it
is a letter that has been given me to be handed to
you secretly.”
The little teacher’s withered
cheek flushed and her bright little eyes clouded.
By the way one of her hands fluttered over her heart,
too, Ruth knew that Miss Picolet was easily frightened.
“A letter for me?” she whispered.
Ruth was unbuttoning her coat and frock to get at
the letter. She said:
“There was an orchestra on that
boat that was frozen into the ice, Miss Picolet.
One of the musicians spoke to me. He knew you or
said he did ”
The girl hated to go on, Miss Picolet
turned so pale and looked so frightened. But
it had to be done, and Ruth pursued her story:
“I had seen the man before the
day we came to school here, Helen and I. He played
the harp on the Lanawaxa.”
“Ah!” gasped the French
woman, holding out her hand. “No more,
my dear! I understand. Let me have it.”
But now Ruth hesitated and stammered,
and felt in the bosom of her dress with growing fear.
She looked at Miss Picolet, her own face paling.
“Oh, Miss Picolet!” she
suddenly burst out. “What will you think?
What can I say?”
“What what is the matter?”
gasped the French teacher.
“I I haven’t got it it
is gone!”
“What do you mean, Ruth Fielding?”
cried Miss Picolet, springing to her feet.
“It’s gone I’ve
lost it! Oh, my dear Miss Picolet! I didn’t
mean to. I tried to be so careful. But
I have lost the letter he gave me addressed to you!”