¶Steps of the Dewey House. Three ushers propped against the pillars. The night watchman approaches with lantern.
Watchman.Well, well, well! Want to get in?Hi'llbet yer do! (First usher nods her head.) Are yer h'ushers? Fine play, wa'n't it? (Second usher nods her head.) Well, you do look tired! You pretty tired, Miss Slater? (Third usher murmurs something about sleepingtill noon, and second usher chuckles feebly and mentions Baccalaureate. They stumble into the Dewey, and the watchman shuts the door.)
IIIVY DAY
The sun is glaring down on the campus. A crowd of parents and other relatives is surging toward an awning near the steps of College Hall; a stream of white-dressed seniors continually flows toward the Hatfield House, where a procession is forming. Forty junior ushers struggle with a rope wound with laurel, which is to encompass the column of seniors. A few scattered members of the Faculty and a crowd of alumnæ wander aimlessly about, obstructing traffic generally.
Small imperious mother, dragging large good-humored father toward the awning.Hurry up, Father, hurry up!
Father.But Mother, I want to see 'em!
Mother.Well, you've got to take your choice of seeing 'em and not hearing a word of the speech or—
Father.You go right along, Mother, and I'll get there on time. I want to see Hattie marching.
¶A crowd of girls with cameras rushes up andlines both sides of the walk. Two ushers sail up the path, clearing a way with white-ribboned sticks. The crowd becomes unmanageable, torn by the desire to watch the progress of the march and at the same time to secure a good place at the exercises. People summon each other wildly from various points of the campus.
A group of strolling sophomores, dodging some ushers and wheedling programmes from others, screws its way in a body to the best possible position in the front, smiling at the efforts of the displaced to reinstate themselves.
First Sophomore.There they come! There's Sue and Betty Twitchell! My, what roses!
Second Sophomore.Roses? Did the ushers—
Third Sophomore.Oh, goodness, Win, haven't you heard that yet?
Second Sophomore.No—tell me!
Third Sophomore.Why, Miss Tomlinson's fiancé sent her fifteen dozen American Beauties, and there wasn't any room for them in the house, and she asked if the class would like to carry them, and first they voted no and then they voted yes, and some of the girls don't like it, but they are doing it just the same—Oh, isn't Helen Estabrook's gown stunning! There's Wilhelmina—Hello, Will! Sue looks well, don't you think?
Second Sophomore.Fifteen dozen American Beauties! Great heavens!
First Sophomore.I think it's perfectly absurd and bad taste, too. The idea!
Third Sophomore.Well, she's not to blame, is she? They're certainly lots prettier than laurel or daisies or odd flowers—Oh, girls,Ithink Louise Hunter is too silly for anything! She feels too big to live, leading the way! I'd try to look a little less like a poker if Iwasan usher!
¶The Ivy Procession marches to the steps two and two, each girl with an enormous American Beauty in her hand. At every step the girls with cameras snap and turn, so that the sound resembles a miniature volley of cannon. There is a comparative silence during their progress.
Mother and daughter standing on their seats under awning, clutching at the heads of those near them for support.
Mother.Who is that with Susy, dear?
Daughter.That's the vice-president—I don't know her name. Sue looks pale, doesn't she?
Mother.And that's Bess Twitchell next—with the tucks. She's Ivy Orator, you know. I think Sue's dress drops too much in theback—Ah, Miss Fosdick has stepped on it! Good heavens—right on that Valenciennes! (She sits down abruptly.)
¶The procession winds slowly up and groups itself on the steps. The last third stands a long while before the awning and exchanges somewhat conscious remarks with its friends outside the rope, which the ushers endeavor to carry without straining or dropping: this attempt puckers their foreheads and tilts their hats.
A group of last year's graduates standing close to the enclosure.
First Graduate.Stunning gowns, aren't they?
Second Graduate.Awfully. Prettiest I ever saw. And so different, too! And yet they're all alike—organdie over silk or satin, mostly. Isn't Sue Jackson's lovely?
Third Graduate.I like Esther Brookes'; it's so plain, but there's not a more artistic—
Fourth Graduate.How do you like Lena Bergstein's?
Fifth Graduate.What's that?
Fourth Graduate.My dear, haven't you seen that? It's solid Valenciennes as far as I can see. I think it's altogether too elaborate. But I tell you, it's stunning, all the same!
Fifth Graduate.Ah, I see it! Poor taste, I think.
Fourth Graduate.I know it. Betty Twitchell's is so simple—
First Graduate.Simple, yes! It's imported, I happen to know!
