Later Lois learned from those who knew Miss Ambrose that she was really a very accomplished woman, and that she had studied many subjects under eminent professors. The brother, who had had the chance for which she had vainly longed, had not turned out well, and had had to leave college without his degree. Ill-health in later years had somewhat interfered with Miss Ambrose’s studying, and she had a wistful expression, such as one often notes on the faces of those who have missed their highest ambition.
Lois, walking down to Fay House in the fresh morning air, thought of the contrariness of Fate. Here was Miss Ambrose, who so evidently might have afforded the luxury of a Harvard course, had this been a possibility in her youth, and here was she, Lois, longing for it, yet likely to be debarred from completing her work from the mere need of a little money. But brushing these thoughts aside, as unworthy a sensible girl, Lois returned to her psychology, and mentally worked out a problem or two before she reached Fay House.
The skating this winter of Julia’s Junior year was unusually good, and during late January and early February crowds went each afternoon to Fresh Pond. Julia, Ruth, Polly, and Clarissa were particularly zealous, and they were all fine skaters. Annabel excelled them all, and none were unwilling to admit her superiority. During her residence abroad she had spent a winter at Copenhagen, and she could accomplish all kinds of wonderful feats learned there in a most graceful way.
“If she were as genuine in other things as in this, we wouldn’t criticise her so, would we, Julia?” and Polly linked her arm in Julia’s for another turn round the pond.
Annabel, indeed, distanced some of the Harvard youths who hung about her. It pleased her to show that she did not need their assistance.
Skating was Annabel’s one outdoor accomplishment, for she was not generally fond of athletics. One afternoon a dozen or more Seniors were up at Fresh Pond. Clarissa skated almost as well as Annabel, but Polly and Julia were less expert, although they were both better skaters than Ruth. “Don’t go over by the ice-houses,” cried Polly, skimming past Julia and Clarissa. “There’s a thin place there and they are just going to rope it off. I was asked to warn everybody.”
“Oh, we know it is thin, thank you,” responded Julia.
“Yes,” added Polly, “only a goose would skate over there; any one can see it’s thin, the ice is so dark. Only a goose would skate near it—or a person who was absorbed in showing off,” and she pointed toward the dangerous spot, which Annabel was approaching.
“Didn’t you warn her?” asked Clarissa, turning to Polly. “You passed her on the way.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. I was thinking only of you.”
“Oh, Annabel knows so much, she would have known the ice wasn’t thin, even if you had told her.”
But even while they spoke, Clarissa had started off at full speed, and as the others turned to watch her they saw Annabel on the very edge of the dark ice. Polly knew that this was the dangerous place, and called out loudly to Julia to follow her. These things take almost as long in the telling as in the happening, and before Julia and Polly could reach the other two, Annabel had gone through the ice just as Clarissa had almost overtaken her. Without a moment’s hesitation Clarissa threw herself into the chasm, and for a moment it looked as if she would only make a bad matter worse. But Clarissa knew that they were near the shore, and that with even a few strokes she could get herself into shallow water. She had thrown off her coat as she ran, and her arms were unencumbered. Moreover, she had felt justified in making the bold plunge, because she had seen several young men approaching from the crowd of skaters at the opposite end of the pond. Dragging Annabel somewhat roughly then, she struggled on toward the bank, and to her great joy she soon found her feet touching the bottom. Ready hands were stretched out to her from the shore, where already a crowd had assembled, and indeed two youths had plunged into the water to help her support Annabel. The latter was altogether overcome by the shock. Although she had not exactly fainted, she was so benumbed as to be helpless. But for Clarissa’s quick action she might have suffered much more. Hardly were they out of the water when a student returned with a sleigh, whose driver he had stopped in passing. The two drenched girls were bundled under the robes, and taken to a house not far away. Julia and Polly drove quickly down to Cambridge for fresh clothes, and before sunset Annabel and Clarissa were back in their own rooms. Annabel, however, really suffered from her mishap. She had struck her head on the ice in falling, and in consequence a slight fever set in which at first seemed rather serious. Her friends kept her room filled with flowers, and all her classmates showed great sympathy when it was rumored that she might have to drop out of the class for the rest of the year. Clarissa had never fully realized Annabel’s unfriendliness, and so when the latter sent for her she was only too glad to go to see her. She thought that Annabel’s thanks were warmer than they need have been, for Clarissa assured her that she had really been in little danger, and that even without her help, she would not have been long in the water. Annabel in her rôle of invalid, reclining in an easy-chair, with her room filled with flowers, was indeed picturesque.
