Part 15

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.

XXIII CLOUDS CLEARED AWAY

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.”

“But _I_ didn’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!”

—a cheer that contained a prophecy.

XXIV SENIORS ALL