Fourth Graduate.Really! Itdoeshang beautifully! Oh, they're moving: there's Sir Toby. You know nobody ever heard of her before, girls. Isn't that funny? Wasn't she great, though?
Second Graduate.Well, they won't forget her in a hurry. I think it's a mighty good thing that Dramatics brings out that kind of girl and gives her a place in the class. It keeps two or three girls like Sue Jackson and Twitchie and Mollie Van from running everything. Well, going to stay here?
¶A Ubiquitous member of the Faculty suddenly dashes from her seat and pushes through the crowd, which lets her out, under the impression that she is faint.
Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, to a scared usher.Where is Dr. Twitchell? Is he back there?
Usher.I—I don't know! Is he big?
Ubiquitous Member of Faculty.Big? Big?What do you mean? A pretty thing—to have the father of the Ivy Orator have no seat! He must be found!
Usher.I—I'll go see—
Ubiquitous Member of Faculty.Do you know him?
Usher, helpless but optimistic.No, but I'll—
Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, suddenly dashing through the crowd into a lilac clump and producing, to every one's amazement, a large and amiable gentleman from its centre.Well, well! Are you going to remain here long, Dr. Twitchell? Why aren't you in your seat?
Dr. Twitchell, somewhat embarrassed at his prominent position, but beaming on every one.Why, no—that is, yes, indeed! Certainly. I only wanted to see Bessie march along with the rest. A very pretty sight—remarkably so! All in white—I counted ninety couples, I think. Has—has she begun? Is her mother—
Ubiquitous Member of Faculty.We're all in the front row, and they've not begun. The class president will be making her speech in a moment—there is plenty of time, but we were a little anxious—(They enter the enclosure.)
¶The class is crowded upon the steps and overflows before and behind them. The sun is intheir eyes, and they look strained and pale. Under the awning a few hundred relatives fan themselves, and smile expectantly.
The class president makes an indistinguishable address, in which the phrases "more glad than I can say," "unusual opportunity," "women's education," "extends a hearty welcome," rise above the rest, and sinks back into the crowd.
The leader of the Glee Club frowns at her mates and leans forward: the class sings "Fair Smith," with a great deal of contralto. The Ivy Orator steps back and upward instinctively, with an idea of escaping from the heads and shoulders that are packed like herring about her, realizes that the audience is entirely out of her reach, steps down to meet them, becomes lost to view, and with a despairing consciousness that nothing can better the most futile position she has ever occupied, steps back to her first place and shrieks out her opening phrases.
Two mothers sitting on a bench just behind the enclosure, looking over the campus.
First Mother.So you didn't get a seat?
Second Mother.Well, I didn't try, to tell the truth. I'm interested in the speech, but my daughter tells me that I can see it in theMonthlynext fall, and as I got here so late, I couldn't possibly hear it from the back.
First Mother.I was sorry to leave, for Kate wanted me to hear Bessie so much; but after Miss Jackson's speech I had to go—the heat made me rather faint. And as you say, one can read it.
Second Mother.That's what every one seems to think—see them all walking up and down here. One of the old graduates—a friend of my daughter's—told me that this was the chance for them to talk with the professors!
First Mother.Well, I suppose if theywillhave it outdoors, very many people can't expect to hear. It's very hard to speak in the open air.
Second Mother.Yes, indeed. What a fine-looking girl that Miss Ackley is—the dark one—did you notice her?
First Mother.That is my daughter, so I've noticed her quite a little!
Second Mother.Oh, indeed! I'm sure I didn't know—
First Mother.It isn't necessary to be told thatyouhave a daughter here, Mrs. Fosdick!
Second Mother.No, everybody seems to think that the resemblance is very strong indeed. Isn't it pleasant to meet people so strangely, and without any ceremony, like this? It's a very pleasant place, anyway, isn't it?
First Mother.Yes, indeed. It's beautiful all the spring, but particularly beautiful now, I think, with all the girls in their pretty dresses and the general holiday effect.
Second Mother.What I like so much is the spirit of the place. When we found out from things in my daughter's letters and stories she would tell us in the vacations that all her little set of friends were very much richer than she and could afford luxuries and enjoyments that she couldn't, Mr. Fosdick and I were quite worried for fear that she would feel hurt, you know, or want to get into a style of living that she could not possibly keep up. But, dear me, we needn't have worried! It never made the least difference, just as she assured us. We were very glad to find that she was the friend of some of the leading girls in the class, when we saw that she went right along as she had to, tutoring and selling blue prints and going about just as contentedly as if her shirt-waists had been their organdies. Not that that sort of thingoughtto make any difference, but sometimes itdoes, you know. She was telling me about Bess Twitchell's Commencement dress, and Sue Jackson's, and I grew quite alarmed, for I thought that perhaps that was expected, and we couldn't possibly afford anythinglike it. But, dear me, it was all the same to her! She was perfectly satisfied with muslin, and when I asked her if she was sure she'd prefer to walk with Bess, she actually made me feel ashamed! Bess herself said that it wasn't every one who could have the honor of walking with Malvolio, and she'd like to see herself lose it!