“Some day,” she said faintly, “when I feel a little stronger I must have a long talk with you. I feel that I have done you an injustice.”
“Nonsense,” replied Clarissa, “I am sure that you have not.”
“Well,” sighed Annabel, “I will tell you sometime. It is hard now to explain.”
“Oh, I rather think that I can wait, if you can. You make me think of Pamela, whose conscience is always too active to be healthy,” rejoined Clarissa, with a smile.
“Ah!” exclaimed Annabel dramatically, “you will believe me when I tell you all, but not now. Yet believe that I shall feel forever indebted to you.”
“Yes, yes,” responded Clarissa, “if it makes you happier to put it that way. But really—” Here they were interrupted by the arrival of other callers, and Clarissa soon took her departure. She had only a vague idea of Annabel’s meaning, although she thought that she undoubtedly had some reference to the publication of Professor Z’s lecture.
She did not permit herself to dwell long on a subject that concerned herself so entirely. Recitations were to begin again in a few days, and she was very anxious to have a meeting of the class called to consider the question of the Presidency of the Idler. It was the custom to appoint to this office the girl who had been Vice-President in the Junior year. It happened, however, that Regina Andrews, the girl now in office, had announced her intention of spending the next year in Europe instead of in the regular work of the Senior year. Polly and Clarissa, therefore, had at once begun to work up a strong sentiment in favor of Lois.
Lois, had she known of their well-meant efforts, would probably have stopped them by explaining that she herself had lost not merely the prospect of being a Senior, but even of finishing the work of her Junior year.
She had agreed to take the position in the Village High School, twenty miles away, and she was to go there February 15th. Until the opening of the recitation period at the close of the mid-years, she intended to say nothing about her changed plans.
Yet Clarissa and Polly could not help seeing that she took little interest when they told her of Regina Andrews’ resignation from the Vice-Presidency.
“We’re bound you shall have it, Lois. We think that you are the very best girl for the place.”
“There’s Julia.”
“Yes, we’d all like Julia, but she says that nothing would induce her to take it. She hates presiding, and she has made us promise not even to let her name come up. She is particularly anxious to have you,” and Polly’s tone would have been convincing to any one but a girl who had put a task upon herself in which class honors had no part. There had been times, of course, when popularity and the thought of being Idler President would have given her a great joy. But now—ah! in a day or two Polly and Clarissa would know just how matters stood.
On Saturday Julia invited her to luncheon, and afterwards they were going to town to a concert. Ruth had gone home over Sunday, as had been her habit this year.
“I’m perfectly delighted, Lois, that you are to be the next Idler President, for Polly says that there isn’t a shadow of a doubt. She has been so determined that the office should not go to Annabel that she has turned into a regular wire-puller. Even Annabel’s illness has made little difference to her, although I think that Clarissa has a more friendly feeling toward her.”
“There!” exclaimed Lois, “I must talk seriously with Polly and Clarissa. I have told them that I could not stand, but they won’t believe me.”
“But why, Lois, why should you not take the office if it comes to you? You preside so well, and you are not timid, as I am, and—”
“Because, Julia”—Lois knew now that it was best to explain the whole matter—“because I may not be here next year.”
Then in as few words as possible, Lois told Julia that loss of money and other things made it expedient for her to take a year or more away from college.
“I cannot bear to be counted out of this class, but there is no help for it.”
Julia very wisely did not attempt to dissuade Lois from her purpose of teaching, although already a little plan had begun to form in her mind. Yet she was sympathetic, and told Lois that it was simply impossible to think of the class as ready to graduate without her.
“Why, we’ll all have to stay out a year, just to keep up with you,” she said.
But in her own room that evening, Julia pondered long over the perversity of Fate, that hampered girls like Jane and Pamela and Lois, who loved study for its own sake, while many others were able to glide through college with no thought of the great privileges that were open to them. “The worst of it is, the girls whom one would like to help are always the proudest.” Then Julia put her mind on the subject, and decided that if she could help it Lois should not leave college.
As Lois had finished her examinations in the first two weeks, she found time for more than one brief call on Miss Ambrose. It was so easy to drop in for a half-hour in passing, and the interest of the older woman in all her affairs was so genuine, that it was a delight to tell all that she could about college life. One day she stayed to luncheon, and enjoyed the service of quaint, old-fashioned china and silver, and she stole glances of admiration as she ate, at the massive mahogany sideboard and the spindle-legged serving table and the delicate steel engravings on the wall. Then in Miss Ambrose’s sitting-room she found so much to gratify her love of antiquities. There was the cabinet, for example, with its wedgewood vases, and the mosaics collected in Europe, and the little book-shelf with its tiny volumes of the Italian poets, bound in vellum, and the half-dozen miniatures on the mantle-piece of Miss Ambrose’s parents and other relatives,—all these and many other things claimed Lois’ attention, although most interesting of all was Miss Ambrose herself. A well-cultivated mind has always a strong charm for a thoughtful girl, and Miss Ambrose had certainly more culture than belongs to the average college graduate, man or woman. She had travelled and she had studied, yet she always seemed ready to hear Lois’ views on any subject of general interest.
“You look pale,” said Miss Ambrose abruptly on this particular day; “you look pale, and if you will pardon my saying it, a trifle worried. A young person should never show the touch of care.”
“Why, I ought not to look worried,” said Lois soberly. “I am sorry to appear so—so stupid.”
“You could never appear stupid,” rejoined Miss Ambrose, “but you are certainly paler. I hope that you are not working too hard.”
“Oh, no, work always agrees with me.”
“Then something is troubling you,” persisted Miss Ambrose firmly. “I fear that you were less successful than you would have been had you not taken care of me the night when I sprained my foot. I know that you were to have an examination the next day.”
“Oh, no,” and Lois smiled like her usual self. “Oh, no, I came out better than I expected in that. I had an ‘A.’”
“Then I am really puzzled,” said Miss Ambrose, adding, with a slight touch of severity, “I should think that you might trust me sufficiently to tell me what the trouble really is.”
Now even a fortnight earlier, Lois would hardly have believed any one who had told her that after a brief acquaintance she could have found it possible to open her heart to one whom she had known so short a time. Yet although she confided comparatively little, Miss Ambrose, reading between the lines, saw that the young girl was making a great sacrifice in stopping her course at this stage. “Sacrifice” is not perhaps exactly the right term, for on the part of Lois it was involuntary. Until she could earn money, it was not possible for her to continue her course. Yet when Lois had told Miss Ambrose all her reasons for leaving, the older woman merely expressed the conventional words of regret. Her eyes held rather more than their usual look of absent-mindedness.
Great, therefore, was the surprise of Lois, on reaching home on that Saturday evening after she had been with Julia, to find a letter awaiting her from Miss Ambrose. From between the pages a thin blue slip fluttered to the floor.
“You must accept this,” wrote Miss Ambrose in her fine, pointed handwriting, “as a very slight tribute of my indebtedness to you. I do not refer merely to the sacrifice you made in staying with me the evening when I was hurt; but you have done me a great favor in bringing me in touch with the woman’s college. You have given me an insight into the life of a college girl. I know that you will continue to keep me informed about it, and thus I shall enjoy through another a little of what I so longed for in my youth. From this time I intend to contribute a certain amount toward the education of one or two students, and I am sure that you will oblige me by being the first to give me the privilege of doing something for the honor of good scholarship.”
Picking up the blue slip, Lois saw that it was a check for one hundred and fifty dollars. The amount took her breath away. It meant not only the payment of her tuition for the next half-year, but it gave her a margin for other things, something even to save toward the expenses of the next year, for Lois was a good manager, and her pulses beat to fever heat as she thought of all that she could do with this money.
She found that her parents made no objection to her keeping the check, and she had no hesitation in breaking her engagement with the Village School, as she knew that another approved candidate for the position had been sadly disappointed when it was given to her.
Lois felt that she had done nothing to deserve this good fortune, and yet she was too sensible to decline what came in her way. She realized that her own greatest usefulness in the world would come from finishing her college course, and she lost no time in thanking Miss Ambrose, and in assuring her that she would do her best to deserve her confidence. Then Miss Ambrose smiled a contented smile. At last she had a direct interest in the woman’s college.