First Mother.Oh, of course! Why, I have always understood, both from Kate and her cousin who graduated three years ago, that some of the leading girls in every class were poor. The girls seemed prouder of them, if anything. As you say, it's the spirit of the place. Now Kate herself—well, it's a little thing, I suppose, but her father and I—well, I suppose any one would think us silly, but we actually cried, we were so touched. Her father gave her her dress—it was really lovely. Not elaborate, but it was made over beautiful silk, and he gave her a handsome string of those mock pearls they wear so much now, you know. It was very becoming to her indeed, and she was delighted with it.
Well, just three weeks ago I got a long letter from her saying that Eleanor Hunt's father had lost every cent he had in the world and that they were in a dreadful condition. Eleanor'smother had sold her Commencement gown and Eleanor was going to wear an old white organdie that she'd worn all the year to dances and plays. She said that Eleanor was feeling very bad indeed about it and especially about Commencement time. They had planned to walk together in all the processions—they are great friends. So she asked me if I thought Papa would mind if she wore her old organdie, too, to all the things, because Eleanor seemed to feel it so. Her father offered to give Eleanor one for a Commencement present from her, but she wouldn't have that—she said Eleanor wouldn't like it—she was feeling very proud about gifts, just now.
Well, her father was more pleased than I've seen him for years. You see, Kate has always thought a great deal of her clothes, and she's always had a good allowance, besides lots of presents from us and her aunts. And being an only child, you know—well, I wouldn't say she wasspoiledat all, but she certainly was a little thoughtless, perhaps selfish, when she came up here. Her father and I feel that it has done a great deal for her. He says that he'd call it a good investment if she'd never learned anything in all the four years but just how to do that one thing!
Second Mother.Yes, indeed! We feel, Mr. Fosdick and I, that my daughter's friends have been almost as good for her as what she learned, though that comes first, as she must teach, now. She was always so solitary and reserved and never cared for the girls at home, but here she has such good friends and loves them all so—she's grown more natural, more like other girls; and we lay it all to her having been thrown in from the beginning with such pleasant, nice girls as these. You know them, I suppose—Bessie and Sue and Bertha Kitts—
¶Two alumnæ strolling between the houses and the enclosure, chatting with friends and spying out acquaintances.
First Alumna.Good gracious, isn't she through yet? I pity the poor girls, standing all this while!
Second Alumna.Yes, that's just it! Arrange the oration to suit the girls, do!—If they're tired, let them sit down! It's absurd to criticise the one really academic exercise of the whole affair entirely on the basis of the girls' comfort, I say!
First Alumna.But, my dear, the poor things have done so much and stood so much anyhow—andI should think Miss Maria would be tired herself.
Second Alumna.Then it's her own lookout. She should have dropped one or the other. They try to do too much. I can tell you that we were proud enough to stand twenty minutes when Ethel Richardson talked, and she didn't feel that it was beneath her notice to devote all her time and attention to that one thing, either. We didn't make so much of these universal geniuses then, but I doubt if we had poorer results from the less widely gifted. It's too much strain; one simply can't do everything.
First Alumna.No. They're 'way ahead of us in lots of things, but I'm glad I came when I did. Don't you remember what a good time we used to have spring term? Dear old last spring term! Do you know there isn't any, now? Don't you remember how we dropped ev—well, a good deal, and lay in the hammocks in the orchard and mooned about and took a long, comprehensive farewell to all our greatness? We'd made or lost our reputations by then, and we just took it all in and—oh, I suppose we did sentimentalize a little, but it all meant more to us apparently.... Well, it's all gone now. Theybegin on the play so early, and it's all rehearsing, and then they can't let their work drop, so they keep everything right up to the pitch—according to their story. And there are six societies to our one, you know. And all the houses give receptions to them right in a bunch, and every one is so bored at them—at least Kitty says they are. But you can't always tell by that, I suppose.