Julia was the first person outside her own family to whom Lois told her good fortune, and Julia, to tell the truth, was a trifle disappointed in hearing of it, for she had formed a little plan of her own, and if Miss Ambrose had not been ahead of her, she would have come forward to prevent Lois’ leaving. She told Clarissa, however, how near the class had come to losing Lois, and Clarissa, not vowed to secrecy, told others. The disclosure was entirely to the advantage of Lois, for all the class expressed itself fully as to its great loss, if its most promising student had had to leave for the mere lack of a little money. Clarissa and Polly artfully took advantage of this feeling, and talked about Lois’ accomplishments so persistently that even the least interested admitted that she was the very girl for the Idler Presidency. It was hard for Annabel to count herself altogether out of the running, but at last she submitted gracefully to what she could not help; and if she did not try to forward Clarissa’s cause, she certainly did nothing to hinder it. As she improved in health she did not open her heart to Clarissa, and she made no admission of knowing more than any one else about the publication of Professor Z’s notes. She was very friendly to the Kansas girl, and even invited her one afternoon as guest of honor to one of her famous little afternoon teas. Polly laughingly accused Clarissa of permitting herself to be bribed into friendliness. But Clarissa retorted that she had never felt unkindly toward Annabel, and that in time wrongs generally righted themselves. It was probably through Annabel’s influence that Alma Stacey bent all her energies toward getting Clarissa on the basket ball team, and succeeded.
As the spring passed on, many pleasant little social events brought the Juniors in closer contact with girls in the other classes. The students of highest rank had been elected into the various clubs, according to the studies in which they excelled. No one with less than two “A’s,” or two “B’s” with two additional courses could be admitted into these exclusive little organizations, and membership in the History or English or Philosophy Club, or indeed in any of several others, was accounted a great honor.
Julia was in the History and Music Clubs, Polly was in the English Club, Lois was in half a dozen of them, and Clarissa, almost to her own surprise, was in the Philosophy Club, having made a great impression on her classmates, as well as on her professors, by her very original method of interpreting various theories of philosophy. The Juniors were admitted in season to take part in the open meetings of these clubs, to which were invited the members of the corresponding clubs at Harvard, as well as the teachers in the department and individual guests of honor from outside.
The Juniors, however, felt closer in touch with the Seniors when they planned one or two special things in honor of the class so soon to go out.
“They treated us well when they were Sophomores, and we were nothing but Freshmen, so now we must do our best to make them feel that they really will be missed,” said Julia, as she and Polly and one or two others of the committee were planning what form the Senior party should take.
“Oh, there’s no danger of their not thinking that they will be missed,” cried Polly. “Why, I believe that Elizabeth Darcy anticipates that the decline of Radcliffe will date from the day of her graduation. But we won’t let a little prejudice stand in the way of our giving them a good send-off.”
This particular affair was called a music party, and a prize was offered by the Juniors to the Senior who should show herself most familiar with unclassical music. The prize was a pretty little old Dutch silver violin, and to the amusement of all it went to a girl who sang all the lyrics from all the operettas composed by Radcliffe girls during the past five years. She offered to play each operetta through from beginning to end, but the judges (which meant the whole Junior class) begged off and declared that she had sufficiently shown her ability, and had really earned the prize. So with much laughter the tiny violin on a crimson ribbon was slung around her neck.
In return the Seniors gave the Juniors a party, requesting in their invitations that each girl should bring a book for the little white bookcase in the Senior room. “As you will soon be Seniors yourselves,” the invitations had said, “these books will really be for your own use, and you have always been so unselfish that you wouldn’t have thought of doing this had we not reminded you.”
The Senior rooms occupied the first floor of a pretty old-fashioned cottage on the Fay House grounds. With good rugs, well-chosen pictures, a piano, writing desk, lounge, and easy-chairs, they offered a pleasant retreat for the Senior who wished to escape the noise of the larger buildings. Once a week during the winter the Seniors were at home for an informal afternoon tea, and it was only on this set day that an undergraduate ventured within the precincts. The old-fashioned house had been bought by the Radcliffe Trustees in their efforts to acquire for a campus all the land in the immediate vicinity of Fay House, and the little house in the natural course of events would sometime be pulled down. But in the meantime it was a delightful place of retreat for the Seniors. To be sure, Elspeth Gray, who had been in New York during the spring recess, brought back glowing accounts of the Senior room at Vassar.
“These rooms look countrified compared with the Vassar room. Why, there, although they always have the same room, each Senior class refurnishes it. Even the wall hangings are changed. This year instead of paper they have put on a painted burlap, stencilled in gold, which cost nearly two hundred dollars; and the furniture and bronzes and oil paintings, although many of these things are simply lent by Seniors for the year, would make your eyes open, you simple-minded Radcliffeites.”
“Plain living and high thinking is the rule at Cambridge,” responded Ruth, who happened to be one of the group to whom she spoke. “Come, Elspeth, don’t join the crowd that is sighing for a porter’s lodge, or a boy in buttons, or some similar luxury here at Radcliffe.”
“Dear child,” and Elspeth drew herself to her full height, “I did not say, did I, that I preferred the elegance of Vassar and Bryn Mawr, but we haven’t even any palms, such as they have at Wellesley, or—”
“Well, we have historic associations. There’s the Washington Elm, almost under our eyes, and we’re so nearly a part of Harvard that we can look back on a long and honorable past, even if we have less than twenty years of our own to count up.”
The spring would have been altogether perfect for Julia but for her estrangement from Ruth. It was hard to approach Ruth on the subject, because there had been no open break between them, and because Ruth gave her no chance to seek or make an explanation. They still had their rooms together, but Ruth always studied by herself in her own room. Occasionally on Mondays Ruth appeared, but she was oftener absent when Julia was entertaining those girls who dropped in. As Nora was only a Special, she was in Cambridge little except for recitations. Yet she had noticed the coolness between the two, who at Miss Crawdon’s school had been great friends. She could not help observing, too, that Ruth was never at Mrs. Barlow’s on Saturday and Sunday, when Julia and Brenda were so apt to have their friends about them. Ruth, to be sure, always pleaded that she must spend as much time as possible with her mother, who had been abroad in search of health during Ruth’s first two college years. She was still an invalid; and although Nora knew that Ruth naturally wished to be with her, this explanation did not wholly account for the coolness between Ruth and Julia.
From Julia she at last drew an account of the affair of the telegram, and the injury done to Polly.
“It isn’t altogether what Ruth did, but it’s her indifference that has disturbed me so,” said Julia.
“Perhaps she didn’t do it; perhaps there’s some explanation about the telegram. Really, Julia Bourne, I did not think that you could be so unreasonable. But I’m not altogether sorry,” she continued, smiling, “that you have shown yourself just a little less perfect than we thought you. I used to think you absolutely reasonable, but now—”
“Well, if you ever had so foolish an opinion of me, I’m glad that something has happened to remove it.”
“I must tell Brenda,” added Nora, as she bade Julia good-bye. “She’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve picked a flaw in her perfect cousin. Secretly, I believe that she thinks you almost too perfect.”
Not long after Nora had left her, the postman put into Julia’s hands an envelope, on which she recognized Angelina’s handwriting. Angelina had not been in Cambridge this winter. Indeed, the day after the operetta she had gone back to Shiloh, and in the autumn she had taken a place as mother’s helper in a household where there were several children. It was near enough to her own home to permit her to see her mother and the children twice a week, and Mrs. Rosa was now so much stronger and the young Rosas were so much older that they could manage very well without Angelina. It was better for Angelina to have the responsibility of a position where she could earn money. Already she had started a bank-book, and in every way she was much more contented than a year before. She was very fond of letter-writing, and her epistolary style was decidedly high-flown.
“My dear Miss Julia,” the present letter began. “I have a confession to make, though I know that you will say that I am always sinning and repenting. But this was not exactly sin, only the kind of carelessness that you have often reproved me for. You see I saw Miss Ruth the other day, and I asked if that telegram did Miss Polly any harm, I mean her not getting it at once. You know I went home the next day and never heard about it. But I thought that next morning you didn’t look as happy as you ought to after an enthusiastic reception of your operetta (that was what the newspapers said), and so when I asked, Miss Ruth said that it made a great deal of trouble for her. I wonder how that was when the telegram was for Miss Polly? I suppose it was something about her father, for I heard he died. I know that I ought to have given it to her as soon as it came, for she was trying a song with you, and they sent it over from her boarding-house. But Percy Colton asked me to come down and pull some molasses candy in the kitchen, and I forgot all about it until after the performance. Then Miss Ruth, when I told her, said that she would give it to Miss Polly quick, so I don’t see why it made any trouble for her. I’m very sorry, but that’s the way things happen in this world—just exactly the way they oughtn’t to.”
The letter gave more information about Angelina’s personal affairs, but only the above passage made any impression on Julia.
“Oh, Angelina!” she sighed, “you always have had a fashion of making trouble, but luckily in this case, it’s not too late to straighten things out.”
To decide, with Julia, was to act. Overhead she could hear Ruth moving about in her room. Running up the stairs, two at a time, in a moment she was with her.
“Oh, Ruth, can you ever forgive me? How mean you must have thought me! But really, I’ve suffered more than you; even if this letter hadn’t come, I should have told you so.”
“What letter?” asked Ruth, thoroughly bewildered.
“Oh, from Angelina; it was she who kept the telegram.”