¶Applause from the enclosure and a general scurry as the ushers crowd up to surround the class, who begin their Ivy Song—a piece of musical composition something between a Gregorian chant and a Strauss waltz, with a great deal of modulation, in which the words "hopes and fears," "coming years," "plant our vine," and "still entwine" occur at suitable intervals. They wander away in a bunch, frantically surrounded by the ushers and the chain, to another side of College Hall, where the Ivy is interred. A general break-up then begins, the orator and the president join their admiring families, and people begin to stroll home, the prominent members of the class pausing at every sentence to have their pictures taken.
Two members of the class and one of the Faculty.
First Member of Class.It was the funniest thing I've heard this year, really! You knowthe girls simplyslavefor her—theyslave. They can't help it, you know, for she thinks that's all there is in the world and if you don't have your note-book made out she looks at you in such a way—oh, well, it makes Mollie's spine cold, she says. Mollie's done splendid work for her—not that she doesn't do it for everybody—but she was determined to make her see that she could be at all the rehearsals and take the observations, too. The only thing she didn't do was to go the last two or three nights, but gracious, she'd more than made that up! I thought I did pretty well when I put in five hours of Lab., but those girls have done eight and ten hours a week some weeks, note-books and observations and all. Just to satisfy her, you know—they love to work for her. And what do you think she said the last time they met? Do you know about Astronomy, Mr. Brooke? If you do, I shall spoil the story for you, for I don't know the first thing. But I think it was the parallax of the sun. "Now, I should think you could just step out between the acts," said she, calmly, "if you couldn't get out for all the evening, and take your note-book with you, Miss Vanderveer, and just take it—it's a beautiful observation! And you've taken one, and it will be a greatthing to tell your children that you've gotten the parallaxes of the sun yourself!"
Second Member of Class.And when we thought of Mollie dancing about there with her collar undone, trying to make those idiotic men understand something and being everywhere at once—between the acts, you know, being a fairly occupied time for her—when we imagined her walking out of the garden scene or Orsino's house to take the what-do-you-call-it of the sun (though I don't see how she could take it of the sun at night—it must have been the moon, Ethel).
Member of Faculty.And what did Miss Vanderveer say?
First Member of Class.I'm sure it was the sun, Teddie, Mollie said sun—why, she coughed and said, "I certainly will, if I get time, Miss Drake!"
Member of Faculty.Great presence of mind, I'm sure.
¶Group of relatives and three members of the class.
First Member.Mamma, this is Miss Twitchell and Miss Fosdick—Maria and Malvolio, you know.
Mother.I am pleased to meet you both. I want to tell you how much I enjoyed,etc.
Misses Twitchell and Fosdick.We're so glad if you did,etc.
Mother.I was not able to catch much of your speech, but Ellen tells me we can have the pleasure of reading it later.
Miss Twitchell, moving away.I'm afraid you will have the opportunity—but I tried to make it as short as I could!
Mother.And now I suppose you're going home to sleep all day? I should think you'd need it.
Miss Twitchell.Oh, dear, no! I'm going to the Alpha on the back campus this afternoon, and I want to look in at Colloquium, and then there's the Glee Club to-night, you know. I've no more worry now, nothing to do but enjoy myself.
Aunt.What is this, Ellen? The Glee Club—
Ellen.Why, Aunt Grace, the Glee Club promenade, don't you know? That's when the lanterns are all over, and they give a concert, and we all walk about, and it's so pretty—don't you remember I told you?
Aunt.Well, then, I'll go right home and take my nap, if I'm to go out to-night. Are you going to all these things, too, Ellen?
Ellen.Well, practically. Only I'm going to Phi Kapp and Biological instead. But Iamgoing to lie down—I'm so tired, I can't think straight, and you know I'm on the Banjo Club, and we have to have a short rehearsal—
¶The crowd gradually disperses, and the campus is practically deserted; men begin to put up poles and wires for lanterns; others gather and arrange scattered chairs. Stray relatives hunt for each other and their boarding-places or inquire with interest which is the Science Building and the Dewey House. Belated members of the class wander homewards or patiently seek out their families, whose temporary guardians are thus relieved.
Abstracted member of the class and large, domineering woman in black satin, before the Morris House gate.
Large Woman.This is the Hatfield, is it not?
Member of Class.Oh! I beg your pardon? No, it's the Morris.
Large Woman.Ah! I was told it was the Hatfield.
Member of Class, simply.Well, it's not.
Large Woman.And that over there (pointing to the Observatory), that is the Lilly House?
Member of Class.No, that's the Observatory. Lilly Hall is up farther. It's just beyond the Dickinson—no, the Lawrence—I mean theHubbard House!
Large Woman.And where is the Hubbard House?
Member of Class.Oh, dear! (pulls herself together with an effort) it's up in a line, the one, two, three, third from here.
Large Woman.Thank you. And I wish to see the Botanical Gardens, too. Where are they? (Member of Class points out their position.)
Large Woman.And where is the Landscape Garden?
Member of Class, vaguely.Why, I suppose it's over there, too. I don't exactly—it's all landscape garden, I suppose—it's not big—
Large Woman, severely.I was told there was a fine landscape and botanical garden—are you a member of the college?
Member of Class, leaning against the post.Why, yes, but it's all botanical garden, for that matter. (Catches sight of a tree with a tin label tied to it and points luminously at it.)That'sbotanical, you know—all the trees and shrubs!
Large Woman, with irritation.I am quite aware that it is—I—
Member of Class, despairingly.Oh, excuse me, I mean it's—it's—I mean they all have labels!(Large Woman stalks majestically away; Member of Class makes a few incoherent gesturesin the air, murmurs, "I amsucha fool, but I'msotired!"Throws out her hands wearily and trails into the Morris House.)
THE TENTH STORY
XTHE END OF IT
There are two methods of conducting a class supper. The first is something like this: you pick out three utterly unrelated girls who never had anything to do with one another in their lives, and call them the supper committee; you pick out two clever, uninterested girls and call them the toast committee; you pick out an extremely busy girl who lives half a mile off the campus and call her the seating committee; you pick out a popular girl who is supposed to be humorous because she laughs at everybody's jokes and knows one comic song, and call her the toast-mistress.
And this is the result of it: The supper committee meets, wonders what under heaven induced the president to appoint the other two, finds out what caterer they had last year, and after a little perfunctory argument employs him again without further action, with the result that one end of the table has five kinds of ice cream and the other a horrifying recurrence of lukewarm croquettes; the toast committee spends a great deal of time in hunting out extremely subtle quotations from Shakespeare and Omar Khayyam, with theresult that no one of the toasters gets the least idea of how she is expected to elaborate her theme; the seating committee is so harassed by everybody that she gives up her diagram in despair, and successive girls erase and sign and re-erase till nobody but the three or four leading sets in the class are satisfied, and they are displeased because the toasters are either put in a line at the head or scattered about the tables, and that separates them from their immediate cliques; the toast-mistress turns out to be more appreciative than constructive, and worries her friends and bores her enemies beyond previous conception. The main body of unimportant necessary people are crowded off by themselves and feel somewhat flat and heavy and irritated at the noisy groups beyond them; the toasts are apt to be a little sad and vague because the girls don't fit them and talk too much about enduring friendships, the larger life, four years of stimulating rivalry, and alma mater. Why they do all this at this season and this alone, only the Lord who made them knows.
But Ninety-yellow did not employ this method. It occurred to Theodora somewhat originally, perhaps, as she looked around her that last Tuesday evening, that a better classsupper was never arranged. It can hardly be asserted that it was a really good supper, for it is to be doubted if a hundred and seventy-five women ever sat down to a really good supper; but there was almost enough of it, and it was very nearly hot. Kathie Sewall had picked the supper committee well, and they knew one another thoroughly enough to give it all to the chairman to do and to make fun of her till she was spurred on to a really noble effort. She knew that it is always damp and cold class supper night, and planned accordingly. Kitty Louisa Hofstetter managed the toasts, and though Kitty Louisa was uneven and a little vulgar at times, she was clever in her unexpected hail-fellow-well-met way and popular with the class for the most part. She had a genius for puns of the kind that grow better as they grow worse, and they were shamelessly italicized in the toast-cards, which caused great merriment before the toasts had begun. And the seating was very well done, for the class was nicely broken up and mixed about among the tables till everybody was within four or five of a reasonably important person.
As for the toast-mistress—well, you see, Theodora's opinion of her might have been a trifle exaggerated, for she was Theodora'sbest friend. How little she had changed, Theo thought, as she watched her rumple her hair in the same funny, boyish way that she had freshman year. Theo had seen her first in the main hall, floating with the current of freshmen that pushed its way almost four hundred strong to meet its class officer and find out that O. G. meant Old Gymnasium. That far-off freshman year! Theo smelt again the clean, washed floor; saw again the worried shepherds herding their flocks into the scheduled stalls and praying that the parents might go soon and leave their darlings, if misunderstood, at least unencumbered; heard again the buzz and hum of a thousand chattering, scuffling girls, bubbling over with a hundred greetings for each other.
"Hello, Peggy! Peggy! I say,hello Peggy!"
"Oh, hello! Have a good time?"