“Of course; I always knew it.”
“ButIdidn’t know it. There, I won’t throw blame on any one else. It has all been my fault, and not Angelina’s.”
“‘All’s well that ends well,’” said Ruth, pinning a crimson rosette at her belt. There was a slight stiffness in her manner, but she looked at Julia with her old-time pleasant smile; and as they clasped hands, the two girls knew that they were friends again. “Naturally,” she added, “it was hard, Julia, to find you unjust—”
“But if you had only said the least little word, I should have understood, Ruth, but when you said nothing—”
“But how could I say anything? When you so evidently had your mind made up, what could I say?”
“Ah, but I must tell Polly. Won’t you come with me, Ruth?”
“Not this afternoon. I’m going to a ball game with Will; it’s only with Amherst to-day. But there’s a party of a dozen going, and not a chaperon.”
“Of course not. That’s the one delightful thing about Cambridge; we can go to ball games without any of the trammels of an ‘artificial etiquette,’ as Clarissa might say.”
Then Ruth departed for the ball game, with Will holding her parasol, and Julia standing in the doorway, waving her a good-bye after a fashion that had not been possible during the past year.
From Ruth, Julia went to Polly, and it was harder to bring up the subject of the telegram to her, for the very mention of it recalled so many sad memories.
“So, after all, Clarissa has been the most charitable of us all. Seems like we have all been carried away by suspicion, while she has always been inclined to stand up for Ruth,” said the Southern girl.
“Well, in other things besides murder trials, it isn’t worth while to trust to circumstantial evidence. But I am the most to blame, for I ought to have known Ruth better than to suspect her of a meanness. I shall begin to wonder now if I haven’t been unfair to Annabel.”
“I doubt it, for I happen to know that she borrowed Clarissa’s history note-book a few weeks before that article appeared,” rejoined Polly.
“Well,” said Julia, “until I’ve removed the beam from my own eye, I won’t search for the mote in Annabel’s.”
“Ah!” cried Polly penitently, “as you put it, I believe that there is a beam in my eye also. But I shall lose no time in apologizing to Ruth.”
So Polly apologized, and spread the news abroad that she had been very unfair. Julia, too, was repentant, and that May and June of their Junior year was much brighter than the same months had been when they were Sophomores. Then when Lois was elected Idler President, Polly went about beaming. She declared that she had not lived in vain, and to celebrate the joyful event arranged a canoeing party at Riverside. There were twenty girls in the party, and Mrs. Colton and Professor and Mrs. Redburn went as protectors. They rowed and paddled, and listened to the band, and consumed unlimited quantities of ginger ale and sandwiches. They wound in and out on the curving river, and the lights of thousands of lanterns shone upon them from the river banks and the boat-houses, for it was a special night with the boat clubs. It was a delightful celebration and well planned, and although some of the girls were unduly daring and seemed to court collisions, when they were counted at the end of the trip they were found all to be there, to the great relief of the elders of the party. They had sung college songs until they were almost hoarse, but Clarissa had voice enough left to propose a vote of thanks to Polly, adding, “We haven’t a Float Day, nor a Lake Waban, but the Charles is free to all, and where is there a stream that is half as fascinating for canoeists?” And all the others answered, “Nowhere.”
While it was yet uncertain whether or not Clarissa would go on the team, the Spring Meet came off in the Gymnasium, in which her name was down for several events. The Gymnasium was crowded with friends of the contestants and members of the R. A. A., and many were there as strong partisans of various girls who were to compete in the many different contests. In the horse vault and the saddle jump, some wonderful records were made. But for some reason the greatest interest centred in the running high jump, and Clarissa’s friends had prophesied that she was to make the record in this. She had a formidable rival in Mary Francis, a Senior, and an especial friend of Elizabeth Darcy’s, who had held the record for two years. The two classes and their friends watched both girls with the closest attention. Polly and Julia were perfectly sure of Clarissa, and the latter fairly hugged her when with flushed cheeks and her dark hair lying in moist little ringlets on her forehead she was declared the victor. Not only that, but with fifty-four inches she had made a record that was to put her and her class on a pinnacle. This, indeed, marked the beginning of great successes for that class, and brought out the fact that a genuine class feeling had been established. No one in the earlier years of the Annex or Radcliffe could have imagined that this feeling would become so strong. Each girl was beginning to be thought of, not as an individual, but as a member of the class, likely to reflect upon it scholastic or athletic glory. Clarissa’s success at the meet made it seem all the more likely that she would be captain of the team. Even had there been a faction against her, it would have been difficult to keep her down. But there was no such faction, for the prejudice of the year before had almost completely died away. There was hardly a girl to take exception to the cheer when it rang out:
“Radcliffe, Radcliffe, Radcliffe,Rah, rah, rah,Rah, rah, rah,Rah, rah, rah,Miss Herter and the team!”