"Grand! Did you?"
"Perfectly fine—I saw Ursula and Dodo and—Oh, Ursula! hello! Here I am!"
"Why, Peggy Putney, you dear old thing! When did you come? They say you're in the Hatfield—how did you get there?"
"Two ahead of me and they dropped out. Miss Roberts only just told me—"
Theodora had felt very lonesome and homesick just then—everybody but herself knew so many people! And then Virginia had happened along and jostled her and begged pardon, and they had fallen into a conversation on the relative merits of the Dewey and the Hatfield. Later they had studied Livy together and confided their difficulties to each other. Virginia's mother was a Unitarian and her father was an Ethical Culturist, and her room-mate was a High Church Episcopalian and never ate meat in Lent! She thought Virginia would very probably be damned, if not in the next life, certainly in this, and she intimated as much. Virginia thought it was very hard to live with somebody who disapproved of you so much.
Theodora had been brought up to be a neat, self-helpful little person, and her room-mate, Edith Bliss, had never even seen her bed made up and left her clothes in piles on the floor just as she stepped out of them. She was horribly homesick and wept quarts every Sunday afternoon, and confided to Theodora in moments of hysterical relaxation that she thought every girl owed it to herself to have soup and black coffee for dinner and that she was going to wire Papa to take her home immediately.Theo looked at her now, eagerly devouring a doubtful lobster concoction and openly congratulating herself on the olives at her left. She was fond of Frankfurters now, was Edith, and had recently alarmed the authorities by her ingenuous scheme for annexing a night-lunch cart and keeping it on the campus: it would have been so nice, she said regretfully, to slip out and get a Frankfurter between hours!
How pretty the Gym looked! The juniors had decorated it as well as they could at odd minutes, and they had lingered in a bunch as the class came in to lean over the balcony and sing to them.
Theodora remembered how the Gym had looked the night of the sophomore reception: all light and music and girls and a wonder of excitement. She had never had an evening dress before, and her little square-necked organdie had been dearer to her than any other gown before or since. They playedRastus on Parade, and she had such nice partners and some of the girls were so lovely and had such white, beautiful shoulders—they seemed to count evening dress but a slight and ordinary thing. By junior year house-dances are wont to pall, and seniors have been known to makerabbits and read Kipling in preference; even among the freshmen Theodora had found some disillusioned souls who lamented the absence of men and found the sophomore reception slow!
Across the table an odd, distinguished-looking girl, with a clever face and dark, short-sighted eyes, smiled at her, and Theo's thoughts flashed back to that great day when she first really loved the class—the day of the Big Game. What a funny, snub-nosed little nobody Marietta Hinks had been then! But how she played! How she dodged and doubled and bounced the ball, and how they cheered her!
Oh,here'sto Marietta,For weshallnot soonforgether—
Oh,here'sto Marietta,For weshallnot soonforgether—
Oh,here'sto Marietta,For weshallnot soonforgether—
Oh,here'sto Marietta,
For weshallnot soonforgether—
Well, well, how they had grown up! Now she was "Miss Root" to the little, dark-eyed girl in the back seat in chapel, who smiled so shyly at her when the seniors led out down the middle aisle. Theo was wearing her roses to-night, and as she scratched off a little note to thank her she had seemed to see herself, another little dark-eyed girl, sending anonymous roses to Ursula Wyckoff. Dear me! would anybody ever again combine such graces of mind and body as that ornamentof Ninety-purple? She had gone on wheel-rides with Theo, and once she had asked her over to wait on the juniors at a spread—Theo had sat up and got her light reported in order to write home about it.
There are those, I understand, who disapprove strongly of this attitude of Theodora's happy year: dogmatic young women who have not learned much about life and soured, middle-aged women who have forgotten. I am told that they would consider Theodora's adoration morbid and use long words about her—long words about a freshman! I have always been sorry for these unfortunate people: their chances for reconstructing Human Nature seem to me so relatively slight.
When Theo had gone home that summer with hands almost as well cared for as Ursula's, sleek, gathered-in locks, and a gratifying hold on the irregular verbs (Ursula spoke beautiful French), her mother had whimsically inquired if Miss Wyckoff could not be induced to remain in Northampton indefinitely and continue her unscheduled courses! But perhaps she was a morbid mother.
Her mother! The plates and flowers swam before Theodora's misted eyes, and the sight of Virginia—so kind that year—brought backsomehow those waves of desolation that would come over her again and again, in lecture rooms, in her own dear room, at meals—all that clouded sophomore year. It was just as her good fortune came through the mail to her—a room in the Nicest House—that her mother died, and rooms mattered little to Theo, then. There were kindly aunts and other children, and she was not needed at home; so it seemed best to go on, and she had come up the steps of the Nicest House, a little black-dressed figure, and into the arms of the Nicest Woman.