“Radcliffe, Radcliffe, Radcliffe,
Rah, rah, rah,
Rah, rah, rah,
Rah, rah, rah,
Miss Herter and the team!”
—a cheer that contained a prophecy.
How quickly that summer before their Senior year passed away! Probably hardly a girl in the class failed to regret that they were travelling so quickly toward the end of their college course. During the summer a dozen or more had sent a vacation round-robin about from one to another. Clarissa had written a witty letter describing her experiences in drinking the waters at Manitou, whither her father had been sent in search of health. She also mentioned incidentally that she was practising ball, “for our team is to come out the very top of the heap, but don’t repeat my language,” she had concluded. Julia wrote of a very quiet summer at Rockley, as her aunt’s illness had prevented a proposed European trip. Lois had had three weeks in the White Mountains with Miss Ambrose, where Polly had joined her for a fortnight. Instead of tutoring, Pamela had felt warranted in giving her summer to research work, but she had done this without suffering in health, because she had found a delightful little village on the Maine coast where the board was almost nothing, and where she had just the inspiration she wanted in hearing the surf roll in upon the beach. Elspeth Gray wrote of an encounter that she had had with—well, it is not necessary to go into particulars—but with the graduate of a well-known college for women, who had pitied her very much because her lot had been cast at Radcliffe. “As if I hadn’t chosen this lot for myself with all the colleges of the country spread out before me. She said that we had no college spirit, and that we ought to see that there was a lack of dignity in accepting a degree that was only a kind of imitation of a Harvard degree. But it’s useless to argue with such people, although I did make her admit that Harvard offered more to men than did any other college in the country, and she was amazed to learn that we had precisely the same courses of study, the same instructors, and the same examinations as Harvard men have. Dear me! where have people been brought up to know so little?” Each girl whose name was appended to the round-robin, while expressing her anxiety to see her classmates again, added a note of sorrow that this for the majority would be the last year at Radcliffe. A few intended to return for higher degrees, but it was doubtful if all could carry out their plans.
In the meantime they were getting all they could out of college life. Those girls who came from a distance were especially anxious to make up for lost time by going to lectures, concerts, or by visiting art galleries and historic towns, that they might feel that they had lost none of the special advantages that Cambridge and Boston offer the college student. Clarissa, who had done much sight-seeing in her Freshman year, now thought that her greatest need was for Sever Hall lectures, and she made up a little party consisting of Polly and two or three others of her classmates, who agreed to go with her two evenings a week. She enjoyed whatever lectures came on those evenings, for she said that three years at Radcliffe ought to have fitted her to understand anything. She continued to attend lectures even when her classmates, on one pretext or another, had dropped off, for she was so fortunate as to run across a special student of good standing who had given up her position in a Western High School for the sake of a year’s study at Cambridge. A little later Pamela made one of the party, as it had been her habit the past two years to attend all the lectures or readings given by the Senior professor of Greek. While some Radcliffe Seniors were to be found at all of the Sever Hall lectures, Clarissa in this last year was really the most persistent, and she was the more persistent, perhaps, because some of her friends tried to dissuade her from burning the candle at both ends. They spoke in this way because Clarissa was steadily adding to her reputation as an athlete. She was now captain of the team—a position that many of the undergraduates regarded as more enviable than that of President of the Idler. It was a great grief to Polly that she could not play basket ball, but when she presented herself for the necessary physical examination, a slight weakness of the heart and lungs was discovered, in itself not serious, although sufficient to render her an unfit candidate. In consequence to assuage her disappointment she made herself an amateur coach and spent what time she could watching the practice games. Her observation was keen, and more than one suggestion of hers was put into practical effect.
She was sure not only that the Senior team would vanquish all the others at Radcliffe, but that in its outside contests it would carry all before it. “Oh, if we could only have a chance against Bryn Mawr!” she sighed. “Of course that day is coming, but if it would only come in our day! Was there ever such a captain?” she concluded, with an admiring glance at Clarissa.
“Never, I am sure,” replied Pamela. “I love to look at her. She is the very picture of health.”
“There couldn’t be a better centre, not only because she’s so tall, but because she has such judgment. How she managed it I don’t know, but she contrived to get Julia for one of her forwards and Ruth for the other. Neither intended to play this year. But there they are! They both have cool heads, and there’s little danger of their losing their wits in an exciting match.”
Pamela glanced for a moment toward Julia, who stood ready to make a goal, with the ball held lightly in her finger tips. Even while they were looking, with a little twist she threw it, and it fell into the basket.
“I count it one of my privileges in coming here,” said Pamela in her prim little way, “to have known Julia Bourne. Whatever she does, she does so well, and she always has a thought for others. She is always so encouraging.” Just at this moment Julia glanced toward her friends, and though she did not really bow to them, she smiled pleasantly.
“There’s one lesson we can learn from basket ball,” remarked Pamela.
“Ah, Pamela,” and Polly laughed. “Sermons in stones, books in the running brooks are nothing to your lessons. But there, don’t blush at me, but tell me what you had in mind.”
“Oh, I was only thinking that it’s less what the individual player does than what the team does as a whole. A girl who thinks only of her own ability to make a wonderful throw may make a throw that will gain great applause, but she generally sends the ball into the hands of the enemy.”
“Like Elizabeth Darcy last year. Did you see that match?”
“No,” responded Pamela.
“Well, she brought down the house with two or three brilliant throws, but she really did more to hurt her team than any one on the other side. If I had been Clarissa I should have been afraid to have Annabel on the team for the same reason. She thinks of herself first, and of the general good last.”
“Human nature according to Hobbes.”
“Oh, my dear, I never think of ethics out of the class-room. There—there look!” and both girls turned to see a goal scored for Clarissa’s team—or rather for their own team, since Clarissa was the embodiment of the Senior athletic aspirations.
The match with Wellesley was one of the things of which they were sure, and it was likely to be exciting. Brenda teased Julia when she heard of the coming contest by saying that she was bound to be on the side of Wellesley this year, for Amy had just entered Wellesley, and Brenda was still very fond of her. Since their trip to Nova Scotia they had seen little of each other except in summer, for Amy had been very hard at work preparing for college, and society had absorbed Brenda the past two years. Amy had felt especially tender toward Brenda the past year or two, because the beginning of their acquaintance had seemed to mark the beginning of prosperity for Amy and her mother. The efforts of Mrs. Barlow and Mr. Elton had resulted in a fairly large sale of Mrs. Redmond’s paintings. Indeed, her water-color sketches had become so much the fashion that her income now permitted her to live in Salem. Thus Amy for a year or two had been able to see much more than in former years of her schoolmates out of school, and some of her little sharp corners had been entirely rounded off. The death of Cousin Joan the past winter had made it possible for Amy to enter college without any worry as to ways and means; for although the money left by Cousin Joan from most points of view would have been considered very small indeed, it was enough to carry Amy comfortably through college. It was left to her for this purpose, “in recognition,” as Cousin Joan wrote in a note that was found with the will, “of her patience with a very troublesome old woman.” Amy, wiping away a few tears, as she thought of the invalid whose life had been so narrow, protested that it was her mother and not she who should have the money as a reward for patience. But Mrs. Redmond reminded her daughter that the money was really a gift to her as well as to Amy, since she would now be saved a certain amount of financial care in planning Amy’s college career. Therefore, Amy at Wellesley, and Julia at Radcliffe, at odds only on the subject of some college championship, exchanged visits and compared notes, and each ended invariably by thinking her own college the best.
Brenda and Amy had been a little less intimate since those first Rockley days, and in the past year the former had been away in California; at least, she had gone for a year’s absence in the March of Julia’s Junior year. She wrote to Amy as to Julia rapturous letters about the beauties of California, mingled with entertaining accounts of her sister Caroline’s children. Before Christmas Mr. and Mrs. Barlow started for California to visit their daughter and bring Brenda home. Nora went with them, by special invitation, as an attack of measles in the early autumn had prevented her resuming her special work at Radcliffe, and her eyes needed the rest.
In the absence of her relatives, therefore, Julia was naturally thrown more in the society of her Radcliffe friends than had been the case in other years. Edith was spending the year abroad, and the little group of Miss Crawdon’s girls was widely scattered. Julia spent Christmas with Ruth in Roxbury, where Pamela, Clarissa, and Polly were also invited; for Ruth, although she had not entirely changed in her general opinion of Pamela and Clarissa, had still changed somewhat in her feeling toward them. She had learned to see the good points of the candid Western girl and of the timid Vermonter.