It seemed to her that there was never a room so cheerful, nor pictures so lovely, nor a fire so red, nor tea and bread and butter so good, nor a smile so comfortable as the Nicest Woman's. Mademoiselle and Fräulein and Miss Roberts were sweet and kind, and the girls did all they could, but it was to the Nicest Woman that one came when conditions and warnings were in the air or one's head ached or one had eaten too much fudge or been annoyed by somebody's banjo practice. When the seniors of the Nicest House were eating and laughing there at night, it was a gay room—the Nicest Woman's; but it was very dim and quiet in the dusk, when Theodora slippedin by herself with reddened lids, and sat on the couch, and they talked of things that started to be sad but somehow always turned out cheerful; for when it was about the children and Will at Yale little jokes were sure to come up, and when Theo wondered if perhaps she hadn't been careless about writing home, and if Mother had gotten more letters in the spring, maybe—the conversation always changed, and she found herself feeling so glad and thankful that she'd gone right home in June and not visited at Virginia's.
Virginia had gone into Phi Kappa that winter, and Theo had been so proud of her. She was in the first five, and as she really hadn't expected it at all it was quite exciting. Adelaide Carew went in too, and though she went about with the seniors a great deal and called most of her class "Miss," she was much more generally liked than in her freshman year, and Virginia had got to know her better and better. Through her Theo had seen more of Adelaide, and she had been amazed to find out how really kind-hearted and human she was beneath her unapproachable ways.
But then, you never could tell—girls were so queer! Only last night, when they were walking about under the lanterns after theconcert, she and Virginia and Adelaide, with two of the junior ushers, and the juniors, sophisticated young people, had cynically suggested that perhaps they'd better take themselves away in order that the three might seek out their Ivy and bedew it with their final tears, Adelaide had coughed a little huskily and suggested that perhaps when they'd planted their own Ivy they wouldn't be feeling so gay! They had stared at her blankly, hesitated, decided that coming from such a source it must have been an extraordinarily acute sarcasm, and gone away giggling, leaving Theo to wonder and Adelaide to flush and talk very hard about Bar Harbor and the comfort of a big room all to yourself once more.
Such a strange room-mate as Theo had had that year—she seemed fated to room with girls who had never made up their beds. This one had lived freshman year with friends in the town, and had had everything done for her, and when Theo asked her one day if campus life was wearing on her, she had turned two stormy gray eyes on her and burst out, "Oh, no, Theodora, but I am sodeadlytired of picking up my night-gown everysinglemorning, I think I shalldie!"
On one historic occasion, early in the year,Theo had happened to make up her bed for her, and upon her pleased recognition of the fresh linen it had come out that she had been for some weeks accustomed to change her upper sheet and leave the under one undisturbed on the bed—it had seemed more logical, she said, and how was she to know? They had teased her about it till the Nicest Woman interfered and fined every girl who mentioned it, and they boughtSentimental Tommywith the money, and read it evenings in the Nicest Woman's room after supper.
Well, well, they'd sit about her fire no more, as the poem said that somebody wrote to go with the silver tea-ball the seniors gave her when she served them their last tea. They'd come in no more after Alpha and Phi Kapp to tell her all about it—how nice she had been when Theo got into Alpha! That was junior year and they took her to Boyden's for supper, and her bowl and pitcher were full of violets for days. Everybody seemed so glad, and Martha Sutton had pinned her own pin on Theo's red blouse. Kathie Sewall had taken her over—nobody dreamed that Kathie would be senior president then—and what a hand-shaking there had been! And such a funny, clever play, withbutlers and burglars and lady's-maids—it was illustrative of American literature, she learned later, but it was not a pedantic illustration.
Theodora loved plays, and she had delighted in her very humble part in the House play. She was a little house-maid, and said only, "Yes, madam," and "No, madam," and, "Oh, sir, how can you—a poor girl like me!" but she had a great American Beauty and two bunches of violets, and she sent the programme home. Next to its basket-ball decorations she remembered the Gym arranged for a play, with the running-track turned into boxes and the girls prettier than ever against the screens and pillows. She had been chairman of the stage-setting committee, and theMonthlyhad especially commended the boudoir scene.
Were they ready for the toasts so soon? Where had the time gone? she thought, as Virginia, with solemn pomp, called upon Miss Farwell to respond to "Our Team." Dear old Grace—she stammered a little when she was excited, and she was not the most fluent of speakers, but they cheered her to the echo. "Team! Team! Team!" they called, and the teams, freshman and sophomore, Regulars and Subs, had to stand on their chairs and be sung to. As Theo balanced on a tottering seat, shecaught sight of a crowd of girls moving toward the Gym, and as they sat down a shout from below greeted them:
Oh,here'sto Ninety-yellow,And herpraisewe'll evertell—oh,Drink herdown, drink herdown, drink herdown, down,down!
Oh,here'sto Ninety-yellow,And herpraisewe'll evertell—oh,Drink herdown, drink herdown, drink herdown, down,down!
Oh,here'sto Ninety-yellow,And herpraisewe'll evertell—oh,Drink herdown, drink herdown, drink herdown, down,down!
Oh,here'sto Ninety-yellow,
And herpraisewe'll evertell—oh,
Drink herdown, drink herdown, drink herdown, down,down!
A cheerful, aimless creature at the bottom of one of the great tables, whose one faculty was for improvised doggerel, instructed her neighbors rapidly, and they sent back a tuneful courtesy:
Oh,here'sthe JuniorUshers,And Itellyou they arerushers!
Oh,here'sthe JuniorUshers,And Itellyou they arerushers!
Oh,here'sthe JuniorUshers,And Itellyou they arerushers!
Oh,here'sthe JuniorUshers,
And Itellyou they arerushers!
Theodora had "ushed," in classical phrase, in her day, and the bustle of last year, so much more exciting somehow than this one, came back to her. Her little, white-ribboned stick was packed now—in fact, everything was packed: she was going away for good! Some one else would lounge on the window-seat in her room in the Nicest House, and light the cunning fire....
Who was this? Oh, this was Sallie Wilkes Emory, responding to "The Faculty." Kitty Louisa, whose soul knew not reverence, had attached to this toast the pregnant motto,That we may go forward with Faculties unimpaired, an excerpt from one of the President's best-known chapel prayers, and Sallie was developing the theme in what she assured them was a very connotative manner. Theo saw them pass in review before her, those devoted educators, from her dazed freshman Livy to her despairing senior Philosophy—thatwas over, at least! Theodora was not of a technically philosophical temperament. Sallie was quoting liberally from a recent famous essay of her own:The Moral Law, or the End-Aim of Human Action According to Kant, apropos of which she had remarked to the commendatory professor that she was glad ifsomebodyunderstood it! Sallie was a great girl—how grand she had been in the play! Theo had been in the mob herself, having first tried for every part, and had enjoyed every minute of it, from the first rehearsal to the last dab of make-up. She had been an attendant and hadn't an idea how pretty she looked, nor how many people spoke of her and called her graceful.
It may have been because Theo had so few ideas about herself that she had so many friends. And how many she had! She took great pride in them, those fine, strong, good-lookinggirls that hailed her from all directions, and always wanted a dance or a row or a skating afternoon with her. She wondered if anybody so ordinary—for Theo knew she wasn't clever—ever had so many jolly good friends. There was the Mandolin Club, now—all friends of hers. She got on late in junior year and played in the spring concert. Her father came up and said he'd never seen such a pretty house in his life—packed from orchestra circle to balcony with fluffy girls alternated with dapper, black-coated youths. He gave Theo such a darling white gown for it, all ruffled with white ribbon, and she had her picture taken in it, holding the mandolin, and sent it to him in a big white vellum frame covered with yellow chrysanthemums, with "Smith" scrawled in yellow across one corner. He kept it on his desk and was tremendously proud when his friends asked about it.
Here were the class histories. Theodora thought she listened, but though she laughed with the rest and applauded the grinds, it was her own history that she was reading as face after face recalled to her some joke or mistake or good luck. Not that it was sad—oh, dear, no! If any member of the class of Ninety-yellow dared to be sad that night there was a fine, andmore than that, the studied coldness of the class directed toward her: it was an orgy, not an obsequy, as Virginia elegantly put it. Just as the junior history, which is always the best for some unexplained reason—perhaps because of the Prom—was finished, there was a loud knock, and a big bunch of yellow roses from the class that was having a decennial supper somewhere was brought in by a useful sophomore. They clapped it and sent some one back to thank them—a point of etiquette that some self-centred classes have been known to omit—and then they remembered that Ninety-green was supping at its first reunion in the Old Gym, and sent over some of the table flowers to them. Virginia motioned to Theo, and proud of the mission and blushing a little at the eyes that turned to her as she went, she took them over. They clapped and sang to her: